Pretty When He Bleeds (Sinners of Blackthorne U #1)

1. Roman

Roman

20 Years Old / BFA - Film and Media Studies

There’s a moment right before a fist connects with your jaw—a sharp, electric second where the world slows down—and in that moment, I swear I feel more alive than I ever have in my entire, miserable life.

Euphoria, I think that’s what they call it; absolute bliss the moment my eyesight goes blurry.

The guy’s fist slams into my face again and my head snaps to the side. The burn spreads across my cheekbone, grounding me and the throbbing pain that follows opens my eyes in the best way. It’s not the hardest hit I’ve taken, but it’s enough to remind me that I’m alive.

Bleeding. Breathing. Unworthy of both.

Laughter bubbles up in my throat before I can stop it, and I lick at my split lip while feeling the blood slip down my chin, my venom piercing scraping against my teeth. Around me, the crowd at the campus bar cheers, a drunken blur of voices egging the fight on like they have nothing better to do on a Saturday night.

I don’t even remember why the guy punched me, to be honest. All I know is that it’s just another idiot who thought he could take a swing at Blackthorne’s favorite wrecking ball, Roman Bishop.

“That all you got, you stupid piece of shit?” I ask, spitting to the side. “My fucking sister hits harder than you!”

Why are drunken idiots so easy to rile up? I don’t even have a sister.

He takes another swing at me and I let him. Let him try to hurt me. Let him try to knock me the fuck out because then at least I’m feeling something other than this fucking void inside of me. Pain is the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore. On the ice, in the gym, or from someone else’s fists—it doesn’t matter, as long as it drowns out that void.

Another blow to my gut and I choke out a laugh because it fucking tickles more than it hurts and when one lands on my cheekbone, I just about give up on this guy. He hasn’t hit me hard enough to hurt; a fucking waste of my time.

He’s shouting something, but I’m not listening because my focus shifts something else. Or rather, someone else standing at the bar.

I knew he would come back to Blackthorne eventually. He’s leaning against the bar, a cigarette dangling from his black painted nails, and his dark curls hanging in his eyes. Dressed in all black and clad in a leather jacket I know too well, he looks just like his brother but just more rugged.

The same defiant glint in his green eyes, the same dimpled chin. The same fucking silver rings on his fingers.

Damon Ward.

He’s not smiling, but there’s something in his eyes that makes my stomach tighten. He hasn’t punched me, he hasn’t even said a word but I can feel him pulling strings I didn’t even know I had.

And fuck me, it’s addictive.

Another blow hits my cheek and I don’t bother to block it. I need to be knocked out; it’s better than the way those green eyes are looking at me now—like he knows exactly what I am and is not afraid to hold a mirror to my Fucked Up.

He’s here for revenge, that much is clear. I know it, he knows it and I can’t look away. They all think I was responsible for what happened, but if only they knew… I can’t help but grin, blood staining my teeth as I step back into the fight.

If Damon wants me broken, I’ll make sure I’m the prettiest fucking disaster he’s ever seen.

I watch as my would-be opponent rears back a fist, but before it can hit me, he gets pulled back violently and crashes into a table. Blinking through the adrenaline, I see the only guy I can call a best friend.

Killian King—six foot three, blond hair and blue eyes, lean build, and a right hook that has knocked me out twice. Kill’s hair catches the shitty lighting of the bar making him look every inch the golden boy he’s pretending to be.

He points at the guy and growls, “Back the fuck off.” The guy raises his hands and walks away while muttering something about “crazy fucking hockey players” before disappearing into the crowd. Smart move.

Killian’s eyes cut to me and he levels me with a look that would make most people shit themselves. Not me, though. I grin at him; blood-stained and half-crazed. “You’re a real buzzkill, King.”

He grabs me by the front of my shirt. “And you’re a goddamn idiot, Bishop. We’re leaving,” he says before dragging me out of the bar by my goddamn shirt.

I try to pull away, but his grip is iron, and the people in the bar part like the fucking Red Sea for Blackthorne’s Golden Boy.

My gaze falls on where Damon stood, but he’s gone now. I wonder how long he’s been watching me. I’ve been feeling eyes on me for weeks, but he never made an appearance before tonight.

Killian lets go of me as soon as we step outside. “Kill, I was handling it—”

“Yeah, I could see that. Explains why your face looks rearranged right now,” he says, gesturing toward me but not bothering to look back.

