I gently tugged the hem of his shirt higher so I could check every mark across his back. The skin was angry and swollen, but clean.
“You’re going to be okay,” I promised, tracing around one of the swollen edges, careful not to touch the wound itself. “It looks clean. Sister Dahlia did a good job.”
He sniffed softly. “It burns.”
“I know.” My voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”
He turned his face toward me again, eyes red-rimmed. “I think my heart hurts more though.”
“Has he done this before?” I asked.
“No,” he whispered. “Never. It makes me so confused. And—and Silas didn’t even t-touch himself. He only thought about it. I don’t understand…”
Malachi was devolving, getting careless. Whether or not he’d been behind the disappearance of a few of his followers, he’d at least kept his more egregious crimes under wraps. To go as far as brutally harm his own son in front of everyone—a son who he touted as his cult’s savior—was reckless and more than alarming.
I lifted one of his hands, pressing my lips to his shaking knuckles. “Neither of you deserved that cruelty.”
His mouth trembled. “Jace?” he whispered.
“Yeah, baby?”
His next breath shuddered so violently my entire chest ached watching it. “Can you… stay?” He blinked up at me, tears gathering again. “Just for tonight? I-I don’t want to fall asleep alone. I don’t want to wake up and think you weren’t really here.”
God.
“You’d have to fight me for me to even consider leaving,” I said immediately. “And I think we both know who would win.”
A soft giggle left him, making me melt. I pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, then stood up just long enough to toe off my shoes and shrug out of my shirt, tossing it to the floor.
I eased myself onto the bed beside him, careful to not brush against his wounds.
The second I lay down, he blushed and pressed into my side. I lifted my arm to make room for him, my fingers skimming his shoulder.
His breath hitched. “Father would be so mad if he saw this,” he confessed, a nervous edge to his voice.
I gently pushed him closer to my chest and said, “Don’t think about him. There’s nothing wrong with what we’re doing, I promise.”
“But—but what if he comes in?”
“Then I’ll handle him. He won’t lay another finger on you.”
Elior let out a soft, broken sigh and melted against me.
I held him, listening to the slow shift of his breath, the small tremors fading bit by bit. After a few minutes, his hand lifted and cautiously lay on my chest.
My brows rose in curiosity as he whispered, “Is it okay to touch you?”
“Baby, it’ll never not be okay.”
His face flushed and he ducked his head, but kept his hand splayed over my heart.
“You’re so warm,” he murmured.
“Yeah?”
“And I—I can feel your heart beat.”
I watched him adoringly as he looked at his hand in awe as it rose and fell in time with my chest.
