Cards of Love: The Devil (Devil's Playground #1)(43)

He flinches and a choked sound rips from his throat as he turns. “Don’t.”

He’s hurt, that much is evident. What I don’t understand is his getup. “Why are you wearing a masquerade mask?”

From the looks of it, it’s the same one I gave him two weeks ago at the dance.

When he doesn’t answer, I pull it off.

My stomach turns to lead when I see his swollen black eye and split lip.

My anger is a visceral thing. Starting low in my gut and spreading outward. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

I don’t say shit like that lightly. I’m going to torture the living shit out of his father just like he’s done to Cain all these years.

I go to climb out the window because it’s the quickest exit, but Cain seizes my arm. “No.”

“Yes.” It’s no longer a matter of if. It’s only a matter of how fast I can get there.

He starts to open his mouth…and then—to my absolute fucking horror his eyes become glassy and he starts shaking.

“I got waitlisted.” He looks at me like a child who just watched Santa kill the puppy they wished for. “They waitlisted me.” He points to his chest. “Me.”

Christ. I don’t do well with shit like this. At all. Or maybe I do, but I wouldn’t know because I don’t have experience when it comes to comforting others. Fact of the matter is—I just don’t care about people enough to give a shit.

But Cain’s different. Because I do care. More than care…he’s…I’m not sure. My neurosis? My fixation? My obsession? Perhaps all three.

All I know is he’s where ninety-nine percent of my thoughts drift to as of late.

“I’m sorry, man.” It’s not a lie. I know getting into Harvard was important to him. “But being waitlisted isn’t the end of the world, right? It’s not like they turned you down.”

“Being waitlisted is the end of the world. Do you know how many applicants they get a semester? Tons. It’s their way of jerking me off so hard it burns but never letting me come.”

“Interesting analogy—”

“This isn’t a fucking joke, cocksucker.” He starts pacing. “This is my goddamn life.”

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. I’m not sure there is anything else to say. “This sucks.”

Nodding, he turns to face the window again. “I might as well blow my brains out and end it now.”

My reaction is automatic. I grip his shoulder, much harder than before. “Don’t say shit—”

“Fuck.” He clutches the windowsill, his body wracking with tremors. “Don’t touch me.”

Harvard is the least of my worries. Ignoring his request, I reach for the hem of his sweatshirt.

It gets stuck halfway up his back and I realize it’s because of all the caked-up blood sticking to the material.

If I thought my reaction was visceral before it has nothing on the storm that starts brewing inside me when I see the belt marks.

Judging from the abrasions, the motherfucker didn’t use the loop. Just the buckle.

Running to the bathroom, I grab a few cool washcloths. Then slowly, I peel the rest of his sweatshirt off. Every inch I uncover is like my own punch to the face.

“First beating I ever felt like I deserved,” Cain says, his voice cracking. “What am I gonna do, Damien?”

Before I can answer, he grips my shirt, his tears soaking the fabric. And that’s how we stay for the better part of five minutes. Until he places my hand on his semi-hard dick. “I need you—”

The words are out of my mouth before he can finish his sentence. “Get on the bed. Face down.”

I suck at comforting people…but this? Taking control over someone who feels out of it and blurring the lines between pain and pleasure? That is something I can do.

“He was so pissed,” Cain says as I position myself behind him and proceed to take off his pants and boxers. “The angriest I’ve ever seen him in my life.” He closes his eyes. “And then my brother…he just laughed and called me a loser.” He scrunches his face. “He’s not wrong. What kind of man lets their father beat them while their brother stands there and laughs?”

I press my lips to a wound on his tailbone. “A man who thinks he deserves it because he’s been conditioned to think he does and doesn’t know any better yet.”

He shifts his cheek on the pillow a little to look at me. “Are you in love with me?”

That’s a weird fucking question. “I’m not sure.” Grabbing the washcloth I placed on the nightstand, I dab it over a wound that’s still bleeding. “To be honest, I’m not sure I know how to love. I don’t think I’m capable of it.”

He nods. “That makes both of us.” He sighs. “Promise you’ll fuck Mrs. Miller for me one last time before I’m gone.”

“You’re not going anywhere, asshole.”

“There’s no point living if I can’t do it the way I was supposed to.”

It’s not so much his words, it’s the intent in his expression. Like he truly believes there’s no way out other than death.

Throwing the washcloth down, I brace my arms on either side of him and lean down so I’m next to his face. “You think there’s only one roadmap to your life? One way to get where you want to go?”