Black Thorns: Chapter 32

Being ill sucks like a bitch. An inexperienced one who seems to be blowing your patience instead of your dick.

I groan as I open my eyes, then pause when I inhale the scent of lilies. A scent that shouldn’t be in my bed.

It doesn’t take me long to find the source. A small figure is huddled against my side in a fetal position. Her hands are wrapped around a towel and her long lashes flutter on her flushed cheeks.

The blue neon numbers on the clock on the nightstand read 3:24 a.m.

She stayed.

My mind is a blur of events and emotions, but I know I said some fucked-up shit that would make anyone bolt. Especially with her habit of leaving whenever she sees fit.

I meant each of those words, and yet, I slowly turn so I’m lying on my side, facing her.

She’s on the edge of the mattress, far enough away that she’s not touching me, but her warmth still douses me.

It’s different from the fever. Hers is potent, mixed with twisted emotions and carnal need.

It doesn’t matter how much I roughen her up or how long I take her. It doesn’t matter that I’ve fucked her in more positions than I can count or that I’ve filled her every hole with my cum.

The moment I’m done, I’m always in the mood to start again. To fuck her again. Own her again. Relieve my fucked-up emotions again.

But that’s the thing. The part about relieving emotions never happens. If anything, my rage has been blackening each time she walks out of the fucking door.

Back to her life.

To her damn husband.

I reach a hand out and stroke a strand of her ink-colored hair out of her face. She looks so peaceful when she’s asleep, like a porcelain doll.

And just like a doll, she’s breakable.

Still, discovering the fact that she was never forced to have sex with Ren seven years ago brought relief I didn’t think I would ever feel.

All this time, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the sacrifices she made at the time or the way she shook when she left.

She held her head high, even though she was trembling with fear. And my last sight of her was her back as she walked out the door.

Naomi mumbles something in her sleep before her eyes flutter open. They’re unfocused at first, dark with confusion. She blinks twice and her lips part.

Probably lost for words again.

We remain like that for a moment, with my hand in her hair and her eyes locked on mine.

It feels intimate in a fucking normal kind of way.

Like we’ve been waking up to each other’s faces for the past seven years.

“You didn’t leave,” I say slowly, carefully.

“You’re sick.” She reaches a hand out, then pauses. “I’m just going to check your temperature.”

She puts her palm against my forehead and my breathing deepens at the contact. She quickly retrieves it. “I think your fever’s gone.”

Her voice is light—joyous, even. And I don’t know why I want to catch it and trap it somewhere.

Naomi slowly sits up on her haunches by my side, making me release her. “You need to eat something and take another dose of your medicine.” She grabs a container of food off the nightstand. “The oatmeal I made earlier is still warm.”

After opening the container, she picks up a spoon and a bottle of pills. “Here.”

I don’t take them but sit up against the headboard, watching her swift, precise movements. She’s one of those people who does everything fast, as if she’s in a race against time. I haven’t noticed that about her before.

“You said a second dose. I don’t remember taking the first one.”

Her ears heat. “I helped you.”

“Helped me how?”

“I poured the contents of the capsule on a spoon of oatmeal and…”

“And what?”

“And just helped you swallow it.”

“By sticking your tongue at the back of my throat?”

“I didn’t need to go that far…and I wasn’t trying to kiss you. I just had to make you eat and swallow your medicine.”

“I don’t believe you.” I’m taunting her, but I can’t help it. She’s flustered, her unsteady fingers opening and closing the container over and over. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it.

“I don’t know how to make you believe it.”

“Do it again.”

Her wide eyes meet mine. “W-what?”

“Repeat what you did and I’ll be the judge.”

“That’s just ridiculous.”

“We won’t know unless you go with it.”

She remains still for a long moment, then releases a defeated sigh. Naomi opens the capsule into the container, mixes the medicine with the food, then takes a spoonful.

Her eyes meet mine as she places the oatmeal on her tongue, slightly sticking it out, then leans in and grabs my chin with her thumb and forefinger.

My lips part as my dick jumps to life.

She slowly thrusts her tongue inside my mouth, surprisingly not spilling much of the oatmeal, and carefully rubs it against my tongue.

In the midst of food, I taste her and her tentative strokes. She sweeps it to the back of my tongue and her lips brush against mine. I swallow the oatmeal and she stills before she attempts to pull back.

