I glanced at him in surprise. “To the bed. I broke the rules. You’re going to punish me.” The words came out slowly and it felt like someone else was speaking them. There was still an echoing numbness ringing through my head. He could do anything he wanted to me. I didn’t care anymore.
I deserved to be punished.
“I’m not going to punish you, Lilith,” he said, his voice cracking. “And it’s not your fault Mike was unmade. It’s not your fault anyone died.”
I frowned at him, watching in confusion as he pulled my hands to his mouth, kissing my knuckles softly. His hazel eyes were swimming with emotion.
“Stop blaming yourself for things you didn’t do. Stop blaming yourself for things outside of your control.”
“If they hadn’t tried to care for me, they would still be alive,” I whispered. I wasn’t just talking about Mike anymore. It was everyone I had ever known. So many deaths. All because of me. If I hadn’t existed, they all would still be alive. The guilt of it all had finally reached a breaking point, and I was drowning in it.
Ramel let out a frustrated growl, snatching up my chin.
“They died becauseI killed them,Lilith.Place the blame where it belongs. Blameme.” He sounded like he was begging me, and I couldn’t reconcile this version of Ramel with the monster I had always known.
“If you want to punish someone, punish me,” he demanded softly. I watched as he shifted out of his Reaper form. He tore open his black shirt. The buttons bounced off the floor around us. Grabbing my hand, he pressed the hilt of the knife back into my palm, guiding it up to rest against his tattooed chest.
He maintained eye contact the whole time, and I felt a surge of panic as he used my hand to increase the pressure of the blade on his skin.
“If you want to hate someone,hate me.” The intensity of his gaze was making it impossible for me to look away. “Who was the first person I killed, Lilith?” His voice was so soft it brushed against my ears like the soft down of angel feathers.
“My mother,” I answered, my voice just as quiet.
He nodded and increased the pressure on my hand, cutting a deep line down his right pec. I watched as a thick line of blood spilled out from the wound we had carved into his chest together. “That’s right.Ikilled her,” He affirmed.
He reached out with the hand that wasn’t forcing me to press the blade against him, and he wiped a tear away with his thumb.
“Who did I kill next?”
“My father. You killed my father next,” I whispered, and he nodded, moving my hand up to carve another slice above the mark that symbolized the death of my mother. I watched the wound bleed, but he just watched me.
“Who was next, Lilith?”
We carried on like this until his chest was covered in as many cuts as my thighs. He even left cuts for the foster parents who didn’t deserve them, just to ensure the point was driven home.
It wasn’t my fault he had killed them. I wasn’t to blame.
When we were done, he tossed the knife away. He knelt in a pool of our combined blood and pulled me into him, kissing the side of my head and rocking me softly back and forth.
“I’m sorry, Lilith. I’m so, so sorry,” he whispered, and I shook in his arms. I had no more tears to give him, but my body quivered beneath the weight of my grief.
He hooked an arm under the bend of my knees and cradled me against his bleeding chest. Standing effortlessly, he took me to the bathroom, setting me down carefully on the outcropping in the frameless shower.
“Arms up, deathtrap,” he ordered, and I obeyed. He tugged my sweater up and over my head, then tossed it to the side. I shivered in my bra and thong as he turned on the shower, making sure the water was warm before turning any of the nozzles to face me. Using a handheld faucet, he gently wet a washcloth and got to his knees before me, not seeming to care that his black slacks were getting soaked.
So carefully that I barely felt it, he began to clean the wounds I had carved into myself. The warm water blended with the blood, turning it pink as he gently washed it from my skin. He was staring at the fresh cuts like the sight of them made him feel ill. He didn’t bother cleaning his own wounds.
He left the forty-three cuts we had made across his chest open and bleeding, crimson rivulets streaming over the black ink tattooed into his skin. A part of me was happy to see him bleed for his sins. The other part of me hated it.
We sat in silence for several minutes. Ramel was so focused on his task I could feel his gaze burning a trail across my lacerated thighs.
Once the wounds were clean, he manifested a first-aid kit and went to work applying an antiseptic. He then wrapped each of my thighs in soft white bandages, his fingers featherlight against my skin.
“I would get a healer in here, but you used the Aetherium blade. We have no choice but to let these heal naturally,” he said, his voice solemn. He didn’t seem angry, he seemed… devastated. He tore his eyes away from my bandaged thighs and met my gaze, that strange muscle in his jaw flexing in agitation.
“You could have really hurt yourself, Lilith. That blade is powerful enough to carve up immortals.” He gestured to his still-bleeding chest. “You’re still human. I’m glad I got here when I did. You could have bled out.” His expression was tight with worry and concern. Suddenly, I understood why I had bled so much more than usual. It was the magic of the blade.
“I will never understand why you feel the need to cut yourself, Lilith,” he said softly. He reached up to tuck my now wet hair behind my ear. Sliding his hand lightly down my shoulder, he traced down my arm and wrapped his hand around my wrist. He took my hand and pressed my palm flat against his bleeding chest. I could feel the edges of his wounds beneath my fingers, but he didn’t so much as wince at the contact.
