Make Me Soar (17 page)

Dinner had been simple but pleasant. Alan had put Dorian to work chopping vegetables while he prepared chicken breasts with garlic, onions, and rosemary. There hadn’t been much conversation, but that was fine by Dorian. He was in no mood to talk. He wasn’t even sure why. His stomach was in knots for some reason. It had eased a little through the meal, but once the dishes had been washed, dried, and put away, Dorian had sat down in the lounge, trying to ignore whatever it was that tugged at him. The TV had been his idea of a distraction, but it hadn’t worked. Every now and then Alan had glanced across at him, but thankfully he hadn’t said anything. Dorian was beginning to think the Dom saw everything.

The door opened, and Alan entered, phone in hand. He stood at the end of the couch. “When was the last time you spoke to Pietro?”

Fuck
. Dorian’s chest tightened. “I… I haven’t spoken to him since I sent him a text from Berlin. To be honest, I switched off my phone, and I haven’t turned it on since.” Phoning anyone had been the
last
thing on his mind. “I think it’s out of power.”

Alan’s gaze grew serious. “That was Leo on the phone. Pietro was worried to death. Leo’s persuaded him that you’re okay but hasn’t said any more than that.”

Dorian tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I suppose I should call him,” he admitted quietly. He got up from the couch. “I’ll go find my charger, and then I’ll call him, but I’ll do it from my room, if that’s okay.”

Alan nodded. “That’s fine, and it sounds like a good idea. Apparently he’s been trying to get in touch with you for a few days.” Dorian moved to pass him, and Alan laid a gentle hand on his arm. “I do understand, you know. You don’t have to tell him what happened if you don’t want to, all right? That can wait for another day.” He looked past Dorian to the TV and shook his head. “I’m going to bring in some more wood. It looks like the snows have finally hit the south coast, and it’s bad. They’re already predicting widespread chaos on the roads.”

Dorian twisted to peer at the TV screen, where a weather warning had been issued on the news for the south of England. Scenes of stranded cars and heavy snowfalls appeared.

Alan’s light touch pulled him back into the warm room. “Go find your charger, and I’ll stock up. At least if the snow hits during the night, we’ll have plenty of wood indoors to save us from venturing out.”

“Sure.” Dorian stepped past him and made his way up the stairs to his room. He found the charger where he’d put it in a drawer and plugged in his phone. When the screen lit up, he was dismayed to find several missed calls from Pietro but nothing from his parents. It had to have been two weeks since he’d spoken with them, but apparently his silence hadn’t concerned them. The realization left him feeling a little hurt. Communication had been pretty regular since he’d moved out, but he always felt guilty when he called them. It was more a matter of duty than of love. He’d often wondered why his parents hadn’t had any more children. In his darkest moments he told himself that in some way he’d put them off, even though he knew the thought was illogical. Dorian stared at the phone, wondering if he should call them, but there was that heavy feeling once more. It could wait until the next day.

That still left the small matter of what to tell Pietro. It pained him that he hadn’t given his friend a second thought during the last week. Some friend
he
was. What amazed him was that Pietro always stuck by him.
I don’t deserve him
.

Dorian sat on the bed and stared numbly around his room.
What on earth do I tell him?
In his head he could already hear the horror in Pietro’s voice and, worse, anger that Dorian hadn’t informed him what was going on, after all his promises.

He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror on the wardrobe door and snorted. “Do you think he’ll actually come out and say ‘I told you so’?” He hadn’t even
begun
to think of the reactions of the club members when word got around. He could imagine the knowing glances and muttered comments. It didn’t matter what Thomas had said about the Doms’ concern for him. Right then in his present mood it was easier to believe they’d react negatively.

As for Alan telling him that he couldn’t go there?
No fucking problem
. Right then Dorian didn’t care if he never saw the inside of that club again.

He glanced at the cabinet, to where the tube of antiseptic cream lay next to his phone. Another reminder that he’d fucked up. At least the tear was healing nicely. The itching had passed, so that was a good sign that he was almost back to normal, thank God. Every time he’d had to apply the cream and his fingers had touched the tender flesh, he’d winced at the recollections.