I grab her by the back of her neck and feast on her tongue, sucking on it open-mouthed before I lick her lips and hit the roof of her mouth. I kiss her savagely and out of control so that the only sounds she releases are strangled, surprised moans.

I kiss her like I’ve never kissed before. Like this kiss will be the last I have. My nails sink into the back of her neck and I slam the front of her body against mine.

Naomi squeals, her hand gripping my bicep for balance, but she opens up to me. Her tongue meets mine stroke for each damn stroke as we both tumble into madness.

I pull back, reluctantly releasing her.

Naomi’s panting harshly, her cheeks painted red. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Kiss me.”

“I was only getting the oatmeal.” I lick my lips and her eyes follow the movement before she shakes her head and shoves the container in my lap and the spoon in my fingers.

“You can do the rest yourself.” She stands and her dress rides up her pale thighs.

I tighten my hold on the container to keep from grabbing her and repeating what we just did.

Or maybe taking it a step further.

“Leaving?” I sound unaffected when I’m barely holding on to my calm.

She grabs the duvet and covers my legs with it. “Stop kicking me out. I’ll leave in the morning.”

“Won’t your husband ask about you?”

“I already called him.”

“What’s your excuse this time? All-nighter at the office again?”

She lifts her chin. “I’m staying with a friend.”

“We’re friends now?”

“We…were.”

“Really?”

“We used to tell each other things we didn’t tell the rest of the world. That’s what friends do.”

“Then why don’t you tell me things now?”

I expect her to brush me off, but she sits on the bed, on the far edge so she’s out of my reach. “What do you want to know? Aside from everything that happened seven years ago, because I won’t talk about that.”

“So I’m free to ask anything aside from what I want to know the most? When did you become so cruel?”

“Since you,” she whispers.

I let out a mocking sound. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“Are you going to be throwing jabs all night or is there anything you want to know?”

“Why did you marry him?”

“It was an arranged marriage between our families.”

I don’t know why that makes me breathe a little easier. She didn’t choose him. It was an arranged marriage.

“Akira is an influential man and my father wanted him as an ally.”

“Your father?”

“I found him.” She smiles, but her shoulders hunch and her eyes shine with haunting sadness. “Or more like, he found me.”

“Is he everything you imagined?”

“Worse.” She takes the spoon from my hand and I think she just needs something to touch, but she fills it with oatmeal and places it in front of my mouth.

I can eat on my own, but I open up and let her feed me. This is the most domesticated I’ve seen her and it touches a part of me I didn’t know existed.

“I wish I’d believed Mom when she said I should stay away. I wish I’d appreciated her more when she was alive. She died feeling uneasy that I was with Dad.”

“May she rest in peace.” A gloomy aura falls over us. The thought of the stern but kind Riko being dead leaves a heavy weight at the base of my chest.

She was always happy whenever I spent time with Naomi or went to pick her up. Once, she told me she was thrilled her daughter was finally having a great relationship.

Naomi shoves another spoonful at my mouth and twists her lips as moisture shines along her lids.

“Do you like working in her fashion house?”

“Not really. I’m just keeping it as a legacy.”

“Do you still sketch?”

Her eyes shine and she smiles. “Whenever I have time. I’ll show you…if you want.”

“Sure.”

Naomi takes the container and the spoon and places them on the nightstand. Then she rolls to her side, reaches for her bag, and retrieves a small pad.

After she hugs it to her chest for a second, she passes it to me.

I study her sketches—people, faces, some shadows. Cocking my head, I study the patterns and how they all seem like a variation of one person. It’s a lot more mature than back in high school, not that she was ever immature. Just a bit innocent, and now all of that innocence is completely gone.

“Laugh at them and I will kill you,” she says defensively.

I chuckle, “Tsundere.”

Her eyes widen and I pause. Fuck. I meant to never use that nickname again.

“Your technique has gotten so much better. And you’re still doing what you love, even if not professionally.”

“I changed my mind. I don’t want to pursue this as a profession, because it would probably kill my creativity. I’d rather keep it as a hobby.”

“I see.”

She removes the pad from my hands, slowly stroking its edges. “What about you? Are you doing what you love?”

“Yeah. The adrenaline rush I get from smashing someone in court chases away the urges. Even if only temporarily.”

