37. You Could Ask Me
37
YOU COULD ASK ME
RIOT
Moros is fucking thriving!
Under a blood moon, pitch black skies, and caressed by a haunting breeze from the north, Death Row has turned into a town party. Everyone is drinking, half drunk or on their way to being drunk, and those who don’t drink are high on justice.
Because the town traitors are being marched down Death Row just like Lockan Tate promised. I’m humming with energy just being here, everyone else in a wicked mood to shame those who have betrayed their home.
I know the rest of the world runs on a ‘don’t sink to their level’ mentality, but we have no such reservations. We sink lower, and we enjoy every sinister second of doling out justice and enacting revenge. Life is too short not to get a sick thrill out of the things that feed our devious joy.
Half the Vile Boys are here in masks, monitoring and joining the locals in their dark celebration, and the other half of us are here as ourselves, blending in and acting the part of Moros townsfolk. I love it because Soren is here, unmasked, drinking and letting loose. We barely get time to unwind, and seeing his face while he’s dropping his guards is such a rarity that I’m staring at him more than I’m staring at the twisted parade.
As the husband and wife Krypt and I encountered are dragged down Death Row because their Achilles tendons are cut, I watch Soren down a can of beer before tossing the can at them. He laughs, and it’s different from his insane laugh. This is joy; unhindered and needed, and his smile is so warped with his idea of fun that my dick firms up and my fists tighten, craving his throat in my grip.
I walk across the street, drawn like a goddamn moth to his flame, taking a swig of rum from the bottle as I step between the husband and wife, grinning at them like they should know who I am. They do. They know me as Killian Hallows, the guy who most likely killed his parents. But when they look into my eyes, they know. Deep down, they know I’m the Vile Boy who demanded the answers that led them to this exact shameful moment.
And you’re goddamn right I take pride in that, laughing as I finish my walk to Soren. He’s dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a white horror movie t-shirt, hair sticking up like it was the other morning, and cheeks pink from alcohol this time. The beer has him so flushed that his jacket is missing on this cool autumn night. His blue eyes are a fucking gut punch when they land on me, so full of trouble and fun that I’m eager to get up to more of it with him. With only a little stubble along his jaw, scratchy enough that I itch for my fingers against it, I instinctively rub my own jaw, his bite now tattooed there forever.
“Hey, baby ,” he goads, amping me up even more because I love this mood he’s in. “Up for a little spying?”
I step right up to him, chest to chest, and rub my fingers over his stubble to appease my craving. “Who are we spying on?” I bite my lip and he looks, biting his to mirror me. Atta boy. Even my actions get through to you subliminally.
“Facts has a crush.”
My eyes widen, and I look to the left where Soren nods. Facts, wearing his copper mask, stands creepily behind a guy in black pants and a Moros Township t-shirt. I’ve seen him around town. Pretty sure he moved here with his buddy a few years ago, and the two of them bought a fixer-upper place out by Cain Carson’s house on Crucifix Street. The guy looks easygoing, laid back like he’s having fun with the rest of the town, but also like he could fuck you up if you looked at him wrong. He’s a fighter, that’s for sure, but I can’t tell if he’s more soldier-trained or street-trained.
“Facts?” I look at Soren. “Facts finally figured out he has a dick?”
Soren laughs, not stepping back from me. “He accosted me in the shower and made me agree to spy on him.”
I growl, my fingers tightening around his throat. “Naked?”
“Yeah, sweetheart . Naked.” He licks his lips, and this time, I mirror him.
“Don’t make me kill one of our own, Sauder. I’ll do it.” I love Facts, but he doesn’t get a free pass to the body that belongs to me. “How long have you wanted to call me that?”
“Sweetheart?”
“Yeah.”
“Never. I just want to take the power away from it so it doesn’t piss me off every time you call me that.”
I smile and tilt my head at him, fingers drumming on the side of his neck. “Try again. Don’t lie this time.”
Soren scowls, unwilling to admit he loves the nickname. “Are we spying or what?”
I glance to the left again. “Facts looks like he’s got it under control.” The guy has no idea a jittery, uptight man who can’t understand sarcasm and can’t spout a lie to save his life is watching him like a hawk.
“Facts can’t talk around this guy. Let’s go talk to him and let Facts eavesdrop.” He steps back, but he grabs my hand, and yeah, I like that. I like it a lot.
