Unbroken

Fourteen

Leo

Every time Skye wore a dress, he wanted to cut open his chest and tear his thumping heart out. He wanted to drop to his knees, bow his head in worship and offer that bleeding muscle to her.

The things you do to me,he thought, his body aching to touch her.The things I want to do to you…

Those days in those cursed dresses were the hardest.

She was so oblivious of her beauty. Of her sweetness. Of how wholly she possessed these two boys who literally would do anything for her.

But there was a crack in her smile lately.

The brightness in her eyes was absent.

Skye seemed…half of her brilliant self.

Leo thought of her shattered light every night he went to bed, his aching heart pounding a melody for her that only she could hear—

But Skye wasn’t listening anymore.

Something pivotal had changed, and she was withdrawing; pulling away like she wanted to put out her own light.

Leo felt powerless to stop it.

He’d told her she was unbroken, but what if he was wrong?

“Help her,” he begged Hunter. “Because I don’t know how.”

Hunter, equally tormented, whispered, “Asking me to fix it is like asking a monster to make light in the darkness.”

“Try then.”

“You’re the fixer, Leo, not me.”

But with Skye—

He let out a shuddering breath. “How can I fix her if I’m part of the reason why she’s broken?”

*

He thought he’d gotten used to this.

He thought he had it under control.

He didn’t.

He wondered if they noticed the sheen of sweat on his skin. If they could see past his false bravado and to the little boy he felt walking these damp, cold corridors.

He treaded through the Dungeon, hiding his apprehension. He wondered what was in store for him today. What horrors he might witness here as he trailed behind his father’s large form, speaking to the Merchant in that business tone of his that Leo had come to detest.

Now that his mother was no longer in the picture, George was cold. It wasn’t a man grieving sort of coldness, either. It was like George had discarded a visage he had put on. Leo had never known until then how much influence his mother had on his father’s character. How in-line she had kept him.

Without her, his father was a fucking heathen.

The drinking, the women, the constant travels to places like the Dungeon for business deals and transactions. He had Leo by his side every damn time like a collared dog, leashed to his hip, forced to trail the Merchant and brush against unspeakable sights.

Every time Leo came here to the pits of perdition, the Merchant was always covered head to toe. He wore a black cloak that hid his tall figure, and a blank white mask to hide his features. In the dim light, Leo couldn’t even tell what colour his eyes were, or where he was looking. His voice, a deep timber, was always monotone, empty; it held as much emotion as that mask did.