Chapter 15
Dreams in red
The past
Moros—twenty-two
Oh, fuck. What have I done?
Crimson stains my hand, bright red and thick.
“It’s okay, Moros.” The voice is lined with the pain of the fresh punctures in his skin. Bruises.
Broken bones.
It’s raspy and deep and turns my stomach.
“I-I’m so—“
The apology gets lost in the burn of bile and iron heaving its way up my throat to land amongst the tree roots jutting up all around us.
“M-Moros. It alright. Just … help me stop the bleeding.”
I cough and spit and nod.
Looking at Wilson, at the bites across his bare chest and up his neck.
The drying patches of … white … across his abdomen and down his legs.
His crooked fucking nose. The trails of blood flowing from his nostrils tainted now by not just the shadows cast down from the red-tipped pines above but from me, too.
My infection.
This disease I was born with.
I turn my head and let loose another wave of vomit.
“It’s not your fault.”
“But it is!” I roar to the pile of blood and bile I’m crouched over. “I can fucking control it.”
I’ve had years and years of practice keeping myself contained. Of tamping down the haze of fevered frenzy that comes with the storm and threatens everything in its path.
I know when to get away from people, which is easy since I’ve been alone most of my life. Just like I know when it’s going to be too much. When I’m going to blank out and cause more damage.
When I need to chain myself up.
The warmth of his touch on my shoulder feels like a brand I welcome. “Not this time.”
“Fuck.”
The grip tightens and I squeeze my eyes against the tears that prick them.
“This is why I never do this. I don’t do this, Wilson.”
“What?” he hisses. “Have a fucking friend?”
The scoff is automatic but when I meet his blazing gaze, I swallow hard.
“Pretty sure friends don’t dry hump or try to fuck you and gnaw on you until you’re—” I gesture vaguely at his current state and the fucker had the audacity to burst into laughter.
And then a wince.
“I’m patching you up,” I say thickly, seriously as I climb to my feet and pin him with a look. “And then I’m gone.”
“Moros,” he murmurs back to me, the betrayal swirling in his too-kind eyes.
“I fucking mean it, Wilson.”