Page 65 of Pretty Plaything

“I’m serious.”

Alessandro shakes his head, a grin on his face.

When he leaves the room, I follow him out. As he washes his hands in the bathroom at the end of the hallway, I lean in the doorway.

“How did you learn to do that?” I ask softly.

His gaze lifts to me as he wipes his hands with a towel.

He unzips his pants.

My eyebrows shoot up.

What is he doing?

He tugs his pants down and points at the thick scar on his thigh.

Do I really want to know?

“I completely fucked it up the first time,” he says. “So my father reopened the wound. I got it sort of right on the third try. Actually, my father would’ve probably made me do it again, but Doc said it was fine because I almost passed out. I had more wounds that needed taking care of later, so practice helped.”

He says all that with a smile on his face, as if he’s talking about a memory he’s particularly fond of.

Oh god.

I gape at him like a fish. If I didn’t think his father was a psychopath before, well, I’m now sure like hell that he was one.

After Alessandro pulls his pants back up, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms tightly around him.

I don’t know if I’m trying to comfort the boy that had to go through all that fucked-up shit or the man that he is now.

Or both.

But I want to hold him.

Because I think he needs it.

His shoulders are stiff, and he doesn’t move for a few moments, as if he’s not sure what to do. But then his arms snake around my waist.