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But his face pales, and he sinks back down, a hand pressed to his side.
Holy fucking shit. I jump to my feet. “Jase! What’s wrong?”
I’m by his side and peeling off his tank top before he has a chance to speak. His whole side is black and blue. That’s the imprint of a goddamn boot on his pale skin.
He tries to shove me away, his expression blank. “I’m okay.”
“The hell you are. Who did this? Who…?” That look in his eyes. “Simon Gomez.”
“Let go, Raine.” He fights me as I try to check what other injuries he’s hiding—and I find a seeping cut on his hip. “Stop.”
“Need to clean this out.” I stand up, not sure if he’ll bolt the moment I duck into the bathroom to grab the first aid kit. “Come.”
He resists at first, then sighs and leans on me to get up. How didn’t I realize he was so hurt before? I was right, he’s too damn proud to ask for help. He’s unsteady on his feet, and I hope it’s just the food and warmth doing a number on him, and not that he’s badly injured.
I prop him against the bathroom wall, fish out the kit, and then lead him back to the bedroom where I pull off his tank top and finally get a good look at him in bright light.
At his ink, his bruises, and fuck, his scars.
I try not to stare, but as I trace the new hurts—more boot imprint and bruises, another wound on the thigh where someone clearly cut through his pants and flesh with a sharp blade—I catalogue everything and my skin crawls.
These aren’t self-harm scars, like I thought they might be. They’re high on his forearms, and on his chest and back. Clustered together, parallel as if a beast raked its claws over him.
He isn’t the one who put them there, no way. They were carefully done. Deep. Intentional. White and old.
I swab disinfectant over the cuts, and he doesn’t even hiss or flinch. But when I sit down beside him and clean up the cut in his brow, he shivers.
I turn his face toward me. “Talk to me. I’m not gonna run away from this. From you. Okay? What happened today?”
He rubs listlessly at his arm. No, the inside of his elbow, at a small bruise there. “What do you think?”
Fuck, fuck… If I find Simon Gomez, I’m gonna make him choke on his own fucking dick. “Did he inject you? With drugs?”
He nods, two spots of red on his cheekbones. His eyes are too bright. “Look, if you want me to leave, I’ll understand.”
That cuts through the red haze of fury. “What? Why would I?”
He stops rubbing at the inside of his elbow and swallows hard. “Soon he’ll crook his little finger, and I’ll jump like a circus dog. He’ll say fetch and I’ll run. That high…” His chin drops to his chest. “I’m no good.”
God, he’s out to break my fucking heart to pieces. I slip an arm around his back. “You’re an amazing person, Jason Vega. And I’m fucking in love with you.”
It’s as if someone cut off the strings holding him upright. He falls against me with a groan, and I gather him in my arms.
“What are we doing?” he whispers.
“I don’t know.” I kiss the top of his spiky head. “But I don’t wanna stop. I can’t. I need you, Jase.”
His arms are around me, his face buried against my chest. “You’re breaking me.”
“You’re not broken. Be with me.”
He lets out a huff of a breath, like laughter, or a sob. “Are you asking me to be boyfriends again?”
“You bet. Again. And again, until you say yes.” I close my eyes and rest my chin on top of his soft hair. “Say yes.”
But he doesn’t. Instead he says, “Simon Gomez won’t let me go.”
“Why? What does he want from you?”
