Page 141 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
He steps forward. He’s close enough to touch me, but he doesn’t. “Don’t say it,” he pleads.
But it has to be said. “I need to leave.”
I hear the glass shatter before I realize he’s flung it against the wall. “Goddammit,” he roars. “How many times will you run away from me? How many fucking times, St. Sebastian?”
I don’t step back, I don’t cower in the face of his rage, even though it burns like a fire, even though rivulets of whisky trickle past and the floor is a spray of shattered glass.
“This time is different,” I say. “Because this time I’m telling you. This time you know why.”
I’m backed suddenly into the bookshelf next to the sideboard; hard wood edges and leather spines dig into my back as Auden braces his hands on either side of me.
“You are mine,” he snarls wildly. “And I’m sick to death of us pretending otherwise. Fucking or no fucking, you belong with me, you belong here, and there will be no talk of leaving, no talk of choices. If you want to be utterly celibate, if that makes you feel better about being in love with me, then so be it. But we will be together.”
“We can’t be together, Auden! We can’t even make it three months without breaking down and fucking each other, how on earth do you think we can do this for the rest of our lives?”
He leans in closer, all muscle and potent, furious man. “I. Don’t. Fucking. Care. We’re doing it anyway.”
“Let me go.”
“Never.”
“Auden.”
“Never.”
“Do you think I want this? Do you think I wouldn’t rather this be any other way? Jesus Christ, Auden, stop acting like I’m throwing some kind of pointless toddler tantrum and think. You know me. You know you. And you know Poe. If things stay as they are, then we’ll end up where we started, and that’s not permitted to us now.”
“Who permits things?” he asks angrily. “Who?”
“It doesn’t matter. The government, the church, the people in the village—they all know it’s wrong because it is wrong. Brothers don’t do what we do.”
He glares at me. “Then let’s make our own rules about what brothers do.”
“I won’t do that. Even for you.”
He’s trembling against me now, his every muscle tense and vibrating with possession. “What can I do, St. Sebastian? Tell me. Tell me and I’ll fucking do it. Because I am at my wit’s end here. I’d give you everything you wanted, I’d cut the beating heart out of my chest for you, and still it never seems to be enough.”
“Don’t you understand?” I say pleadingly. “There will never be anything that can be enough. Because there’s nothing that can be done.”
“No,” he says in a fierce voice. “No, I don’t accept that.”
“It doesn’t matter what you accept. It’s like a law of physics—it’s true no matter what you believe or think. Now please step back so I can go.”
His nostrils flare and his hands tighten on the shelf on either side of me. “Absolutely not.”
I try to push forward, and he only shoves me against the bookshelf harder, his chest and hips flush against me now. “Auden, you can’t keep me here.”
“Like hell, I can’t,” he mutters darkly, and I know this is pointless. I can argue with him about our future for another ten years, and he will never accept anything that isn’t me by his side forever. I have to tell him the one thing I know that will make him back off. And the terrible part? This thing is actually true.
I take a deep breath. “You’re acting like him right now,” I say. I say it carefully, knowing the words are incendiary. That they’ll scorch whatever they touch. “You’re acting like our father.”
The effect on him is immediate, devastating. He flinches away from me as if I’ve hit him, staggering back a few steps and curling in on himself. He shakes his head. “No.”
“You’re being selfish and you’re trying to keep people who don’t want to be kept. That’s not how kink works, it’s not how family works, and it’s definitely not how love works.” I set my glass down. “You said it yourself in the mudroom: you’re no better than him. You’re choosing the same things he would have in your shoes. Unless . . . ”
“Unless I let you go,” he says numbly. “So that’s the equation you’re proposing. I’m not our father if I let you leave me.”
Pain lances through my chest, and I try to ignore it. The hurt and shame in his face—it’s gutting to see. Excruciating. I want so badly to take it away, and yet I can’t, because I need him wounded, I need him weak. Not because I want to hurt him, but because I don’t stand a chance against him when he’s strong.
