Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Tithing with Blood
Cass
Everything hurt.
Not just the wounds, though those were bad enough, eight points of fire burning across his body in overlapping waves that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
It was everything. His skin felt like it had been scrubbed raw and then held too close to a flame.
The soft cotton of his robe scraped against his chest like sandpaper after being unable to get his undershirt on before Riot knocked, and every time he shifted his weight, the linen of his pants brushed against the fresh wounds on his thighs and sent pain aching down to his knees.
His hands were the worst. The pain beneath his nails, radiating up into his knuckles, made his fingers curl protectively inward like dying spiders. He couldn’t straighten them without the pain doubling, tripling, and become something he couldn’t breathe through.
And underneath all of it—the fever. Still there. Still burning. Making everything too bright, too loud, too much. His muscles felt like they were trying to crawl off his bones, and there was a hollow ache in his belly that felt like it was twisting itself into knots.
There was also a sob trapped in his chest. He could feel it pressing against his ribs, wanting out. He swallowed it down, swallowed it down, swallowed it down.
Riot is here. Don’t cry. Don’t make him uncomfortable. Don’t be a bigger burden than you’ve already been.
But Riot’s presence was the only thing making any of it bearable.
Just being in the same room made the burning ease slightly—like cool water on fevered skin, like shade after too long in the sun.
Cass wanted to crawl into his arms and never come out.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he wanted to press his face against that strawberries-and-cream scent and breathe it in until it replaced the air in his lungs and made the pain stop.
But he couldn’t. He was still bleeding. The wounds on his chest and back were oozing through his robes, and the ones on his thighs—
Don’t think about those.
Warm trails were trickling down his inner legs. He could feel the blood soaking into the fabric of his pants, wet and wrong against his skin. If he moved wrong, if the robes shifted enough, Riot would see. He’ll know. He’ll see how broken I am. He’ll leave.
“How did your consultation go?” Riot asked, settling into the room’s single chair.
His movements looked stiff. Something was wrong with the way he was holding himself—tension coiled in every line of his body, his hands gripping the chair arms like he was trying to press his fingers through the material.
But Cass couldn’t focus on that right now.
He was too busy trying to keep his fingertips hidden, trying to stand still so the blood wouldn’t show, trying to keep his voice steady when everything inside him was shaking apart.
“It went fine,” he managed. The words came out too high, too thin. He tried again. “Just the usual guidance. Brother Matthias said I’m making progress with my negative energy blockages.”
Usually Brother Matthias helped him with the bandages.
He was usually so caring when he cleaned the wounds, applied the salve, and helped him meditate through the worst of the pain.
He’d even been concerned about Cass’s flu symptoms at the start of the session—pressing a cool hand to his forehead and frowning at the fever, asking if they should postpone.
But Cass had insisted he was fine, that he needed whatever Brother Matthias was recommending, that he couldn’t afford to fall further behind on his spiritual development.
Now Brother Matthias was gone and Cass had been left alone with blood running down his legs and his hands too aching to properly bandage himself.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“That’s good,” Riot said. “Show me your hands.”
Cass’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard he could feel it in his throat.
His fingers curled tighter, protectively, and the movement sent fresh agony shooting up through his knuckles.
Elysian practices were private and sacred, and the negative energy release was so secret he couldn’t even talk to Honey about it.
“My hands are fine.” He tucked them behind his back, and the motion made his robes shift against his chest wounds. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper, holding back the whimper that wanted to escape. “They’re fine.”
Riot’s eyes narrowed.
He knows. He can tell I’m lying. Oh no, oh no, oh no—
“Princess. Show me your hands.”
“No.” He stepped backward without thinking, and the movement made the wounds on his thighs pull—wet and sharp and wrong—and this time he couldn’t stop the small sound that escaped. “I just—I need to clean up. Could you give me a few minutes? Please?”
“Show. Me. Your. Hands.”
Cass’s whole body jerked backward until his shoulders hit the wall.
He’s angry with me.
“I’m fine,” he whispered. The words wobbled pathetically. “Really, I just need—”
“Cass.” Riot stood.
