21. Chapter 21
Rylen
Maddox, usually so sharp and untouchable, is folded into a pathetic curve against the wood of my door, with Gremlin curled up by his side.
It’s a sight that guts me. I’ve spent the whole night trying to find the "off" switch for my heart, but looking at him now, the system just crashes. I don’t want to be a robot.
I don't want to turn it off. I just want him to stop hurting.
I crouch down, my knees barking a protest in the quiet.
I carry him into my room—the one place I vowed to keep him out of—and sit him down on the rumpled sheets I spent all night tossing and turning on. He groans, a low, sleepy sound, his eyes fluttering but not quite catching the light.
"Ry?" he breathes .
"I've got you," I whisper, and it isn't a lie.
I've got him now and I'm not letting go.
I reach for the hem of his hoodie and peel the fabric over his head, discarding it on the floor, leaving him barechested.
Then I strip down to my boxers and slide into the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under our combined weight.
Before I can even settle, Maddox is moving, gravitating toward me in his sleep; his long legs intertwining with mine, his cold feet seeking the warmth of my calves.
I wrap my arms around him, pulling him flush against my chest, and bury my face in the side of his neck, breathing him in.
The void in my head finally filling with the heavy, grounding reality of letting myself have him.
As the silence of the room settles into my bones, the darkness behind my eyelids starts to shift.
The weight of his body against mine—the heat, and the secret, the terrifying rightness of it—drags me backward.
It’s a familiar slide, a descent into the memories I usually keep locked behind iron doors.
The smell of coconut and lime fades, replaced by the scent of cheap cigarettes and damp concrete.
When I fall asleep, I’m suddenly thirteen again, about to learn exactly why loving someone is the fastest way to end up in a cage.
The air in my childhood bedroom is thick with the scent of Noah’s bubblegum and the quiet, frantic heat of finally being alone together. My bare skin hums where he touches me, even though it's a nervous tangle of limbs.
For once, the house is silent—the heavy boots of my step-dad, Marcus, are miles away at his worksite, and my mom is passed out on the couch downstairs—off chasing whatever high she’s currently favouring.
Noah pulls back just an inch, his dark eyes are soft. He reaches for the silver chain around his neck, unhooking the metal swirl pendant he’s worn every day since I’ve known him.
"Here," he whispers, his voice thick with an affection that makes my chest ache.
He leans forward, the cool metal brushing against my collarbone as he fastens it.
"I want you to keep this, as a reminder of our first time.
" He smiles sheepishly, placing a clumsy kiss on my lips.
I reach up to touch the pendant, my heart hammering a rhythm of pure, terrifying hope that my life could one day be more than this hell.
"Noah, I lo—"
The front door slams against the wall downstairs, cutting off my words and turning my blood to ice. Those are Marcus’s boots. He’s home three hours early. "Rylen! Get your ass down here and clean up this fucking pigsty!" His voice cuts off as he hits the stairs, heading straight for my bedroom.
"Shit! Get dressed!" I hiss, scrambling for my jeans. Noah is white as a sheet, fumbling with his shirt, his hands shaking so hard he can’t find the armholes.
" Hurry! You need to hide!" I whisper-shout at Noah, who looks like he's on the verge of vomiting.
Marcus's boots stop on the other side of my door and fear steals the breath from my lungs.
"What the fuck did I tell you about locked doors?
" Marcus thunders, throwing his weight against the wood, again and again. The door comes crashing down with a kick, and the frame splinters as Marcus barges in. He stands before us, knuckles clenched, chest heaving; his beady eyes darting from my half-zipped fly to Noah’s wide-eyed terror.
The disgust that rots inside him bubbles over instantly.
"You disgusting little freak," he roars, before lunging towards us, shoving Noah aside like he’s made of nothing. Noah hits the wall with a sickening thud, he looks at me with a face full of sheer terror, and then he’s gone—bolting out the door and down the stairs.
The sound of his retreating footsteps feels like a death sentence, because suddenly there's no one around to witness the fury of being caught.
The next thing I know, Marcus’s hands are around my throat. He slams me back onto the corner of my bed, then drags me off it, pinning me against the nightstand. His face is beet red, a mask of hatred.
"I didn't waste my time and money raising no faggot," he spits, tightening his grip on my windpipe. "I'll rip the sickness out of you myself."
I can't breathe. Black spots dance in my vision. My fingers claw at his wrists, but he’s a wall of muscle and malice.
My right hand sweeps across the top of my nightstand, knocking over a lamp, searching for anything I can use to fight back, until my fingers close around the heavy, cold handle of the brass trophy I won in middle school—the one thing Marcus was ever proud of me for.
I don't pause to think it through, I just swing with every ounce of life I have left.
Marcus’s grip slackens as the brass connects with his temple, the sound is wet and heavy. He drops like a stone, his head hitting the floorboards with a dull thud. Blood starts to pool, dark and fast between us.
"Marcus? Baby?" My mother slurs, staggering in the doorway. She looks at him, then at me. There’s no motherly instinct in her eyes—only the pathetic, desperate loyalty she has for the man who buys her fixes. "What did you do?!" she shrieks, rushing to his side, gently touching his face all over.
