Sleeves

Chapter 6

We laugh and talk for hours before he suggests we go do something else. We stand to leave (he paid!) and he reaches over to grab my hand. I hadn’t noticed it, but during our conversation my sleeve had somehow been pushed up almost to my elbow. He looks down at my arm just a second before I can rip my sleeve back into place. His expression is shocked as he meets my worried gaze. He pulls me out the door and flings me onto a nearby bench. His face is no longer shocked but seething with rage.

“Gracee, who did that to you?” His voice is loaded with venom, and for a moment I sit in stunned silence, fearing for my safety.

“Answer me!” he roars, grasping the tops of my arms and squeezing tightly on top of the already sore bruises.

“Let go!” I shove him away, tears entering my eyes. I breathe in deeply and try to lock in the wetness leaking from my eyes.

“Oh no,” he whispers. “Did I hurt you?” His eyes are full of dread and he begins to shake his head back and forth.

“I’m fine,” I whimper, but I am unable to control myself as the tears spill down my cheeks. My arms throb; I feel like I’ve been shaken to the core. I try to stop shaking and hold on to the sides of the bench for support.

“No, no you’re not.” He gets down on his knees in front of me and takes my small hands in his. “Look at me, please, look me in the eyes.” I reluctantly raise my eyes and find his.

He whispers, “I am so sorry. Sometimes I just, forget, and…I’m not myself. But I swear, right now, that I am never going to hurt you again. Alright?” I sniffle and nod my head yes. He sighs, “Thank you.”

He gets off the ground and wraps me in a warm hug, where we sit for a few moments. “Are you okay now? Does it still hurt?” he asks gently.

“It’s better now.” I smile at him tentatively.

“Good. Look, Gracee, can I make a deal with you?” he asks me. I start to worry; what could a god like him possibly want from me?

“Depends,” I mutter. He takes my hand again and begins to lightly draw patterns on my palm. I try to keep myself from shivering in delight, I need to pay attention to what he is saying.

“If you tell me what these are from,” he gently pulls up my sleeve just enough to reveal a faint purplish spot on my arm, “I’ll tell you exactly what makes me tick.” He makes his request in a light voice, but I can tell that the words carry much more weight than I can imagine.

“Alright, but you have to go first,” I stall. I have never, ever told anyone my secret. No one ever cared enough to ask. And now I’m risking all of that to tell a boy that I’ve only just officially met? As little sense as it makes, I feel like me and Xander need each other even more than we know. It’s like we have this deep connection, something I’ve never had with anyone before. Also, the desire to have a listening ear as I reveal the things that I’ve been forced to keep buried for so long is overwhelming. In the back of my mind a nagging voice keeps reminding me that this is not safe. His mood swings are very dangerous, he’s already proven that, but I ignore it and nestle into Xander’s shoulder as he begins to speak.