Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
The Upper Limit of Human Ambition
Riot
The kid wouldn’t let go.
Riot had tried to extract himself from the tangle of limbs on the bathroom floor—a process that should have been straightforward but was complicated by the fact that Cass seemed to have developed the grip strength of someone who’d been told to hold on or die.
He needed to clean them both up, needed to check that Cass was actually okay after everything.
Real responsible, asshole. Ten out of ten. Gensyn’s behavioral modification department couldn’t have designed a worse protector if they’d held a committee meeting about it.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The way Cass’s eyes had gone wide with real terror.
The pressure of his cock against that entrance, how close he’d been to just pushing.
The sound of Cass yelling his name, begging him to stop.
And the worst part—the part that made Riot want to put his fist through a wall—was that even now, with Cass trusting and exhausted in his arms, part of him still wanted it.
The echo of that desperate need was still thrumming under his skin, demanding he finish what he’d started.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
The question was rhetorical. He had a comprehensive list, actually, organized by category and cross-referenced. It was a very thorough list.
Every time he shifted, Cass made a small, distressed sound and clung tighter, fingers digging into Riot’s shoulders like he was afraid of being set adrift. Like Riot was something solid and safe to hold onto.
Which was, Riot reflected, rather like clutching a live grenade for comfort. Technically warm. Technically there. Liable to go off without warning.
“Hey,” Riot said softly, brushing sweat-damp hair from Cass’s forehead. “Princess. I need to get us cleaned up.”
Cass’s eyes fluttered open—hazy, unfocused, still somewhere in the aftermath. “Don’t go,” he mumbled. “Please.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I just want to get you into some warm water.”
He reached over to turn on the tap, adjusting the temperature until steam started rising. The bathroom was small and cramped, but private. Safe.
Safe from everyone except you. You’re the danger here, genius.
“There,” he said when the tub filled. “Let’s get you in.”
He started to lift Cass toward the tub, but those fingers tightened on his shoulders.
“You too,” Cass mumbled. “Get in with me.”
Riot looked at the tub, which had clearly been designed by someone who considered five foot eight the upper limit of human ambition, and then at his own naked body: cum drying on his stomach, scratches across his chest where Cass had clawed at him in panic.
He’d done that. He’d scared Cass badly enough that the kid had drawn blood trying to push him away.
Excellent work. Very protective. Someone should give you a performance award.
“Cass—”
“Please.” Those hazel eyes found his, exhausted but determined. “I don’t want you to let go yet.”
He should want you to let go. He should want you in a different territory.
“Alright,” Riot said, because apparently he couldn’t deny this kid anything. “Hold on.”
What followed was an exercise in physics that would have made his university professors weep.
He somehow folded himself into a bathtub designed for people who existed at a reasonable scale, water sloshing over the edges with a resigned inevitability, and pulled Cass in after him.
They ended up with Riot’s back against the sloped end, knees bent at angles his joints would make him pay for later, Cass settled between his thighs with his back against Riot’s chest.
“Better?” he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
Cass made a sound of contentment, letting his head fall back against Riot’s shoulder. “Much better.”
They soaked in silence. Riot’s hands moved on autopilot, cupping water and letting it run over Cass’s shoulders, carefully cleaning the mess from his skin. Every touch felt like a contradiction—tender care from the same hands that had pinned him down, that had kept pushing even when Cass said stop.
You did stop, some part of him argued. Eventually.
Eventually isn’t good enough. “Eventually” is the kind of word people put on gravestones when they’re being generous about the cause of death.
“Your robes are probably ruined,” Riot said, desperate for something normal to focus on.
“Probably.” Cass didn’t sound upset.
“I can find you something else to wear. One of my shirts, maybe.”
“I’d like that. Would it smell like you?”
“Yeah, princess. It would.”
“Good.” Cass’s fingers traced idle patterns on Riot’s forearm. “I like how you smell.”
Mine.
No. Not yours. You almost hurt him. You don’t get to call him yours.
But the thought wouldn’t go away. It sat in his chest like a coal, burning steady and completely disinterested in his opinions on the matter.
Eventually the water cooled and practicality won out over whatever this was—this fragile, quiet thing that Riot was afraid to examine too closely in case it turned out to be something he didn’t deserve.
He wrapped Cass in the largest towel he could find.
His hands were gentle—overcompensating, probably.
