Page 136 of Bleed with Me

Hiding the phone in my pants pocket, I walked through the hall to the other side, where the balcony entrance was. Through another exit, the nurse led Aryna away while she pouted and constantly glanced over her shoulder at Dorian. But he was too caught up in his mind to notice her sad looks. His hands gripped the metal railing tightly, his eyes set on something in the distance, while his posture suggested he was seconds from breaking down.

I walked to him and hugged him from behind. My arms encircled his middle, my cheek resting between his shoulder blades. He tensed for a moment, then relaxed and exhaled deeply. We stood like that for several minutes, until his erratic breathing evened out and his racing heart calmed.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, turning around. Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss on my temple.

“For what?” I asked, observing his worn-out expression.

“For being here.” He rested his forehead against mine. “You didn’t sign up for any of this.”

My hands cupped his face, and I stood on my tiptoes, connecting our lips in a chaste kiss.

“As your wife, I signed up for everything that includes you,” I muttered against his mouth. “For good and for bad, or whatever they say.”

A small chuckle escaped him.

“You don’t remember it, either?” He pulled away slightly, a tiny spark of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I’m pretty sure Lucas skipped it,” I blurted out, and instantly sealed my mouth shut, my eyebrows shooting up.

“Lucas?” Dorian raised a surprised brow. “He’s the accomplice? I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Why?” I beeped, mentally kicking my stupid ass for revealing such important information. But Dorian didn’t look angry at all. If anything, he was impressed.

“Because he is everything but a troublemaker,” he answered matter-of-factly. “If you said Matteo, I would believe it, but Lucas? Clean record, no transgressions, no problems with the law, graduated from Columbia University, and his biggest sin in the eyes of his family is that he’s gay. Do you really need to ask why?”

“His siblings never had anything against his sexuality,” I said, switching into protective mode. “Especially Matteo.”

“Yeah, but his father?” Dorian cast me a pointed look that expressed more than a thousand words.

“He was an asshole.” I rested my hands on Dorian’s biceps, noticing for the first time in three days that he had forgotten about Malin’s condition.

“You have no idea,” he confirmed, taking my palm and leading me to the wooden bench. “With a father like him, you start planning murder at sixteen.”

My brows furrowed. Lucas’s dad died under suspicious circumstances when Lucas was sixteen.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, but Dorian only shook his head.

“Nothing. It just reminded me that kids are capable of terrible things, too.”

I blinked in confusion and placed my hand on Dorian’s forearm.

“Baby, you’re not making any sense,” I said gently, searching his eyes that welled with tears. My heart clenched. It was about Malin again. I knew without needing confirmation.

“You know,” he exhaled, his gaze dropping to his intertwined fingers in his lap. “Malin has saved my life more times than I can count.” My chest squeezed. “But the first time was truly unforgettable.” He looked at me with a small smile that lifted one corner of his mouth. “And it left a lasting scar on my poor soul.”

“Okay.” I crossed my legs and rested my elbow on my knee, propping my chin up. “Tell me everything.”

“You’ll be horrified,” he warned, but he wouldn’t start if he didn’t want to share.

“Me?” I pointed my index finger at my chest, feigning offense. “Your whole family doesn’t horrify me. A teenage Malin isn’t any different.”

“He was eight,” Dorian corrected.

“Even better.” I smiled encouragingly. “Speak.”

Dorian smiled back. In the last ninety–six hours, it was his first genuine display of joy. Well, maybe not joy, but it was honest. His face lit up, and even his stubble couldn't hide the dimples in his cheeks. I’d die in that very second just to keep that expression on his face.

“We were first kidnapped when we were eight years old,” he started, interrupting my admiration. “And it was also the first time our little game backfired.” He looked at me and shrugged. “Zyon, Malin, and I, we love to make fun of people who don’t know how to distinguish us. But that day, it ended in disaster.”