Not that it was the only physical reminder. He slipped his hands under his sweater and T-shirt to touch his lower back. The scabs had gone, but he could feel the ridges of skin beneath his fingertips. Four letters etched into his back, that hateful word burned into both his flesh and his mind.

That’s always going to be there
.
Forever
.
A testament to my immense stupidity
.

A rush of rage surged through him as the memories flooded his brain, bringing back that night in the sharpest detail: the pain as they’d worked on his back, his screams muffled by the gag; the overwhelming, suffocating fear of simply not knowing what the fuck they were doing; that feeling of utter helplessness as he’d struggled against the ties that bound him to the bench; the sound of their laughter, words sailing above him in German, unrecognizable except for the odd word he recalled from his school days and one which needed no translation—
Kondom
.

Dorian couldn’t sit still any longer. He got up from the bed and walked over to the mirror, staring at his pale reflection, his anger building.

“This is all your fault,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “
All
of it. If only you hadn’t been such a fucking idiot….”

The face in the mirror stared back at him, eyes wide, ashen.

Self-hatred bubbled up through him, coursing through every vein and artery until it exploded out of him in a howl, and he smashed his fist into the mirror, crying out as it shattered into pieces around him. He didn’t feel the glass as it cut into his hand. He felt nothing but the white-hot anger that filled him, seemingly coming out of nowhere.

Then the pain finally pierced his perception. Dorian sank to his knees and bowed his head, tears spilling out onto his cheeks and falling onto the bloodied hand that he nursed.

A
LAN
JUMPED
when he heard the muffled scream from above his head. He leaped up from his chair, ran from the room, and bounded up the stairs. When he pushed open the door to Dorian’s room and saw the shattered mirror and the lad’s bloody hand, his heart sank. Dorian seemed utterly broken, his body racked with his sobbing.

Without a word Alan rushed into the bathroom and grabbed a towel and the first aid box from the cabinet under the washbasin. He went back to Dorian and knelt before him. Dorian jerked his head up and stared at him with wet eyes, white-faced.

“Let me see,” Alan said gently, easing the injured hand into his. Dorian winced, and Alan made soothing noises in his throat. He tried to examine the cuts across the knuckles and fingers, but there was too much blood. There were shards of the mirror embedded in his hand, and his knuckles were already beginning to swell. Dorian cried out when Alan carefully pulled the little pieces of glass free, which prompted a fresh flow of blood.

“I’m sorry, but this needs to be seen by a doctor.” Dorian shook his head, but Alan was having none of it. “These cuts require stitches, Dorian, and they’ll probably need to X-ray your hand too, so no arguments.” He wrapped the towel around the injured hand. “Keep the pressure on it,” Alan told him. “The Infirmary isn’t that far away. I can have us there in ten minutes.”

The lost expression in those brown eyes tore at him.

“O-okay.”

Alan helped him to his feet and guided him down the stairs, leading the way. Dorian almost stumbled, seemingly out of it, and Alan wondered if he was in shock. He grabbed Dorian’s jacket from its hook near the front door and slung it around his shoulders before reaching for his own. When he opened the front door, the sudden rush of bitter cold air stole the breath from his lungs. The temperature had plummeted. Dorian shivered violently, and Alan led him quickly around to the passenger side of the car. He opened the door and eased Dorian into the seat, his hand on the sub’s head to prevent him from bumping it. Dorian’s shivers increased. Alan shut the door and hurried to get in.

The streets were quiet until they hit the main road into the city, but even then there was decidedly less traffic on the roads than usual.

Maybe everyone’s staying put for the night because of the weather warnings
, he mused as he drove rapidly. Beside him Dorian was quiet, the tracks of his tears visible in the headlights of oncoming cars. He held his damaged hand tightly in its towel, and Alan was relieved to see that the blood hadn’t soaked through the thick layer of fabric. It wasn’t long before they arrived at the hospital and Alan found a parking space.

