Like hurting himself is as good as hurting me. Maybe even better.
The gravity tethering me to him tugs me into the room without permission. My bare feet cross the floor in silence as I drink him in.
His arms sweep through fluid arcs, every motion a study in violence disguised as grace. On his upper back, an intricateblack tattoo unfolds—reptilian wings that stretch across his shoulders and down the curve of his triceps.
At the center: a hybrid crest that’s part scorpion, partTheta.
From this angle, the arms of the symbol almost resemble the curling horns of a ram…flexing with every breath he takes.
Deeper, redder than the black ink of purposeful marks on his body, are slashes and raised skin. Ones from the scars of lashings.
At Crest…
As if sensing the shift in the air, he pivots and catches me staring. His flushed face tightens. Hands land on his hips, his chest still heaving from exertion. But it’s not pride in his form that stiffens his spine. It’s something quieter. Something dangerously close to shame. Like I witnessed a secret he wasn’t ready to share.
The moment hangs between us, too raw for words. Until I move in closer. When I wrap my arms around him, fingers tracing the reminders of our worst times together, he flinches.
“I still have mine, too.”
His jaw flexes. Muscle working in the back of it as he bites off words he wants to say. Or not. “I saw.”
It’s a subtle movement, almost unnoticeable, but his hands at his sides raise. Like he’s going to pull me in. Then, he jerks his shoulders and steps away, reaching for a shirt nearby.
“Viper’s ride tonight. You’re coming. I’m not leaving you here alone to hex my shit, or whatever it is you’re plotting.”
And just like that, the wall between us slams back into place.
“I’ve never been on a sportbike. Been on a cruiser a few times, but…that takes a lot of trust,lord.”
With a dismissive wave of his hand, he heads for the bathroom.
“You’ll learn,” he mutters. “Get your studies done this afternoon. Algebra problems. That paper on eighteenth-century decoupage or whatever it was from your Interior Design class. And the completed project, too.” He points to the desk, fingers snapping once. “All of it. Before we go out tonight.”
“Sure thing…” I grit my teeth and seethe. As he rounds the corner toward his shower, I whisper, tongue laced with venom, “Daddy.”
Aiden moves around me the rest of the day like a nerdy hall monitor, checking in every so often. Even weirder? The bits of praise he drops whenever I get something right.
“You’re so smart. So good,” he murmurs after reviewing my answers like he’s impressed. Like he’s proud.
“I’m bored. And hungry. And I want to quit.” I shove back from the desk, arms crossed in defiance. His last compliment is still ringing in my ears, and it makes my skin tingle.
His dick’s a half-chub in his gray sweatpants as he stands next to me,inspectingmy work. Or maybe it’s always riding like that because he’s so big.
I think he’ll tell me to keep going. That I need tofocusmore. Sit here until everything is done. All I want to do is go swimming downstairs in their indoor pool or lounge in the sauna while eating a meatball sandwich that the chef makes so good here.
Instead, he slowly nods. “Okay. Let’s eat.”
The manor is a hotel of luxury. Butlers and chefs. Housekeepers. And a fridge and oversized pantryalwaysstocked with delicious food. With only one minor eyebrow raise, Aiden keeps his mouth shut as I grab chicken tenders, fries, and a salad… Becauseit’s healthy. He, of course, sticks to his boring, plain bodybuilder foods. But I notice he sneaks two snack cakes into his pocket.
Then sets one on my plate with a resistant smirk.
After lunch, he lets me hang out in the velvet-curtained cinema room with some of the other boys. I’m not allowed to talk to them, but I can sit nearby on the giant U-shaped sofa in front of the screen and laugh at their constant ribbing. They eye me with amused glances but never say a word, like they’ve all been threatened not to speak to me.
By the time evening rolls around, Aiden’s dressed me for a ride—tight leather pants I had for going out to clubs in, and a matching shorter jacket that I’ve only worn once. He tops my head with a helmet, securing the band under my chin. Without a word, he pats the back seat of his motorcycle with a gloved hand.
I remember all the times he busted down the door to the solitary closet to get me. The moment he punched three counselors to break me out. Hand in his, rushing through the woods near Crest to get away. Even threatening the cops when they finally caught up, throwing himself in front of me like a shield. So no one could ever hurt me again.
Not if he could help it.