In For The Kill (BoyxBoy)

Chapter Three

The body tumbles away from me, already forgotten as I spin around, lifting out of my kneeling position in one fluid motion. There, my eyes lock onto him. He's no longer in disguise. Gone is the ridiculous white outfit. In its place is an ordinary pair of jeans and a fuzzy white pullover. Unthinkingly, I find myself looking him over, drawing in closer to see if he's injured anywhere.

Jerking back a half-step, I narrow my eyes at him. He hasn't moved, hasn't said a word more, and yet I feel drawn. It's like there's a collar going round my neck, and I can feel him tugging on it. I want to touch him. I feel compelled to. It's not rational or inside me. It's what I have to do.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I practically hiss the words, my teeth clenched. My hands curl into fists at my side, legs tensed against the unfamiliar urge. I can feel it slithering down my chest, sinking through my bones. I have to touch him.

His head tilts, the long hair of his wig sliding with the motion, silky white strands falling across his throat, his cheek. His lips curl, the white edges of his teeth shining between them. My jaw flexes, teeth grinding together. His smile is tinged with a sadness that consumes every brain cell I have left. Why does he look like that? He got what he wanted. What more could he possibly--

"You're in pain still."

His tone is soft, so, so fucking soft. Heat rises in my chest. "I am not!" The sadness on his face deepens, and I can feel him pulling, a new kind of ache easing its way into my veins. I need to touch him. "Stop it." I can't keep the venom from my words if I wanted to. If I can just convince him. If I can make him stop pulling, maybe - maybe - I can feel even semi-normal again.

"I'm not doing anything," he says, his voice low and full of hurt. He takes one hesitant step forward. "I just want--"

"No."

I don't know how I know, but I do. He's going to say exactly what I'm thinking. I know he is. As surely as the grass is green and the King's brand is upon my throat, I know what he's going to say to me. But I don't know what that will do to me. To hear him say he wants it too. The thought alone makes my every bone feel weak and malleable.

"To touch you. Let me hold--"

Fuck.

A whimper of a sound catches in my throat, the blood in my body igniting at just the thought of my target touching me again. My mind taunts me, fills with the memory of his hand on my cheek, my lips barely brushing across his palm. My knees fold, my breath coming ragged. My hands lift to my throat, try to feel the chain he must've put on me. I can't find it no matter how I drag my nails across my skin, but I can feel him. He's pulling and pulling, trying to drag me into him. I get it now. This feeling is because of him, isn't it? He wants to touch me.

"Stop," I gasp at last, swallowing hard. My mouth has gone dry, like I've swallowed a fistful of sand. My lungs ache, and my body feels drained of strength as if I were running instead of standing in place.

He stands over me, his fingers reaching down, empty. He's not holding anything. He's not doing anything. Still, I feel his pull in my chest, the need that's not mine itching at my skin. And I know. If I stopped fighting him, if I met him halfway, I'd find relief.

My vision sways, clouds, and it takes me a moment to realize they're wet. He gathers my hair into his hands, scrapes his nails down my scalp, and I lose awareness of it again completely. I grab on hard to his upper arms, my body moving without my consent, lifting to meet him. He tilts my head back, his forehead pressing against mine, and I can't help but sigh, my eyes slipping closed.

Just having him this close is enough. I can feel the tension seeping out of me, my headache clearing as if it hadn't been plaguing me for hours. The heat radiating off his body sinks through my skin, warms me all the way to the core. Just like that, without any real effort, he makes it near impossible to think, to move.