"Was it?"
My skin prickles. Heat and tension settle in places I can't shake. I sigh, confessing, "Lucas is a lot like my father. He thinks it's his job to protect us."
"And that bothers you?"
I shake my head. "Not always, but sometimes it's annoying. I'm Lucas's favorite, so most of the time it's awesome being his sister. But my entire family never stops reminding me I'm the youngest. They think it's their duty to tell me what to do and shelter me from everything and everyone."
Red's voice drops an octave. "Protection bothers you?"
I lift my chin, lock my gaze into his, and declare, "I'm not a baby, Dr. Mercer. I'm a grown woman capable of making my own choices." I let my gaze drop down his body, before slowly peeling it back to his eyes.
His jaw ticks. He states, "Yes. You are. Was Lucas around when you became obsessed with Brax?"
Anger and hurt fill me. "No. He moved to New York for his girlfriend."
"You don't like her?"
"They broke up."
"So he's back in Chicago?"
I shake my head. "No. He stayed out there."
"Ah. I see," Red mutters, and writes more on his pad.
"What does that mean?" I snap, suddenly itching to stab pins in my fingers. Instead, I dig my nails into my hand.
He catches me and points. "What's going on there?"
"Where?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Blue. You're leaving indents on your hand."
I glance down and slide my palm over my other hand. "I'm not."
"No lying to me," he commands firmly.
Warmth pools in my core, sparking to life and reminding me that Red's meant to be mine. I admit quietly, "Sometimes the pins help."
Red leans forward slightly. "Tell me about that."
I hesitate, then force myself to speak. "It's not about wanting to die, or even bleed. It's about… You won't understand." I look away, and my lip trembles.
He gently claims, "Try me."
I slowly meet his gaze. My insides shake harder, but I blurt out, "If I can decide where it hurts, everything else goes quiet." My cheeks flare with heat.
He says, "That's important. You're not seeking destruction. You're seeking regulation."
I tilt my head. "So I'm not broken?"
He firmly answers, "No. You're coping with tools. But it's the wrong tools and not sustainable."
My breath turns shaky.
He continues, "You mentioned earlier that not doing it made you feel like you were going crazy?"
I nod. "Yeah."
