Page 103 of Lourdes & the Mafia
Thank fuck.
His chest pulses with a steady rise and fall, and his entire body relaxes.
I release a breath of relief myself, bowing my head in thanks.
“He’ll be okay,” Lorenzo assures.
“Good.” I turn to Kane, but he’s already starting to walk away, a tense set to his shoulders.
Dios, he really is a sadist, isn’t he? He will suffer through the pain without a care because he thinks he should.
Well, not while I’m here.
“Kane!”
He stops but doesn’t turn.
“Your hands.” The words are an order.
“His hands? What?”
Shadows start to form around Kane’s feet, but before he can disappear into a thicket of smoke, Lorenzo transports himself in front of his brother, yanking his hands from his pockets.
He lets out a curse at the sight of the bloody flesh.
“Fuck it all, Kane. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Kane doesn’t reply.
Lorenzo snorts. “Always the fucking martyr. Come with me.” He pulls him towards the lake, and Kane surprisingly doesn’t fight him off.
They lean down at the edge of the bank, and Lorenzo is gentle as he dips his brother’s hands into the water. The glow surrounds his hands up to the wrist.
When he pulls them out, the glow surrounds him like smoke before dissipating through the air like mist.
His hands are completely healed. Not even a scar to show for it.
“Better?” Lorenzo asks.
Kane’s eyes find mine, and there’s something deep within his depths that pierces my heart and makes my breath catch in my throat. We stare and this moment feels integral somehow, like something is being said in between the spaces of our silence, and while I don’t know what it is exactly, I do know that it’s a step further away from hate and towards something else entirely.
“Better,” Kane whispers.
Kane
Sincemyvisitwiththe Spell Weaver, I’ve been…unsettled. Confused. I admit, it is cowardly of me to avoid Lourdes the way I have been, especially after what we agreed upon, but I can’t look her in the face without being reminded of the barrier that lives between us.
One of my own making, apparently.
A load of steaming pile of demon shit, I’m sure. Yet I know the Spell Weaver, despite his demonic origins, does not lie.
Every time Lourdes tries to reach for me, I want to give in. To feel her skin against mine. I bet she’s as soft as she looks. And warm. I want a taste of it, the feel of it. I’m selfish and want everything she has to offer, and everything she cannot give.
So when she reached for me to look at my hands, I recoiled.
Only my brothers have ever cared for my existence. Everyone else despises me. Because I am the King of The Pit. Because I torture them with a wicked smile upon my face.
And I love it. I love falling into the madness, but there’s always been something in my life that hasn’t been fulfilled completely.