“I never imagined you as a lawyer, though I should’ve suspected it, considering your perceptive nature and warped sense of justice. And, hey, you don’t make minimum wage like a detective. Wow, you’re living the dream.”

She remembers. We once talked about how I had people-reading skills and she suggested I become a detective to put that gift to use, but I vehemently refused to put so much effort for little pay. What she doesn’t know is that I did look into cultivating and growing my skills, which is why I chose to practice law.

The fact that she remembers our conversations from back then fills me with a sense of warmth I haven’t felt in a very long time.

“I see you haven’t really lost your cynical nature.”

“It comes out when someone like you provokes it.”

“Someone like me?”

“A soldier of dark justice.”

“You call it dark justice, I call it my own version of it. Nothing is black and white and everything can be turned gray.”

“Why am I not surprised that’s your motto?”

“People don’t really change.”

“You have.” She stares at her sketchpad.

“I have?”

“Yeah.”

“How so?”

“Your apartment. for one. It’s so empty.”

“I don’t need things.” Because I don’t want to be attached to anything, but I don’t tell her that.

“You’re colder and untouchable, too. You’re as far as the night sky and just as…scary sometimes.”

“Who made me that way?” It could be because I’m sick and can’t filter my words or that I’m just too fucking tired of the back and forth, but I don’t regret the words when they come out.

If it’s madness, I might as well indulge.

Naomi’s grip tightens on the pad and she visibly winces. Good. At least she recognizes what her actions have done. I hope she burns inside hotter and darker than I fucking do.

“Sebastian…”

“What, Naomi? What do you have to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Fuck that. I’ve known darkness since I was six years old and I learned early on not to fight it and, eventually, I learned to blend with it. Being black was fine, even if it felt empty. Then you came along, and I wanted fucking gray. Now, I’m just colorless, so don’t sit there and tell me you have nothing to fucking say.”

Her lips tremble. “I’m sorry.”

“Your apologies don’t give me back the years I’ve lost, so fucking save them.”

“I lost those years, too.”

“Doesn’t look like it.” I motion at her bare ring finger. “Did you think hiding it would make me think of your marriage any less?”

She goes rigid, her hand tightening on her sketchpad and discomfort turning her skin sickly pale. I should stop, should shoo her away and reunite with the bitter asshole I became seven years ago and start a self-pity party, but I don’t.

I can’t.

I’ve already ripped the stitches open, so I might as well bleed out properly this time.

“Do you love him?”

She swallows again, runs her fingers on the pad again, avoids eye contact fucking again. “It’s…complicated.”

“There’s nothing complicated about a fucking yes or no question.”

“I need him,” she murmurs.

“So that’s a yes.”

“No! Sebastian, please don’t go there. Take that as if I’m begging you. Please.”

I want to go there. I want her to say the words that will put me out of my fucking misery. Whether they kill me or free me, I’ll at least have some sort of closure. That’s all I needed all this time. That’s what I searched for during all the fights in the bars—a fucking finale.

But maybe I don’t want closure.

Maybe being colorless isn’t so bad, after all.

Or, most probably, this cold is messing up my thinking process.

I lie on my back and she releases a long breath, sniffling.

I close my eyes and soon after, she lies in the nook of my body, her arm wrapping around my shoulder.

It’s tentative, her touch, as if she’s scared of my reaction. And she should be. Why the hell does she keep trying to touch me this intimately even after she broke us to fucking pieces?

I stiffen, but I don’t attempt to peel her off me.

Naomi must’ve taken it differently because she burrows her face in my chest, her breathing shattering against my skyrocketing heartbeat.

“Don’t touch me,” I say without opening my eyes.

“Please let me. Just this once.”

“I said don’t touch me, Naomi. When you do, I picture these fucking hands on him and your face buried in his chest. When you do, I imagine your scent clinging to him and his on you, so don’t fucking touch me with the same hands you touch him with.”

She shakes her head in my chest and I feel the wetness of her tears on my T-shirt as her tiny gasps fill the air. “Just a moment…”

“One condition.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t go back to him.”

“W-what?”

“In the morning, stay here. Don’t fucking go back to him.”

Her leg hooks over mine and she snuggles closer so her whole body is looped around mine.

I turn around and hug her.

For the first time in seven years, I sleep without nightmares of Naomi turning her back on me.