IGNITE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

EZRA

I rest my head back on the couch, hot tears streaming from my eyes as Cain sleeps on my lap, and the world falls horribly silent.

Pictures of you, Cain’s voice echoes in my head.

It’s revolting, the whole idea of trafficking. That an entire ring exists here in this city. I thought I was an anomaly, but my time at Sinro has proven that to be a fallacy. I was so wrapped up in myself, scraping through life that first year after my escape, that it hadn’t occurred to me there might be other kids suffering.

It just gives greater weight to what I’m doing here, training to hopefully save them from monsters.

Beneath that intense desire to become something powerful, I’m angry. So fucking angry that Cain saw me that way. I don’t want this to change how he handles me. How could he not think I’m defiled? Tainted?

Broken. Broken. Broken.

I hold back a groan. I’d done well to keep it all shoved down. The panic, yeah, that’s always fighting to break free, and sometimes it does. A lingering side effect of the torture I endured.

I extract myself from Cain on the couch, careful not to let his head plop on the cushion. Then I’m scavenging the kitchen for something sharp to bleed out this awful, sick feeling roiling in my chest.

“Ezra?”

My brain doesn’t register Cain’s words, only my actions as I yank open drawers. I upheave silverware in search of a knife. I rip pots and pans out of cabinets, hurling them onto the concrete floor. Why does he have so much shit to cook with?

“Ezra. Baby. What’s wrong?” Cain demands, pushing off the couch into view.

Everything!Everything’s fucking wrong!

I find a knife and press it against the inside of my forearm, lining it up between pearlescent scars. Cain’s dark eyes flick to the blade. Fear carves into his normally harsh features, and my heart drops in my chest. Why is he so twisted up over this? Why does he care?

“Ezra. Stop.”

I shake my head frantically. “I can’t,” I whisper, tears blurring my vision.

I’m not in control. Not when I’m a slave to my demons. I ache for relief from everything bubbling and churning and heaving inside of me. Emotions I can’t give names to. They don’t seem to want to rest. My abuse happened fucking years ago. It shouldn’t define me, right? Why can’t I just be fucking normal?

My vision is so blurred with tears that I don’t catch him moving. His hand ensnares my wrist before I can make the first cut, knocking the knife onto the floor. Cain spins me and hauls my back against his chest, wrapping his long arms around me to keep me still.

I start screaming.

I just want to stop feeling.

I need something to turn off my brain.

Need to focus on the pain and not the things I don’t know how to fucking process.

Need to split my skin to bleed him all out of my fucking DNA.