12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Hector
When the rain frenzy hits, I’m not in control.
It's as if all thought takes a backseat, reducing me to nothing more than an animal living off instinct to survive. Back at Aster’s Hollow, they have contingencies in place for this.
Bolts on doors, windows barred with whatever is available, and you'd better pray your roof doesn't leak.
Everyone arms themselves: shovels, pick axes from the mine, table legs.
Anything to fend off a rotter who's out of their mind.
But accidents still happen.
I was eleven when I killed for the first time.
It was shortly after Lena left, and I was alone. Starving. There hadn't been much left in the shack, so I'd ventured out to hopefully scrounge up some ration coins. I didn’t get far before they found me.
Three soldiers on patrol, probably fresh out of training, drunk on power and actual liquor. All of them with silver-scarred faces. They'd laughed when they saw me, this half-dead kid in baggy clothes and muddy boots. I'd tried to run, but they were faster.
“Well, boys,” one of them had snickered after taking me down, pressing my cheek into the dirt. “Looks like we caught ourselves a stray. And do you know what happens to strays?”
I'd fought with all the strength I had, which wasn't much. It had been days since I'd eaten anything.
The soldier had gripped my hair, pulling my head back as he straddled me from behind. “Strays get fucked.”
They'd taken turns violating me in every way possible, only stopping when the rain began to fall.
The bastards had been so distracted that they'd missed all the signs of a storm rolling in, and when the first drop hit my cheek, I froze.
Felt it soak into my skin, into the cuts and bruises they'd caused with their fists.
And then I wasn't me anymore.
I don’t even remember the killing. Just flashes of screaming, the taste of copper, the feel of flesh and bone giving way under my hands.
When I came back to myself, I was barefoot, covered in blood, with one of their rifles clutched in my arms like a teddy bear.
Their bodies were nothing but a shredded mess at my feet.
And I felt better . Stronger. No longer hungry or bleeding.
I didn’t sleep for days after that. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw their faces and felt their hands on me. It wasn’t fear that kept me awake, though; it was the shame.
They'd hurt me, so I hurt them back…and I liked it .
So when the frenzy hits now, when the sky turns red, I hide. I warn everyone to stay away because I know what I become.
Evil. Rotten.
In this world, there are no innocent people. Kill, or be killed. Eat, or be eaten. It’s inevitable.
And no one is safe.
When I finally rise above the red haze in my mind, I don't know how much time has passed.
Sweat covers my skin, something solid and warm beneath me. The taste of copper pools around my lips, and when I unlatch my teeth from something soft, I go completely still.
Because there's a breeze blowing against my bare ass. I'm also hard, my throbbing length trapped between my body and whatever I'm lying on, the pressure causing me to give an involuntary roll of my hips.
A hitched breath brushes against my forehead.
Immediately, my eyes spring open, and the first thing I see is a pair of hooded dark blue eyes staring up at me.
Charon .
That's when I realize that I'm lying on his bare chest, completely naked , with my cock pressed into his abs. And there's blood on my lips. On my tongue, covering my teeth.
Lifting my head, I drop my gaze to where it all runs down his shoulder, multiple bite marks marring his flesh.
One of his nipples is swollen and bruised, shiny with red-tinted spit.
It's not until I register that his own hard length juts into mine from beneath his trousers that I launch off the bed, tumbling onto the floor.
“W–what the fuuuck,” I stutter, scooting backward until I hit the wall, my pulse hammering loudly in my ears.
Charon sits up, raising his palms as if to calm me, but when his legs swing over the edge of the cot, my vision catches on the mess running down his torso. Streaks of red, and… and white. Dried, caked onto his skin, on my skin, mixing like some sick oil painting.
Blood and cum.
My gut churns as I roll onto my knees and vomit. All that comes up is stomach acid and crimson.
What did I fucking do?!
When he comes toward me, I throw my arm out to keep him back as another wave hits me, heaving so hard that my throat burns. Charon just waits, unmoving.
I spit what’s left onto the floor and brace on trembling hands, unable to look at him with the proof of what I’ve done coating his skin.
I hurt him, just like those soldiers hurt me.
“Don’t,” I rasp when he moves again, my voice shredded like I've spent days screaming. “Don’t come near me.”
A long silence stretches out before he slowly stands, inching around me to leave. As his soft footsteps retreat, I bite my lip so hard that the skin splits.
Oh, gods, what have I done ?
Collapsing to the floor, I roll into a ball as sobs wrack my body, disgusted with myself.
The rain doesn't even have to touch me anymore; it's almost like the change in the atmosphere is enough to send me into a spiral.