Facts can talk ten miles a minute, so if he’s tongue-tied, it must be something extra special.
Moros erupts into cheers as Tom is walked down the dead centre of Death Row, half of The Misfits trailing him. He’s butt-ass naked, cock in a cage, a ball gag in his mouth, and a trail of anal beads hanging behind him. Ah, it’s the least that cocky fuck deserves. Doesn’t even surprise me that he’s glancing behind him, looking for his daddy.
When we get close to the target, Facts shakes his head in agitation, trying to warn us off, but Soren isn’t deterred.
“Can I bum one?” he asks the guy, who is lighting up a cigarette.
He passes us each a cigarette, offering the lighter to me first. “No problem. Killian, right?”
Soren scowls, not appreciating that my name is known but not his. “Yeah.” I tilt my head at my needy man. “And Soren.” I light my smoke and hand him the lighter.
“Novak,” he says, taking his lighter back from Soren. “I’ve seen you guys around. You own that music shop, right?”
“My brother does,” Soren says, eyeing this guy up. He’s got long blond hair and a scruffy short beard to match, real Viking or biker gang style, and I can’t believe this is the guy who Facts finally decided to get hot over. The guy looks like Thor. Maybe a bit less bulky. “What about you? You do something?”
“Was in the NAVY for most of my life, but didn’t take another tour when my mom got sick. When she died, I needed a change, and I’d been to Moros for trips. Bit of a true crime junkie, so this place spoke to me. I moved here with my cousin, and we’re both in the fire department now, fixing up our house in our spare time.” He shrugs, nodding at his cousin with a grin on his face. His cousin is throwing eggs at Tom, maniacally laughing as he does. “We fit in, I guess you could say.”
I like them. I look at Facts to find him leaning forward, trying to hear as much of the conversation as possible. Probably clamping his lips to repress his greeting when his eyes meet mine.
“I don’t wanna misspeak because you’re in The Misfits,” he says, looking at Soren, who is glaring, “but they really fucked up the old Fire Hall when they took it over.”
“New one is better,” I say before Soren blows his cover. “New leader of The Misfits is solid, though. He’ll bring them back around.”
Soren turns to Facts, ready to make sketchy introductions, but then the gathered crowd starts shouting, and we all look towards the street. Eggs fly, ravens squawk, citizens seethe, and bottles and cans whip across Death Row.
Yates. Torn and bloody, barely standing, beaten and tortured, finally doing the walk of shame he’s deserved for years. And right behind him, Lockan Tate holds the chain around his neck. The new Misfits leader is shirtless and flecked with blood, looking powerful as fuck and appealing because of it.
Soren steps up behind me, lips by my ear, brushing my new tattoo. “Get hard right now and I’ll cut it off.”
I turn my face towards his, a grin on my lips. “Trust me, sweetheart. If I get hard, it’ll be because you’re so fucking possessive.”
“I’m not possessive of shit,” he says against my lips. Yet, he grabs my jaw and forces my head to turn even more, eye to eye. “But facts are facts. I fucking own you, Killian.” He licks my healing tattoo to prove his point. Totally unsanitary, but yeah, that does it. My cock firms up, and like the egotistical prick he is, he pats it, knowing it’s hard for him. “Mmm,” he hums.
Time to knock him down a peg. I glance at Yates, pleased with how unified the town is now that the traitors have been caught, but it’s time for us to go. Moros has all come together, and we’re ready to face this war as a united front, so I can take the night off to face my own war with Soren Sauder, the man who became mine but doesn’t always need softness. The night’s vibe is diabolical, and it’s affecting me just right.
I grab Soren’s wrist to bring him in front of my chest, possessively wrapping my arms around his shoulders from behind. “Nice to meet ya, Novak, but we gotta go.” I turn us around and steer him down the alley between The Ambient Raven and Death Mark. “Did you forget about your family curse, sweetheart? Time you got a reminder.”
* * *
I’m used to a little—or a lot—of unrest in my life. There’s always someone to deal with, a threat to abolish, a bargain to make, or a fight to be had. With Moros all on the same page, so ‘together’ that they’re all training alongside one another, partying in the streets, and hosting a fucking sick parade for Lock and The Misfits to get their status back, I’m off-kilter. It’s all good things, but I didn’t get my name for nothing: I need a little chaos in my life.
And now I have the perfect man to unleash it on.
