Page 81 of Chasing After You
“Not closely…” My eyes narrowed as I asked, “What did you do?”
He pulled his phone out from beneath his pillow and used his thumb and forefinger to tilt my head to the side. A flash went off. He let go of my face and showed me his screen.
“Dori…” I sighed, taking in the photo showing a fuckingtattooof his initial behind my ear.
“We’re matching now.”
“I see that…”
Dorian looked at me nervously, biting his lip in anticipation of my reaction. “Are you mad? I promise I won’t do it again!”
“I should be mad,” I said. “But I probably would’ve gotten it at some point anyway. At least it’s just a small initial, you know? I would’ve been mad if it were like a penis or something dumb. Just… last night was your get-out-of-jail-free card, got it? No more.”
“No more.” Dorian smiled, looking victorious.
20
Dorian
Josh ended up sleeping in my bed for the second night in a row. In the calm of dawn, I watched him, waiting for him to wake up, but also just taking the time to admire him.
His face was relaxed.
I stared at the tiny scar above his brow, a reminder of some childhood fall I couldn’t quite remember, and wondered how someone like me had ever earned the right to be this close to someone like him.
I hadn’t, of course. Not really.
He was curled against me, one arm draped over his chest, the other nestled between us. His fingers brushed the fabric of my shirt, and I had the ridiculous thought that if I didn’t move, if I just stayed still enough, maybe he’d just stay asleep and never leave my side.
But the threat had been real. Not in his voice—no, his voice had been gentle, almost apologetic—but in the words themselves.
Report me.
Leave.
Fuck.
The drugging had been a mistake—a big one.
But I’d done it because I wanted control. Because I didn’t want him to leave. Because I wanted him pliant, vulnerable, with no escape but me.
I wanted to be good for him.
God, I wanted to be good.
But the part of me that lived in the shadows of his smile—the part that watched too closely, felt too deeply, loved too violently—never really went away. It only waited like a wolf resting in the bones of a man.
I reached out and gently brushed my hand over his head, relishing in the softness of his hair against my palm. He sighed in his sleep and nuzzled deeper into the pillow.
It was so easy to forget in moments like this. So easy to pretend that we were just two people, just brothers. Two completely normal people who did normal things and had normal thoughts. But there was a storm brewing in the space between what he thought I was and what I knew I was.
I would try to be good for him, to follow the rules, stay on the right path.
Iwastrying.
But sometimes, when he smiled at me like I hadn’t broken his trust, when he asked me to do something small and normal—make him coffee, help him carry laundry, hand him the remote—I didn’t feel proud of myself for being good.
I feltresentful.
