Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Elysian Dynamics Beauty Standards
Riot
The afternoon passed in a haze of fever management and careful distance. Riot learned things he didn’t want to know—like exactly how Cass’s hair looked spread across the pillow when he tried to rest, or the small sounds he made when he thought Riot wasn’t listening.
Around midday, Cass sat up suddenly.
“I want to tell you about Honey,” he said. “Is that okay? I keep thinking about her, and you’re the only person I can talk to.”
Riot’s chest tightened. He had been carefully avoiding that topic because he felt like he wasn’t going to like whatever came out of Cass’s mouth about her. “Honey?”
“My best friend. My... designated partner.” Cass’s voice went smaller on the last word. “The one I’m supposed to bond with when I go home.”
“Go ahead,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.
“We’ve been best friends since we were really little.
Before all the partnership stuff started.
” Cass’s expression softened. “We used to play dress-up. All the little kids did it, practicing the sacred bond ceremony. When it was Honey’s turn to practice, I’d dress like a girl so she could pretend to bond with me.
And when it was my turn, she’d put her hair up and dress like a boy so I could practice too. ”
Riot filed away the detail that Cass had apparently needed a male partner for his childhood bonding fantasies. He filed it away very carefully, in a folder labeled things that matter more than they should. “It sounds like you are close.”
“We were. We are.” Cass’s smile flickered.
“But then we got older, and everyone got weird about us. They kept asking when we were going to realize our ‘spiritual connection,’ when we’d start showing proper partnership interest. The compatibility assessments matched us perfectly. Everyone said we were destined. But...”
“But?”
“We never really wanted to bond to each other.” The admission came out quiet, almost ashamed. “I love her. She’s wonderful and brilliant. But when I tried to imagine our sacred bond ceremony, it just felt like playing dress-up again. Not real.”
Something eased in Riot’s chest. Not jealousy—he didn’t have any right to jealousy—but... relief.
“There are different kinds of love,” he said. “Friendship isn’t the same as romantic love.”
“That’s what I thought.” Cass looked up at him hopefully. “But Brother Matthias said proper spiritual development would help me understand my deeper feelings for Honey. That my lack of romantic attraction was a spiritual deficiency.”
“Or maybe,” Riot suggested, not wanting to push too hard, “your lack of attraction was your body telling you something your brain hadn’t figured out yet.”
Cass’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open, but before he could respond, he pressed his head to his knees again with a weak whimper, his arms shaking as they tightened around his shins. “I really, really don’t feel good,” he whimpered. “Why does it hurt?”
Riot was across the room before he could stop himself, kneeling in front of the bed. “Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere. But especially—” Cass’s face flushed even darker. “Lower. In my stomach. But also... lower than that.”
“That’s normal,” Riot said, keeping his voice calm.
“It doesn’t feel normal.” Cass’s eyes shone with unshed tears, his lower lip sucked between his teeth as he peeked up at Riot. “It feels like I’m falling apart.”
“You’re not falling apart. You’re just—” Going into heat and killing me slowly. “You’re just going through something new.”
Cass reached for him, fingers closing around Riot’s wrist. The contact sent a jolt up Riot’s arm and made his pulse spike and his vision begin to blur gold at the edges.
“Can you stay close? Please?” Cass asked. “I know I keep making things complicated, but I feel like I’m coming apart and you’re the only thing that feels solid.”
Riot should say no. He should maintain distance. He should find someone to castrate him and muzzle him. He should do literally anything except what he was about to do.
“Okay, princess.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m here.”
Cass immediately curled into him, pressing against his side with a small sound of relief. All that loose hair spilled across Riot’s arm, soft as silk.
This is fine. Just comfort. I can handle this.
But Cass was squirming, plucking at his sweat-damp robes with growing frustration. “I can’t—everything feels wrong. The fabric is too heavy and it’s sticking to me and I can’t—”
“Hey.” Riot caught his hands. “It’s okay. If you need to take it off, take it off.”
Cass hesitated, frowning. “Are you sure? I know it’s not... I mean, I’m not very...” He trailed off, his cheeks flushing darker. “I’m not supposed to.”
“Princess, you’re burning up. If the clothes are making it worse, get rid of them.”
Cass nodded, but his movements were slow and reluctant.
He untied his robes and slid his arms free, letting the fabric pool at his waist, then hesitated with his hands on the hem of the thin undershirt beneath.
