Page 63 of Moth
I glance away. That question sounds so innocent on the surface. “I grew up in a small town,” I finally say. “My parents are fine. No horrific childhood trauma to speak of.”
A lie, of course. All of it, lies. The evidence is all over my skin. My arm is still throbbing, though I avoid looking at the aching flesh. I prefer to eye him instead. Even scarred, he’s still beautiful.
“Typical.” He chuckles. “Let me guess, you had the perfect childhood in some big ass mansion with a servant and shit.”
“Something like that…”
“And Bran?” His inflection shifts, setting off alarm bells in my mind. “When did you meet him?”
“I’ve known him all my life,” I confess, a rare bit of honesty. “He’s always protected me.”
“Oh, really?” He grabs my arm, lifting it. Purple bruises form an unmistakable imprint; that of a grasping, gripping hand staining my flesh like one of his tattoos. “When did he start beating the shit out of you?”
I cringe at the question, clutching the arm to my chest. “It’s nothing.” And it’s true, in a sense. The marks look so much worse than they feel now. A tickle in comparison to my heated lips and relaxed, languid muscles.
Without Branden here, it’s so easy to embrace the selfish impulses I’m used to suppressing. One overriding urge drives me now. I don’t want to lose this moment—this peace.
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” He scoffs, but I’m startled by how vicious the sound comes out. He’s angry. Despite my hands pawing at his chest, he sits upright, letting me go. “Yeah. And I wasn’t fucking stabbed. That’s not the first time I’ve seen your arm like that—”
“Don’t do this right now. Please.” My voice breaks. I’m begging. “Please—”
“Stop it. I’m not some fucking teddy bear you can use to make yourself feel better. Is that the plan? He beats the fuck out of you, and you come crawling to me? For what?” He glowers, only to sigh, his frown softening. “Wait… Come here.” I’m in his arms, my face against his chest. He doesn’t let me pull away, tightening his hold until I relent, sinking against him. I don’t even realize that I’m crying at first. Not until I feel his fingers running through my hair, his voice low against my ear. “Go on, bunny. I don’t give a shit if you cry.”
And I do, clinging to him more than I have any right to.
