“What the fuck are you talking about?” I wave my hands around. “I am the consentking. I have never, ever pushed a woman too far. I’ve always stopped when asked. And I’ve always listened to thosefuckingsafe words.”
He levels an irritated look at me. “What did Sydney first tell you? When you spoke to her that night on the phone?”
I scramble to remember, the pain in my face making it difficult. “That she was drunk,” I say.
“You fucking idiot.” Sebastian rolls his eyes so hard it’s a struggle for me not to slap the glasses off his face. “She told you she wanted space. Maybe it was for something we didn’t understand, but thatshouldn’t matter.She told you what she needed from you.”
Right. Yeah, she did.
“And what did you do after she told you that?” he pesters.
“You’re going to need to get to your point real fast, asshole, because your face is looking more and more punchable by the second.”
“You texted her. Nonstop.” Sebastian stares at me, over the rim of his glasses. “And what did you do when she didn’t answer those text messages?”
“So fucking punchable right now,” I remind him.
“You went over there. To her place of work. Uninvited, unwanted, and unasked.” His eyes narrow at me. “Sydney put up a boundary and told you not to cross it. And you crossed it. Over and over again.”
I blink. Or, I try to. I wink, I guess, my right eye too swollen to cooperate.
“Boundaries don’t just exist in the bedroom, Ash,” Sebastian tells me. He sounds a little sad when he says it. “She told you to stop. And you didn’t listen.”
The breath comes out of me so fast it hurts. It feels like I got punched in the chest. “No. That’s… That’s not…” I think I might pass out. “That’s not true. I wouldn’t, I didn’t…”
Oh God.
I did.
The room tilts to the side, and Sebastian swears, reaching out to grab my shoulder. “You’re hyperventilating. Put your feet on the ground, head between your knees.”
I barely pay attention as he hauls me into position. There’s a sharp ringing in my ears.
“Take a deep breath,” Sebastian instructs me. His voice is almost soothing. He puts a hand on my back, rubbing a slow line up and down my spine.
I ignore him. “Holy shit,” I mutter, staring down at the space between my feet. “I’m an asshole.”
“Yeah,” Sebastian agrees. But his touch is light and calming. “You really are.”
I listen to him this time and take a deep breath. Then another. Slowly, the ringing in my ears starts to fade. My vision returns, and I watch a drop of crimson blood fall from my face and splatter on the floor, splashing my shoes.
“There you go. Sit back up. I need to stitch your face.”
This time, I don’t complain. I don’t call him names or imagine punching him. I sit up and hold still while my little brother does what he does best. Patching me back up after I break.
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask him.
Sebastian’s hands are steady as he breaks open a foil packet and pulls a needle attached to a long black suture out.
“Listen to her,” he says. “Give her time to process. If she comes back, don’t you want it to be on her terms? Not because you had to convince her?”
“Yeah.” I swallow. “You’re right.”
He doesn’t use a local anesthetic. We never have, not after my fights. When we first started out, just the four of us trying to make a living doing underground fights here in the city, we didn’t have access to anything like that. By the time Doc had his license, it had become almost routine for us.
A punishment I let him inflict.
He doesn’t say anything until the final stitch.