Holding up the same razor blade he used to cut my bicep the first time, I close the distance between us and hold his eyes. He doesn’t look at the blade I pulled from my pocket, but he sees it, and for whatever reason, his heart rate accelerates. Excitement? Fear? Both? Doesn’t matter because I feel it thumping in my chest again, and it’s at this moment that I understand how to read music sheets. It’s his heart acting as the drum, beating out music, but it’s my actions orchestrating the notes and rhythms it pounds out. Fuck, that’s powerful, and I’m ready to see how far I can push the beat.
“What’re you gonna do, bleed me like Krypt tried to bleed the curse from Remi?” he backtalks, all attitude because he’s still unsure where this is going.
No one has moved into Hallows House yet because we haven’t had the additional Initiation Night, so tonight, we’re alone here. The table in the foyer is still busted, and the drywall is still cracked, but we’re upstairs this time. In the bedroom that used to be Krypt’s, the piano is sitting in the corner without any intention of letting me play it. Not yet. First, I have to trust myself to play, and I’ll gain that trust by reminding Soren of who I am. By reminding Soren that he’s still a sorry man with a curse haunting him.
“You think it’s fair that you got to mark me, but my mark isn’t on you?” I ask, wetting my lips and pinching the razor blade.
Soren tilts his chin, showing me the purple bruise I left on his neck. “You marked me. Against my will.”
“What will, sweetheart?”
He retreats, back hitting the wall. He doesn’t like that he backed away from me, so he pushes off it to butt his chest against mine. “You wanna mark me, baby?” he goads, lifting my hand and holding the blade to his jawline. “Start cutting.”
“So compliant.” I grin at him. “No fight left in you?”
Soren is a beautiful man because he’s so savage about it. Every expression he wears is finite, like he can’t do anything half-assed. If he’s mad, his face tells you. If he’s sad, his eyes can’t hide it. And if he’s needy, desperate with the yearning to be full of despair because he’s masochistic and loves to hurt, his actions declare his desires. He gives himself away when his eyes dip down to the hollow of my throat where the second tattoo I got today peeks out the top of my shirt. He doesn’t fucking like it. He loathes that I got it, jealous because, on the day I marked myself for him, I marked myself for her, too.
Leigh. The girl from the plane who saved my mind while I lost hold of it. The ‘cool hair’ and head of the cobra stares at Soren from my chest, and he’s a possessive fool who doesn’t want another person’s mark on me. His pronounced cheek muscles feather when he clenches his jaw, and his deep blue eyes flicker with distaste, goading me into cutting him so he feels like he belongs to me more than she does. His hypocrisy is sexy because he’s so obviously hateful about it.
I don’t love that girl. I appreciate her. I don’t understand why she came into my hallucination, but I’m grateful that she did because she tethered me to myself. But I don’t hold affection for her beyond that. But Soren…
I don’t know the definition of love or what it’s supposed to feel like. I can’t comprehend its depth when I’ve always been shallow. I can’t even wrap my head around the concept of willingly tying myself to one person, cutting off everyone else, limiting my desires and establishing a set of boundaries that prevent me from acting on my instincts. Can’t fuck anyone else? Wow. Can’t flirt with anyone else? How will I charm? Can’t look and wonder and act on sexual attraction without crossing some line I’ve never had drawn before.
But it drew itself, didn’t it? Because I’m firmly planted on this side of it, unwilling to step across because if he ever did… fuck, I’d bury myself under so many layers of masks there’d be no chance left for me to ever find my identity. Soren makes me want to be bare. Raw. Real. I’ve never wanted to be real with anyone else. Maybe that’s love, maybe it isn’t. Maybe love is selfless, and I’m simply mimicking what I think selflessness to be.
I could mimic forever for him… Because it’s effortless.
I know how I feel despite being incapable of labelling it. He’d be stupid not to feel the same, but just in case he doesn’t…
I grab his jaw, tilt it upward, and press him back until he’s steady against the bedroom wall. I take my time carving three words along the chiselled line of his jaw, not wanting to rush them because they took a long time to mean something. I want them clear, precise, and able to be read so that everyone who sees them can ask what they mean. And whenever someone does, Soren will blush, trying to explain ‘just in case’ without giving anything away until he tells them to fuck off and mind their business.
He doesn’t move or hiss or breathe any harder. The pain is the stinging kind because the blade is so sharp, but Soren takes it with pride. Because these words are prideful to him. I don’t have to tell him what words I etched into his skin forever because he knows. He knows .