She doesn't bother to check if I’m okay. She doesn't care at the bruises surely forming on my neck.
"Marcus? Marcus! Baby please don't leave me, please, please!" she sobs into his barely breathing chest.
"I’m calling the cops! You hear me you little cunt? You're going to rot for what you've done," she snarls, pointing a blood stained finger at my chest.
I must black out because suddenly the flashing blue and red lights rhythmically pulse against the walls of the hallway as the paramedics wheel Marcus out. He’s breathing, but barely.
"I’m pressing charges," she tells the officer, her voice cold and shrill.
"He attacked my husband for no reason. That boy is rotten! He’s a danger to society and I don't want him in my house.
" My mother stands by the ambulance, sobbing into a tissue, pointing a shaking finger at me as the officer clicks the handcuffs shut around my wrists .
I don't cry as they lead me to the back of the police cruiser, the metal cuffs are cold against my skin.
I’m headed to juvie, and the only person who maybe could have loved me, just gave me a souvenir of the day I lost everything.
The dream always ends the same way—the metal of the handcuffs biting into my wrists, colder than the silver around my neck.
I wake up to the gray, hazy afternoon light filtering through the blinds, my heart still trying to kick its way out of my ribs. The phantom sound of that brass trophy hitting the floorboards echoes in the silence of the room, a wet, heavy thud that never quite leaves my head.
My hand jerks to my throat, fingers frantically searching until they hook under the thin silver chain.
I find the metal swirl and squeeze it, the edges biting into my palm.
It’s a cold, sharp anchor; a reminder that love is just a precursor to a cage.
Then, the heat hits me, reminding me of where I am.
Maddox is a solid, heavy weight pressed against my side, his long limbs tangled with mine like he’s trying to weave us into one person. His face is burried into the hollow of my neck, his steady, warm breath puffing against the very skin where the necklace sits.
I look down at him, and the memory of the night before hits me like a kick to the teeth. The way I left him… the way he looked, curled up and broken on the floor outside my door while I sat inside and let the silence swallow me. How the fuck could I have done that to him?
He stirs, his eyelashes fluttering against my skin before he slowly opens his eyes. They’re bloodshot, the blue looking bruised and weary. He moves back just an inch, his eyes hazy as they search mine.
He looks at my hand, then at the silver chain, then back to my face. He doesn’t ask about the pendant. He’s seen it every day for thirteen years; he knows it’s the one part of me I never let go of.
Maddox doesn't pull away, but I can see the way he's fighting to protect his heart, probably waiting for the robot to take over again.
"Mads," I rasp, my voice breaking on the single syllable.
I reach out, my thumb tracing the dark circles under his eyes.
The guilt is a thick, oily thing in my throat.
"I’m so sorry," I whisper, and for once, there’s no void, no shut-down program.
Just raw, jagged honesty. "I never should have gone on that date, I shouldn't have abandoned our tradition, and I definitely shouldn't have left you alone on the floor like you were.
.. like you were nothing. You're not nothing," I croak, the words coming out in a flurry .
"I've been so fucking stupid, Mads. About everything. About us. I'm just so fucking sorry." My voice wavering on the last words.
Maddox doesn't answer right away, he stares at me blankly for what feels like an eternity, his breath hitching as he absorbs the words I’ve spent years refusing to say.
"You really were an asshole," he mutters, though there’s no bite in it, just a tired, lingering ache.
His hand comes up to rest over mine, pinning my palm to his cheek.
"I know," I say, leaning my forehead against his. "Tell me how to fix it. Tell me exactly what you want, and I’ll do it. I'll do anything for you."
Maddox pulls back again, enough to look me dead in the eye, his expression turning serious, stripped of the cocky smirks and the teasing. "I want you to stop running," he declares, his voice low and firm.
"I want you to stop pretending that this—whatever we are—is a mistake. I want a real day with you, Rylen. No club, no security feeds, no phones. I want you to stay in this bed with me until I’m ready to get up, and then I want you to spend the rest of the day looking at me like you actually want to be here. "
He pauses, his fingers sliding up to the silver chain at my neck, his thumb brushing over the swirl.
"And I'm wearing your clothes today," he adds, a tiny, flickering spark of the old Maddox returning to his eyes as he glances down at the pile of clothes at the end of my bed.
"In fact, I'm wearing whatever I want of yours, whenever I want to, and you're not going to say a word about it.
You're going to shut up and let me be as close as I want to be," he adds, snuggling in tighter against my bare chest with a content smile.
I chuckle, letting out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my lungs for thirteen years, and nod, my hand sliding around to the back of his neck to pull him back in.
"Done," I breathe, kissing Maddox on the forehead as his eyes drift shut and his breathing slows.
"Everything is yours. I'm yours. And I'm not running away this time," I vow, and wrap my arms around him, pulling his long, lean body closer as sleep pulls him under.
The silver pendant sits between us, a souvenir of the day I lost everything, but as I hold him in the daylight, I find myself willing to risk the inevitable wreckage.