I hate it. I hate me. I wish I could be someone immune, like Charon. Someone the infection can't control.
Sometime later, maybe hours, I’m still rocking myself on the floor when he returns.
The door creaks open, followed by the careful thud of his boots.
Water splashes as he sets something down gently near my head, and I glance through my wet lashes to find a bucket, half-full of water, with steam curling off the surface and a rag inside.
Next to it, he places a set of folded clothes before backing away quietly, leaving me alone again.
And fuck, somehow that makes it worse because I deserve rage . I deserve disgust and retaliation, not…whatever this is, especially from the man whose blood I just licked off my teeth.
I stare at the bucket for a long moment before dragging myself toward it, the mangled skin of my missing foot now healed thanks to the rain.
Charon heated the water. Probably so that I can clean the vomit from the floor.
My stomach curdles, shame gnawing deeper than the infection as I grab the rag and wring it out so that I can start to scrub. And scrub.
I don’t even hear him come back.
One second, I’m trembling, trying to get the wood clean, sobbing as I desperately try to erase the stain of what I've done, to make it look like it did before I ever ruined it—
And the next, he’s kneeling beside me, reaching for the bucket.
I flinch back, keeping my burning eyes down as I try my best to cover my nakedness. Not that it matters. “I can do it. I'll make it clean.”
Not dirty. Not rotten.
Charon makes a noise before he dips another rag into the water. Just when I think he's going to help me scrub the floor, he lifts his hand, and…
Softly presses the cloth to my cheek.
I freeze, my gaze flying to his face as he watches me carefully. He's in a fresh shirt, long hair tied back, no trace of my shame left on his body. We stare at each other while he wipes the cloth in careful circles, washing away the dried blood on my lips and chin.
He doesn’t even pause when he reaches my throat, rewetting the cloth before scrubbing me gently. Doesn’t flinch at the cum flaking on my chest, in my belly button.
He just…keeps going. Patiently. No ounce of anger or hatred in his features. If anything, he looks fucking peaceful.
My jaw clenches so tight it hurts. “Why are you doing this?”
He doesn’t answer. I mean, not that he could. But he doesn't respond in any way, just rinses the cloth again and wipes down my arms, my hands, the blood on my knuckles, and under my fingernails from where I must have scratched him.
By the time he reaches my flaccid dick, I’m shaking too hard to speak. He holds my gaze, cleaning me gently. The wretched thing gives a pitiful twitch at the contact but remains limp, though sensitive. Aching. As if I spent hours or even days with an erection.
That thought has me sucking in a ragged breath .
“How long?” I ask, not fully forming the question. Charon seems to understand what I want to know, anyway.
He sits back on his haunches, tossing the rag into the bucket as he looks away. When he meets my gaze again, there's a worried pinch to his brow, and he holds up four fingers.
I swallow hard, starting to shake all over again. “Hours?”
Please, be hours. Please.
His lips thin as he shakes his head slowly. No.
“Days?!” My fingers curl into my hair as my lungs constrict, and I bend over, bile rising in my throat once again.
Four days. I spent four fucking days in a frenzy, doing who knows what to him, over and over and over. A violent shudder wracks my body, the edges of my vision going white.
Four days.
What the fuck happened? Oh, gods, will he kill me now? I deserve to die.
Charon grabs my wrists, gently prying them from my roots before placing my hands on his chest. His skin is warm beneath my palms as I fist his shirt to keep from falling over.
My throat tightens with another wave of nausea, but I swallow it back, focusing on the beat of his heart beneath my touch.
No words come out when I try to speak, only a broken sound—broken like me.
Tender fingers find my jaw, raising my face, but I squeeze my eyes shut. I can't fucking look at him, even as he gently scrubs my scalp.
When was the last time someone touched me like this? Gently, almost reverently, as if I'm something close to human? Something worth taking care of? Why would he do this after what I’ve done?
He backs up, causing my hands to fall away, and a moment later, something soft covers my face. I open my lids to find him easing a shirt over my head as if I might shatter. My arms hang useless at my sides as he pulls the sleeves down one at a time, fingertips brushing my skin.
And I let him, because I don’t remember the last time someone dressed me. Not since I was a kid, when I was too young to take care of myself.
Not since Lena.
The shirt is oversized, warm from his hands as it settles on my thighs, covering my shame. It smells like the boat—like wood and salt and him .
I’m still shaking.
But when he pulls me in, guiding my forehead to his shoulder, I don't pull away. Not even when he smooths a hand down my back, making me shiver.
“I'm sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking on another sob.
He just holds me tighter, pressing his lips to my curls with a contented sigh.
I know he can't speak.
But somehow, what he just did for me speaks louder than words ever could.