Page 42 of Pray for Scars
I’m in cotton shorts and a black t-shirt, both way too big, courtesy of Nicolas so I could get out of Lucifer’s shit. Clothe me, feed me, betray me, let me shower away my sins.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Nicolas gave me no head’s up that I would wake up to the lion in his den.
I grip the knife tighter, take a steadying breath.
There’s a window here, but we’re on the twentieth floor, so that’s not an option. Besides that, I’m tired of running. I’ll either gut Jeremiah or he’ll let me leave, but I’m not running from him again.
I open the door, knife held aloft.
Silence greets me on the other side. I see from the balcony window that the sun is just rising. I slept all fucking day and night.
It’s Sunday, I remind myself, trying to keep a grip on this freakshow that’s become my life.
Nicolas stands to his feet, from the chair he was sitting in yesterday when we played ‘Yes or No’, and Jeremiah is twisted around the couch, one arm on the back of it, as he takes me in.
He looks horrible, worse than he did at the hotel.
His pale green eyes are lined with red, shadows smudged beneath them, and his brown hair is a little longer than the short, tidy length he usually keeps it at. I’m surprised to see it’s wavy, nearly curly in places.
Don’t think of Lucifer, I tell myself, which of course, only makes me think of him more.
Seeing my brother like this, in the light when I’m not so drunk, not so terrified of his mouth on mine, I take him in. The wounds on his face from where he got the shit beat out of him by the Unsaints have healed, only a cut now above his eyebrow that looks like it might have had stitches. The wounds frommebeating the shit out of him after he kissed me are visible, too. A still-swollen nose. Bruises on his neck.
He’s wearing a dark green shirt and dark jeans, a leather jacket over top.
His eyes trail up and down my body, scrutinizing my borrowed clothes, and I feel my face heat.
I look at Nicolas, because it’s easier.
“What the fuck?” I spit at him, anger making my blood pound so hard my head hurts. Anger mixed with fear. I don’t want to be near my brother. Not right now. Not so soon.
I need tothink.
Nicolas crosses his arms, his eyes darting from the knife, to my brother, and back to me. “Sid,” he begins, trying to placate me, “it’s not what you think—”
I throw one hand wildly to Jeremiah but don’t look at him. “Unless I’m hallucinating this asshole in your living room right now, it’s exactly what I fucking think!” I take a step forward, my bare feet sinking into the carpet. “I trusted you!” I shake my head, take a steadying breath. “Of course, I shouldn’t have, considering you never even bothered to tell me that my own brother assaulted me.”
Silence steals through the living room. I realize Nicolas doesn’t even have a television, which is a shame, because if he did, I would’ve tossed it off the fucking balcony before I tossed both of these idiots off. Or maybeafter,so it could hit them on the way down.
“Sid,” Jeremiah says quietly.
I close my eyes against his voice, as if maybe he’ll be gone when I open them again.
The boy with green eyes, blood on his hands, threatens to spill back into my mind, but I put the dam back up. I’ve kept it up for over a decade now. He’s not going to tear it down. Lucifer might’ve tried but he’s got no idea howresistantI can be.
Lucifer wants control.
Jeremiah craves it.
They can both take what they want, but none of them are going to take my own mind from me.
“Sid,” he says again, his voice gentle, “I’m sorry I—”
My eyes flash open, meeting his pale green ones. “You’resorry?Did you happen to bring a Hallmark card over?” I step closer, the knife still clutched in my hand. To my sick, twisted satisfaction, his eyes flash to the knife before they meet mine again, and his tan skin goes pale. He thinks he taught me how to use this knife. He thinks he’s seen all the things I can do with it.
You think Kristof is the first man you ever stabbed, a voice in my head says.