Riot’s hindbrain was practically licking its chop, waiting for those elegant hands to move and show him more.
“I should warn you,” he said quietly, not meeting Riot’s eyes. “I’m not... the meditation masters always said my body reflects my spiritual inadequacy. I don’t want you to be grossed out, so if it makes you uncomfortable, please tell me to put it back on.”
Before he could respond, Cass pulled the shirt off and Riot couldn’t breathe.
Cass was lean and graceful, all elegant lines and sun-kissed skin, the kind of understated beauty that could stop traffic. But that wasn’t what made Riot’s lungs seize.
Scattered across Cass’s chest and shoulders were dozens of perfectly circular scars.
Each one about the size of a cigarette burn, but too precise, too uniform.
They formed a pattern across his chest and down his sternum.
Some were old and faded, pale against his skin.
Others were newer, still pink and slightly raised.
What the fuck did they do to him?
Cass hunched his shoulders, arms coming up to wrap around himself, trying to hide the marks. His eyes were fixed on the floor.
“I know,” he said. “It’s unpleasant. And ugly. Brother Matthias says they’re evidence of my spiritual resistance—that if I were properly aligned, they would have healed completely by now. I have them on my back too.”
Riot wanted to put his fist through the wall and to find every person who had ever touched Cass and show them what real pain felt like.
He wanted to burn Elysian HQ to the ground and salt the earth where it stood.
But Cass was already shrinking, already expecting rejection, already bracing for Riot to confirm what everyone else told him—that he was damaged, deficient, ugly.
So Riot forced down his rage where Cass couldn’t see.
“Can I look?” he asked.
Cass’s head came up, surprise flickering across his features before he looked away. “You... want to? Even though it’s…and on me…”
“Yeah, princess. I want to.”
Slowly, uncertainly, Cass uncurled his arms, letting them fall to his side as he stared at his robes in his lap. Riot reached out, giving Cass time to pull away, and traced the edge of one scar with careful fingers. The skin was smooth, slightly raised. Healed, but permanent.
“These don’t make you ugly,” he murmured.
“But—”
“They don’t.” Riot’s thumb brushed across another mark, mapping the damage with terrible gentleness. “There’s nothing wrong with your body, Cass. Nothing.”
Cass’s lower lip trembled. “You really think so?”
I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I think I want to trace every single one of these scars with my tongue. I think I’m losing my fucking mind.
“I really think so,” he said. Then, before he could stop himself: “You’re not the only one with scars, princess.”
Cass’s eyes widened. “You have more scars?”
Riot hesitated. He didn’t show people and didn’t talk about it with people who hadn’t been there. But Cass was sitting here ashamed of marks that had been carved into him by people who should have protected him, and maybe...
Maybe it would help.
He tugged his shirt over his head.
Cass’s breath caught.
Riot knew what he was seeing. The bullet wound on his left shoulder, puckered and ugly, from a job that went sideways in the Static Zone.
The knife scars scattered across his chest and ribs—some from field ops, some from fights he’d barely survived, some from the years after Endeavor when staying alive meant hurting people before they could hurt him.
“Oh,” Cass breathed. “Riot...”
“Different kind of damage,” Riot said, keeping his voice steady. “But damage all the same.”
Cass reached out, then hesitated, fingers hovering over Riot’s chest. “Can I...?”
Don’t. If he touches you, you’re going to lose it.
“Yeah, princess. You can.”
Cass’s fingers were feather-light on the bullet scar first, tracing the raised edges with the same wondering gentleness Riot had used on his marks. “Does this one hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
Cass moved to a knife scar across his ribs. “What about this one?”
“That one aches sometimes. When it rains.”
“That’s sad.” Cass’s brow furrowed. “Scars shouldn’t hurt.”
Yours probably do too, and you don’t even realize it’s not normal.
Then Cass’s fingers moved up, tracing the surgical line along Riot’s jaw, and every coherent thought evaporated.
The touch was innocent—curious, gentle, exploratory. Cass was just mapping the scar the same way he’d mapped the others. But his fingertips were brushing the corner of Riot’s mouth, and all he could think about was turning his head and sucking those fingers into his mouth.
What would he taste like? Would he make that little surprised sound? Would he pull away or push deeper? I’d let him push deeper.
“These are the neatest ones,” Cass observed, completely oblivious to Riot’s internal meltdown. “Like someone drew them with a ruler.”