But it was no use.
Her voice rang out behind me. “Damon.”
And I closed my eyes, tightening my hands. Damon.
“Please, Nik,” he begged, his lips trembling.
Tears streamed down my face as I stood above my brother as he sat on the edge of the bed. She was gone now. She’d gotten what she wanted from him.
But her perfume was still all over him. He always went to the shower immediately after. Why wasn’t he now?
“I’m rotting.” His whisper left him like a last breath as he bowed his head and stared at the floor.
I stared at the fresh cuts on his thigh—somewhere most people wouldn’t be able to spot them. He’d done that a couple days ago. After the last time.
She was coming to his room more frequently now. He was growing so fast the past year, getting taller and bigger, his cheekbones and jaw losing their softness and becoming more like a man’s. His shoulders had gotten broader, and basketball training over the summer had filled out his muscles.
When I found out what was happening years ago when I moved in, my brother refused to tell anyone. He refused to let me tell anyone. Eventually, I’d held out hope that she’d lose interest in him as he grew into adulthood.
She didn’t. I realized she wasn’t a pedophile in the strictest sense of the word. It wasn’t about his body or his youth. It was about him, and she was just psychotic.
And jealous. He was in high school now. Lots of other girls—younger girls—to steal his attention away from her. She didn’t like that.
I stepped up to him and reached out a shaky hand, touching it on his bare shoulder. He was still naked, the black bed sheet drawn across his lap, covering himself.
Bending down, I tried to catch his eyes, pleading with him. “I would rather hurt myself. Please. Don’t make me do it again. Please.”
He dropped his head, meeting my forehead and breathing shallow, as if he were trying to hold back sobs. “Something’s gonna give,” he whispered. “Something has to. Do you want it to be me? Huh?” He grabbed my chin, holding his tightly. “Se-myah. I need you. Do it.”
Se-myah.
Family.
I didn’t speak Russian well—I hadn’t grown up with it like Damon—but I’d learned enough to understand.
I shook my head as much as it could move in his grip. It was getting worse. When would it stop? He always needed more. Harder, stronger, more pain… “Please,” I cried softly.
He growled and grabbed his belt off the bed, throwing his arm out to ready the first whip across his back.
“No!” I snatched it out of his hand. When he did it himself, he did it too hard. The guys at practice would ask questions.
I stood up, dropped the belt to the floor, and sobbed as I grabbed a fistful of his hair. No one would ask questions about cuts and bruises on his face. Damon was always in fights, so it was a likely story to hide behind.
Taking my fear and agony, I twisted it into anger and growled, slamming as hard as I could across his cheek.
And dived in. Again and then again and again. I had to get it over with. Just do it. I sobbed louder, tears pouring down my face.
Something’s gotta give, he said.
He was right. The alcohol wasn’t enough. Neither were the cigarettes, the girls he used and treated like shit at school, or the pain. Eventually, he grew used to it all, and needed more.
Something’s gotta give. How much pain could he take before he broke? How long until nothing was enough to appease him?
I rushed up to Damon. “Just go,” I told him, grabbing his arm. “Let’s go. Come on.”
I pulled at him, ignoring the confused look on Kai’s face, but my brother was rooted like a tree.
His eyes were steel on her, hard and sharp.