A&E was brightly lit, and the waiting room was half-full. Alan led Dorian over to the reception desk and explained the situation. He sighed with exasperation when they were told to take a seat and wait, but there was nothing else for it but to do as asked. Alan glanced around the room and spied a corner that was relatively free of people.

“Let’s sit over there.” He put his arm around Dorian’s waist and guided him to the red plastic chairs. Dorian dropped into one and leaned against the wall, eyes closed, hand held up against his chest.

Alan studied his pale, drawn face. “Want to tell me what happened?” He kept his voice low, but the nearest people were far enough away that his words wouldn’t carry.

“Not really,” Dorian mumbled without opening his eyes.

Like Alan was going to accept
that
for an answer.

He placed his hand on Dorian’s arm. “Nevertheless, you
are
going to talk to me. If not here, then at home.” He waited, watching the lines deepen across Dorian’s forehead.

Dorian opened his eyes with a sigh. “It’s all my fault,” he whispered.

Alan stared at him for a moment. When nothing else was forthcoming, he pressed on. “What is?”

Dorian swallowed. “What… what happened to me in Berlin.”

The light began to dawn.

“And you got angry with yourself.” It wasn’t a question. Alan had known it was coming, but he’d had no idea when. He smiled. “What if I were to tell you that what you are feeling is perfectly normal in the circumstances?”

Dorian turned to look at him. “What?”

Alan nodded. “Listen to me. There are five stages of loss and grief, and you
are
grieving, believe it or not. You lost part of yourself that night.” He waited while his words sank in. Dorian said nothing but gazed at him with a startled expression. Alan pushed on. “You’ve already experienced the first two, denial and isolation. Does that sound like what you’ve been through?”

Dorian’s lips parted, but no sound came forth. He nodded, not breaking eye contact.

“The anger you are experiencing right now is healthy. You’ve stopped blaming others for what happened to you and are directing that anger at yourself, which is a good sign.” He leaned closer until his lips were a scant distance from Dorian’s ear. “So talk to me. What were you thinking before you decided to attack my poor mirror?”

Dorian let out a heavy sigh. “I placed myself in that situation. I knew nothing about the club, except its reputation.”

“But this didn’t happen at the club, did it?”

Dorian stared at the green linoleum floor. “I let them do this to me,” he persisted.

Alan thought for a moment before speaking. “Did they ask you for your safewords?”

Dorian shook his head.

“Did they tell you that they were going to brand you?”

Dorian became very still. “No.” The word was barely audible.

Alan took a deep breath, searching for the right words. “Okay, now listen to me. You’re no stranger to most of what they did to you—I’ve seen you at the club—but this was a totally new situation. You were in unfamiliar territory, where you didn’t speak the language, for one thing. You were blindfolded, and I’m going to hazard a guess that they restrained you too. I know you said they held you down, but I think you were tied down too.”

Dorian nodded, gulping.

“It wasn’t like the club, was it? No limits, no safewords, no Dungeon Master watching to make sure everything was all right. In spite of everything you go through at the club, it’s a safe environment, where the Doms are focused on you, protecting you, fulfilling your needs and theirs. In Berlin you were the center of attention, but I’m guessing you felt more like an object than a human being who was there by mutual consent. Because there
was
no consent, was there?”

Dorian’s sob cut through him, but Alan wasn’t finished. The boy needed to hear this.

“At the club there is a mutual connection between the subs and the Doms, but you didn’t have that. No contracts, no limits discussed, no security. And let’s talk about the branding.”

Dorian froze, but Alan continued.

“If you’d gone through that at the club, you would have been talked through it beforehand. You’d have been thoroughly prepared for it, how it would feel, what would be done, what aftercare would be required, yes?” He got a single nod. “What they did was a violation, pure and simple.”

Dorian swallowed, on the verge of tears.

Alan had to give voice to the question that had been nagging away at him ever since Dorian had first told about that night. “Do you recall if they used protection?” He waited for Dorian’s reply, his stomach churning.

There was a brief pause before Dorian replied. “Yes,” he said at last. “That much I
do
remember. And they used gloves when they fisted me.” He shivered.