Suddenly, Cass couldn’t breathe. Riot was moving toward him, unblinking, each step deliberate, and Cass’s back was already against the wall. There was nowhere to go or hide, Riot was looking at him with an expression that made Cass’s stomach do something strange and awful.
“What did he do to your hands?”
The sob in Cass’s chest escaped, broken and childish and humiliating, and then the tears were falling and he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t control anything, couldn’t—
“It’s just spiritual cleansing,” he said. “Negative energy has to be released from the extremities—it helps with earthly attachments—it’s supposed to be private, it’s supposed to be sacred, I’m not supposed to show anyone outside the community—”
Please don’t be mad at me. Please. I can’t handle you being mad at me right now. I’ll break. I’ll shatter into pieces and I don’t know if I can put myself back together.
Riot’s expression went flat. The gold in his eyes seemed brighter somehow, swallowing the green. “Show me what he did, or I’m going to start getting really fucking angry.”
The profanity hit like a slap.
Cass was crying in earnest now—great heaving sobs that shook his whole body.
His hands shook so badly he could barely control them as he brought them out from behind his back.
Uncurling his fingers was agony and by the time he’d straightened them enough to show the damage, he felt like his face was going to melt off his body.
Riot’s inhale was sharp enough to cut.
When Cass looked up through tear-blurred eyes, Riot’s expression had become scarier; he imagined it was the kind of expression people saw right before they died.
“What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“What else did he do to you?” Riot stepped closer. “Don’t. Lie. To me.”
“Just the regular session,” Cass croaked. “Nothing different. Please, Riot, please don’t be angry—”
“Take off the robe.”
Four words, delivered so quietly they were almost gentle, but Cass heard them like a threat.
“I can’t—” His voice broke on a sob.
“I’m not going to ask again.”
Riot wasn’t moving or touching him, but Cass felt trapped anyway. He was pinned in place by those gold-green eyes and that terrible expression he didn’t understand.
“Please don’t be angry with me.” He fumbled with the knot on his robes. “Please. I know I’m not very good at spiritual development. I know I’m failing. But I’m trying so hard, I’m trying so hard—”
The robe fell around his waist.
For a long, horrible moment, Cass just stood there, arms wrapped around himself, trying to hide, his shoulders hunched.
The cool air of the room hit his wounded skin and he shivered—not from the cold, but from the unbearable exposure of being seen.
Nudity had never bothered him before. He’d bathed in the public pools at Elysian when he was young.
He’d cuddled with Honey while she was unclothed, as part of their partnership preparations.
Bodies were just bodies. Riot had seen him shirtless already.
But this was different.
This was showing someone outside the community the raw negativity that sat beneath his skin. It was open and weeping and Riot seemed much more enlightened than he realized; he would probably be able to feel it.
This is what I am. This is what’s wrong with me. All my failures written on my body for everyone to see.
Riot made a sound. It wasn’t quite a growl, nor was it quite a word. It was something animal and dangerous that vibrated through the air and made Cass sob harder, making him want to curl into a ball and disappear.
He’s disgusted. He hates me. He’s going to—
Riot turned and walked out the door.
The click of the latch was the loudest sound Cass had ever heard.
His knees gave out and he slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the plaster, and then he was on the floor crying so hard he couldn’t breathe.
His chest heaved with sobs that felt like they were tearing him apart from the inside.
Riot left. He looked at him—at all his damage, all his negative energy—and walked away.
Of course he did. Of course. Why would anyone stay? You’re disgusting. You’re broken. You’re everything wrong with—
The door opened.
Cass looked up, gasping and hiccuping, and Riot was back holding a bottle of clear liquid and moving with purpose, and Cass couldn’t understand—he’d left, he’d seen, why was he coming back—?
“Get up.” Riot’s voice was rough. “Come on. Off the floor.”
Cass tried to obey, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate.
He was shaking too hard, crying too pathetically, and his body hurt too much to push himself up properly.
Riot’s hands closed around his arms and lifted him like he weighed nothing.
For a moment, Cass was airborne, his feet leaving the ground, and then he was being set down carefully in the chair, Riot’s hands still steadying him.