We know. The words and what they mean. A meaning without a proper definition.
When I’m done, I slide my thumb through the blood to get a better look at my art. I’m a clear, neat writer, and adrenaline fills me when I see the words, clear as day. They’ll scar perfectly. Sucking my bloody thumb into my mouth, I let the tang of him rest against my tastebuds, looking him straight in the eyes.
Just in case, sweetheart. Here’s my declaration, written on your skin because we’re now forever.
Soren’s eyes are full and anticipatory. His dark blond hair is pushed off his forehead, giving me an unimpeded view of his expression. It’s another finite one, something that portrays exactly how I feel without either of us having to speak a word. This moment connects us, ties us, sets our lives on a path neither of us ever saw coming. But fate is weird like that.
Maybe he’s always been mine. Maybe he’s simply mine from this moment on. Either way, he’s mine, and I’m his, and if he wants this as much as I do, he’ll take the blade I offer him. I hold it up in front of me, watching his eyes dip down to it. Soren doesn’t hesitate. He takes it, leans in to press his lips to mine for one quick and savage kiss, and then pushes me back.
“Take your shirt off. Now.”
His voice, so authoritative and dominant, turns me on, but the energy coming off him sets me on fire. Because he’s the Ghost of Moros, but right now, he can’t settle himself down enough to be silent. He doesn’t want to be silent. His vibrations are dramatic, his energy is loud, and as I take my shirt off, he gets a full look at the King Cobra. His jaw clenches again, a bit of blood leaking from his new wounds, but he doesn’t dwell. He turns me around and runs his fingers down my healing back.
I’ve looked. My Vile House tattoo is mangled. The skull is visible, and most of Vile House at the top is clear, but my name is almost completely gone, and that’s the part that hurts the most. Instead of carving me over my fresh burns, Soren bends, and his lips hit the healing skin instead.
I fucking tremble. It’s such a declaration, but so soft that I can barely hold myself back from exploding. He’s kissing me better, and no one has ever done that for me. Not too long ago, I wouldn’t have even trusted him at my back. Now I want him there because he respects my trust, and I don’t know exactly when or why that happened, but he’s the only person I can put my back to. Especially my warped back and the burns that ruined me.
Soren’s lips caress every burn. He starts at my lower back and moves upward, causing emotional pain because I appreciate it so much, but soothing pain because he cares so much. When his lips hit my nape and his hands touch my ribs, he pauses to breathe me in. His nose tickles my hair, his breath soothes my skin, and his hands trace my sides. I close my eyes to feel the whole moment.
I have the sudden urge to play piano. To express… this.
After sinking into this calm yet charged lapse in time, Soren kisses the back of my neck before pushing my hair aside. He starts carving, and I’m almost grateful it’s on the back of my neck so I don’t have to see it. His writing is fucking atrocious. The razor stings, the slices smarting as the air hits my welling blood, but it’s that cleansing kind of pain that feels relieving. When he’s done, he blows warm air against the exposed slices. The same three words. Just in case.
I turn to face him, extending this rare moment as long as possible before I turn it dark and unhinged.
“You ever gonna tell me how you feel?” I ask him, pushing his hair back. So silky between my fingers.
“No,” he says honestly. “Don’t know how.” He fights a smile, but it happens anyway, so he hides it by pressing his lips to mine. “You could ask me.”
I hold him against me, smiling, too. “You hate me?”
“Absolutely.”
“You mine?” I speak against his lips.
“Mhm.”
Our foreheads roll together and our smiles connect, eyes closed. “You superior to me?”
“Always.”
I lick my lips, wetting his as my nerves grow. “You love me, sweetheart?”
Soren’s fingers dig into my back, making pain scream out. It’s washed away when he whispers, “Yes.”
My exhale isn’t meant to be shaky, but it is. Beyond shaky. Entirely stuttered because… he loves me. I’m loved. By Soren Sauder. The declaration is a single word to a loaded question, but it’s tremendous all the same. I’m brimming with something new. There is so much pressure inside me that I don’t know how to contain it all. My chest is full, my head is pounding, there’s way too much air in my lungs, and my throat is backed up with emotion. There is water in my eyes!
“Do you?” he asks so quietly I barely hear him. “Love me?”
I exhale everything. The new feeling, all the pressure, the water in my eyes, and the word. “Yes.” I fucking love him.
And I don’t know how to handle it.