Page 97 of Piece Us Together
“If we make it toWinter Soldierthis weekend, Nolan will be horny as fuck.”
His smile is slow growing, but it’s genuine and bright and full of the same relief I can feel in my chest when I look at it. “That sounds delightful.”
“You can’t tell him I told you, though. Act surprised.”
“Oh my god, Bucky! But he died!” he says in a shockingly convincing voice, his eyes all wide and his mouth open in surprise.
I laugh.
God, I laugh and it feels so fuckinggood.
What is he doing to me?
“Come on.” I touch my palm to his cheek just long enough to feel how cold it is. He presses into the touch, eyelashes fluttering. It makes me feel powerful, having him react to me like that. He’s a man who has the world in his hands and can makeit behave as he sees fit, and he just melted beneath my touch. “Let’s get you inside. It’s freezing.”
He smiles. It’s indulgent, both of us aware that I’m not the one in charge here, that he’s just letting me pretend.How fucking beautiful is that?The minute we leave here, I can stop pretending. The minute we leave here, I can just be Maison. Not Carter’s brother. Not an operative. Not the anti-hero or the sympathetic villain or whatever the fuck I am. Just Maison.Hunter’sMaison.
I can’t get us out of here fast enough.
The three of us are exhausted by the time Nolan and I get to Hunter’s. There are leftovers Nolan places in the fridge, and a pie he hid from everyone since he made it just for Hunter. We eat small slices and drink hot cider. I feel drunk even though I should be mostly sober. When Hunter smiles at us and asks if we’re ready for bed, I ask, “Will you stay with us again?”
He sighs, all relief and soft happiness. “Yes. Please.”
Things are quiet after that, the three of us moving around each other in a variation of our usual routine. We end up in bed, me on the left of Nolan, Hunter on his right, without having to discuss or coordinate. We frame him between us, a pile of blankets draped over our bodies to warm us from the chill inthe air. Hunter whispers, “Goodnight, my boys,” and I don’t correct him, I just smile like an idiot. Nolan mumbles goodnight, already sounding as if he’s drifting off. I add my own after.
One moment I’m in the bed, Nolan nestled against my chest, Hunter’s hand on my hip, and a smile on my lips.
The next, I’m in my childhood home.
It’s dark. Empty. There are people outside the window. Monsters disguised as humans. Carter is being raped on our old dining room table.
I try the door. I know, for some fucking reason, I know, that it won’t open. But I try anyway. I try the handle. I try to slam into the weak points to break straight through. I claw at the edges.
I stumble to the window, hands pressed against the glass. I know it won’t break in the same way I knew the door wouldn’t budge. There’s blood on my hands. It’s dripping down my wrists to my elbows. When I pull my hands away, I know there will be prints left behind.
Whose blood is that?
Whose fucking blood is on my hands?
There’s a burst of cruel laughter, my attention snapping back to the sight outside. I used to run through the sprinkler in that yard. We had cookouts. I helped Carter chase butterflies.
Nolan is wandering through the grass, blindfolded like the first time I met him with his arms cuffed behind his back. Men are tripping him, then making him get back to his feet without his hands for help. He’s covered in blood and dirt and bits of grass. He falls again. Again. Again.
A man crawls on top of him before Nolan can try to get up again, practically tearing at the button of his own pants. I slam my hands against the glass, again and again. They’re too slippery. I can’t get a purchase. It’s all I can see—blood everywhere, painted over the scene outside, tinting it with the promise of death.
I scream.
I scream as hard as I can.
I scream until blood is pouring from my mouth onto the floor.
I slip. Stand back up. Slip again. I try drying my hands on my shirt, but when I look down I realize I’m naked. There’s something—fuck, my back. My back is on fire. Why is my back—
Nolan sobs. I press up against the glass, somehow able to see him through the blood.
There’s a hand fisted in his hair, pulling his head back so he’s facing me. He screams my name.
The man raping him looks up. Looks right at me. His green eyes are bright despite the darkness. His grin is evil.