Page 71 of My Lovely Tragedy
“Promise me, Brooklyn. I need to hear you say it. Promise me, and then you won’t have to worry about a thing again.”
I smile easily.Well, that sounds wonderful.
“I promise, Tobias.” He exhales shakily, but the knife remains steady. He’s sure and confident, and he has me now.
The first slice is slow and sure—a burning drag splitting my flesh open, baring my insides to him. He doesn’t go deep, but the cut is long, extending from just below the ditch of my elbow to halfway down my forearm. Vertical instead of horizontal.
New marks atop the old.His mark.
Sure to be left undeniable.
My eyelids flutter as my blood oozes out, hot and sticky. Tobias fills my senses, his touch, his smell. All black honey and vanilla, now sharp with copper. Withme.
CHAPTERTWENTY
TOBIAS
My heart has never felt lighterin my chest. A weight that flutters restlessly, mimicking that of a hummingbird’s wings.
Brooklyn’s blood coats my skin, sticky and thick, pulling my own taut as it dries. And as much as I crave the sight of it, I desire the expression on his face more.
I pause my wielding of the blade to caress him. With my eyes, my fingers. His eyes roll back just as his lids flutter closed, skimming the surface of his bruised periorbital hollows. Laxity fills every limb as they drop to the floor—full surrender.
And I swallow him whole.
His promise rings loudly in my head. A vow of his submission. And it’s everything I could have ever wanted from him.
As I think back on our first days together, I reminisce with guilt. For my own ignorance in what was forthcoming. My foolishness for believing it could have ever been any other way.
We were meant for tragedy from the moment we touched.
“Beautiful,” I whisper as I draw another concise line—the last until these stitch themselves closed, and I am able to give him more. I keep the incision superficial. Giving my darling what he needs but refusing to even graze the surface oftoo deep.
I only have weeks left with him, and I refuse to risk even a moment on the vague likelihood of his death. Because as it will surely dismantle me to set him free, Brooklyn was never meant to be locked in my cage forever.
His wings were made to fly. To feel the wind caressing every feather. The soft whisper of promises.
The knife clatters to the floor, joining the small pool of Brooklyn’s lifeblood, thick and black as it glistens in the moonlight. I flatten my palm to his forearm, pressing against the slits in his skin. He hisses and jerks. I tighten my hold until the throb of his heart pounds against my hand.
Reminding him he is very much alive. Feeling and breathing for me. In me.
Pulling him into my lap takes no more effort than lifting him from the floor and settling him across the tops of my thighs. His head falls against my chest, hair tangled between us, wet with sweat, snot, and tears. I card my fingers through it while keeping my right arm banded around his waist.
His chains caress my body, thick and heavy, but he doesn’t seem to feel them as he pulls his arms into his lap and buries himself deeper into my chest. His nose digs deeply into my pectorals, fingers twisting in the material of my sweater stretched across my abdomen. Hot breaths seep through the cashmere, warming my skin as his blood seeps and stains.
Peace and contentment settle into my marrow as the night stretches on, and Brooklyn falls into a deep sleep in my arms—exactly where he belongs. My extremities have long passed the point of pain, now numb and burning with the strain, but I welcome the ache eagerly, refusing to end this a moment sooner than I have to.
The soft sounds of the night infiltrate the air, marrying beautifully with Brooklyn’s slow, rhythmical breathing. My left thumb drags back and forth across the bare skin of his waist.
My eyes catch on my journal, long since forgotten on my chair. Watching him read my words, discovering what they were, what he means to me… My blood still sings with it. The flash of confusion, curiosity.
The way his eyes scrunched in the darkness as he attempted to make out more than a few words. And it was as if the gods were working with me as the light shifted just right, illuminating the page. And he read my words. For him.
It is all for him.
Realization washed over. Shock and awe and fear in the form of parted lips and hitching breaths. Trembling fingers and a quivering bottom lip. His eyes shown glassy and magnificent.
The knife he pressed to my neck was a lovely surprise, I will say. I did not expect him to grow that desperate, but it’s as I said to him; I would have let him cut my throat. To drain me of my blood if that is what he needed.