Trying to prove that he could touch without taking.
That the hands were capable of something other than damage.
“We need to redo your bandages,” he said, eyeing the soggy gauze. “The water wasn’t great for them.”
Cass looked down at himself and winced. “Oh. I forgot about those. Being near you makes it hurt less.”
There was a sentence designed to make a guilty man feel worse, and Cass had delivered it with the cheerful obliviousness of someone handing him a lit match while standing in a fuel depot.
“Sit on the edge. I’ll find the first aid kit.”
He found supplies in Lilac’s medicine cabinet and brought them back. Cass was perched on the tub’s edge, towel wrapped around his waist, looking smaller than usual with his wet hair plastered to his head.
“This might sting,” Riot warned as he peeled away the old bandages.
Cass hissed, but held still. “I’m used to it.”
Riot focused on the task—antiseptic, fresh gauze, medical tape.
His hands were steady even if his thoughts weren’t.
The wounds were healing slowly, those perfect circles scattered across Cass’s chest like some psychopath’s idea of a constellation map.
Brother Matthias and his “negative energy release.” Riot had known corporate sadists who at least had the decency to call their torture something clinical.
Wrapping it in spiritual language was a special kind of evil.
And you almost added to that collection. Almost gave him a new kind of trauma to carry. Congratulations on your personal growth.
“There,” he said, smoothing down the last piece of tape. “Good as new.”
“Thank you.” Cass caught Riot’s hand before he could pull away. “For everything. Not just the bandages.”
Riot looked at him, at those earnest eyes, that open expression, a face that had apparently never learned to hide anything, and felt his heart, or maybe Brennan’s heart, or maybe the heart belonging to whoever was left, crack somewhere load-bearing.
“You shouldn’t thank me,” he said roughly. “I almost—”
“But you didn’t.”
“I wanted to.” The confession scraped out of him like broken glass. “I still want to. Even now, part of me is looking at you and thinking about—” He cut himself off. “You should be scared of me.”
Cass was quiet for a moment, his lower lip pressing between his teeth as he glanced down. Then his hand tightened on Riot’s.
“I was scared,” he said softly. “When you were... when you couldn’t hear me. That was scary.” He paused. “But you stopped.”
“That’s not—”
“And then you held me. And you were gentle. And you made sure I was okay.” Cass’s thumb stroked across Riot’s knuckles. “That’s the part I’m going to remember. Not the scary part.”
Riot didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know how to explain that a better person—a person who hadn’t been stuffed full of irremovable experimental tech by a corporation that considered human subjects a renewable resource—wouldn’t have needed to make that choice in the first place.
That the fact he’d barely managed it, and still wasn’t entirely sure how, wasn’t the victory Cass seemed to think it was.
“Come on,” he said instead. “Let’s get you dressed and into bed.”
In his pack, Riot found a soft black shirt and helped Cass into it. The fabric swallowed him—hem to mid-thigh, the neck slipping off one shoulder, sleeves past his elbows. He looked like a child playing dress-up in someone else’s life.
“How do I look?” Cass asked.
“Like you’re swimming in it.”
“I like it.” Cass brought the collar to his nose and inhaled. “Strawberries.”
“It’s a very intimidating scent for a Berserker.”
Cass laughed as he climbed onto the bed, settling against the pillows with a sigh. “Are you staying?”
The question carried so much weight, so much trust that Riot didn’t deserve and couldn’t refuse. He was starting to suspect that was going to be the defining pattern of whatever this was—being handed things he hadn’t earned by someone who had no idea of their value.
Cass was warm against him, and Riot couldn’t stop thinking about the choice.
He stared at the ceiling—a ceiling that had the good sense to be blank and unoffensive, unlike the rest of his current circumstances—and replayed the moment when every instinct had screamed take and he’d forced himself to stop.
It had hurt. Physically, actually hurt, like ripping his own hand off a live wire.
But he’d done it, because under all the broken impulse control and the modifications that had turned a reasonably decent person into something that glowed in the dark and scared children, there was still something in Riot that wanted to be good.
That wanted to protect instead of destroy.
You have to be better for him, he thought. You have to try.
And underneath that, darker and more honest, with the quiet certainty of someone who’d already lost the argument: You’re going to keep him anyway. Whether you deserve to or not.
It was a profoundly stupid decision. This was not, in itself, unusual.