Page 100 of The Worst Kind of Promise
Easy, addictive laughter clouds the room, and I begin to feel the heaviness in my chest lift, letting my wheezing lungs take in fresh air. Fresh air for the first time since I got here.
A sudden seriousness hardens his expression, like a blade against whetstone. “Do you want to press charges?” he asks.
“Uh, Kit kind of took care of it.”
“Took care of it?”
“Remember when he came home with a bloody hand?”
Hayes shakes his hair, blond locks fringing down his temples, a chuckle purring in his throat. “That son of a bitch.”
Before this summer—before Kit—I wanted to forget about the rape. I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to pretend like it never happened, but that was stupid of me. It did happen. Like Kit said, it’s made me stronger. It’s made me who I am today. I can never truly forget about it, but I can stop being afraid of the memory. My trauma doesn’t own me. It doesn’t define me.
I lurch into my brother with one last air-squeezing hug, letting myself get lost in his sandalwood scent, letting his arms envelop me, letting the little girl in me revert back to early mornings when he’d help me get ready for school—when he’d hug me goodbye before dropping me off.
I miss the simplicity of that time. I miss the innocence of it. But I don’t hate where I am now. I thought I would, but I don’t. I let myself memorize the feeling of his touch, so I can remember it when I’m in Pennsylvania missing him. I don’t panic over the unknown like I usually would. I don’t yearn for control. I let myself move at my own pace, let myself come out from under the reigning thumb that’s controlled me all these years.
And instead of dreading the time away, I look forward to when I’ll get to see him again.
38
A CROWN FIT FOR A QUEEN
FAYE
“Does it hurt?” I ask, glancing at the tray of miscellaneous tools, the tattoo gun in particular looking extremely daunting.
Kit had one last stop to make before we hit the road, which was the first session of covering up his tiger eyes tattoo. His regular tattoo artist had an open spot, so he wanted to get started with the process since it could take multiple sessions to get everything finished. And no, my brother has yet to find out about this.
The tattoo shop is quaint in size, yet extravagant in decor, with a maximalist interior design that includes checkered tiling, a neon sign that blares INK ABOUTIT, and various prints slapped to mahogany-colored walls. Each print ranges from realism to abstract, with multiple designs being fully grayscale.
I cower away from anything that involves pain. And that includes tattoos. But I wanted to support Kit, especially considering that he’s getting a tattoo ofme.
Kit’s laid out on the reclined bed, his forearm propped on the cushiony arm of the chair, flaunting his previous ink on a golden canvas of rippling muscle. The artist—Rhen—cleans the area with an antiseptic wipe. He’s covered in even more tattoos than Kit, accompanied by multiple face piercings and giant gauges that stretch out his ears.
Kit shrugs. “It kind of feels like a bunch of pinpricks.”
I shudder at the sight of the sharp needle attached to what looks like a medieval torture device. “Yeah, but a pinprick to you is like a stab wound to me.”
He tilts his head at me, a curled tress of onyx hair flopping over his forehead. “Princess, you’re a lot better with pain than you think.”
It takes me a second to understand what he’s referring to, and when realization sets in, blood immediately warms my cheeks. My body begins to overheat, and there’s a twang in my lower belly that no number of kisses could remedy. I discreetly cross my legs, praying that the pulse down below eventually peters out.
I can’t believe he just said that. In public. Directly next to somebody. Yes, I was surprised that Kit’s dick didn’t tear my hymen for the second time, but I like Kit’s dick. I don’t like needles.
All I do is scoff and roll my eyes, but I’m sure he’s already descried my blush.
With a blown-up picture of my eyes for reference, Rhen gets started on Kit’s forearm, sketching a rough outline around the already-drawn eyes, the buzz of the gun resonating in the open-plan layout.
Kit doesn’t even wince as his dermis layer reddens over. He looks peaceful, all chiseled edges airbrushed with golden rays of sunlight. So gorgeous that my heartstrings strum out a tune of love just for him.
His other hand rests palm-side up. “Hold my hand,” he says.
I raise my brow. “I thought you said it didn’t hurt?”
“It doesn’t. I just want to hold your hand.”
Arrgh. He’s so irritatingly perfect. So charismatic and pretty and cheesy. So…mine.