I laugh, licking the blood from my teeth. “Like you care about my pretty face.”

He turns and shoves me towards his SUV, the one he keeps spotless despite the fact that it’s full of hockey gear most of the time. He opens the passenger door and points to it. “Get in.”

I lean against the side and cross my arms. “What’s your fucking deal? I had it under control,” I growl.

“Under control?” he barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”

“So what? It’s not like it’s the first time.”

At this, Kill gets right in my face and I watch the light in his eyes fade slightly, revealing the part of him that does scare me shitless. “You really wanna fucking test me right now, Rome? Get in before I make you.”

I know he’s serious. Kill doesn’t bluff about shit like this, not with me. So I climb into the seat and slam the door behind me.

The second he gets in on the driver’s side, he cranks the engine and glares at me from the corner of his eye. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Gotta be more specific,” I grumble.

He white-knuckles the wheel. “You let some fucking asshole use you as a punching bag—again.”

“It’s not like I asked him to hit me,” I say with a shrug.

“Don’t bullshit me, Roman. You may not have asked, but you sure as shit didn’t stop it,” he growls.

I stare out the window and refuse to look his way. “So what?”

Kill slams on the brakes at a red light and the sudden stop would have fucking thrown me against the dash if I wasn’t buckled up. “The fuck—” I turn toward him, and the look in his eyes makes me shut up.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days,” he says, gritting his teeth. “And for what? To feel something for five fucking seconds?”

The rawness in his voice makes me clench my jaw, suddenly feeling guilty. “Maybe that’s all I’m good for.”

He lets out a sharp breath and shakes his head. “That’s bullshit and you know it. You think I don’t see through it? You’re not some self-destructive martyr, Roman. You need to start facing your shit!”

The light turns green but Killian doesn’t move, he just stares at me and waits for a response, which I won’t fucking give. “Drive,” I mutter and turn away from him.

He listens for once and pulls off, taking the route toward the house we rent with some of Blackthorne U’s top athletes. But the silence doesn’t stay for long.

“You’ve gotta stop this man,” he says in a softer tone. “You can’t keep letting whatever’s eating you alive, kill you. It’s not gonna bring him back.”

My stomach tightens and I turn to glare at him. “Don’t.”

Killian doesn’t flinch or look my way. “You think I don’t know why you’re like this? Why you play like it’s your last fucking time on the ice and have a death wish off of it? I know you better than you know yourself, Bishop. I was there. So don’t act like you can handle this shit on your own.”

“Why the fuck do you even care?” I say through gritted teeth, my jaw hurting.

“Because you’re my fucking best friend!” he snaps. “And I’m not just gonna stand by and watch you slowly kill yourself over something that wasn’t your fucking fault!”

I clench my fists. Not my fucking fault? Of course it’s my fucking fault! I saw him and I—

My thoughts cut off abruptly as we pull up to the house and he parks in the driveway but doesn’t get out. Instead, he turns toward me and sighs. “You’re not invincible, Roman. One of these days you’re gonna push someone too far and it won’t just be a drunken idiot. It’ll be someone who won’t stop until you’re in the ground.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” I mutter, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

Killian stares at me with that look back in his eyes before he grabs the back of my neck and forces me to look at him. “The fuck it is,” he says, the tone of his voice deadly calm. “You don’t get to check out, Bishop. Not on my watch.”

I shake him off and open the door, putting some distance between us. “Whatever.” I hate that Killian has gotten close enough to me to care. Everyone who cares about me dies.

But that’s the thing about Killian King: he doesn’t fucking stop even when you ask him to.

He follows me up the front steps and as I reach for the door, he grabs my shoulder and pulls me back to face him.

“You’re not alone, you dumb shit,” he says in a softer tone than before. “But if you keep pushing everyone away, eventually there’s not gonna be anyone there to catch you when you fall.”

I stare at him, the sincerity in his eyes throwing me off balance. Killian might be a sociopath, but he’s also the only one who has ever given a shit about me, and I hate how much I need him for that.

“Yeah well,” I say uncomfortably, shrugging him off. “Maybe I don’t deserve to be caught.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his fingers through his hair. “You’re fucking exhausting, you know that?”

I manage a smirk even though it feels like my chest is split wide open. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

He doesn’t say anything to this and just pushes past me into the house, and I can do nothing else but follow him.