Red Moon Rising

29. trust

"You look good in my t-shirt," he says, kissing my cheek. I can't blame it all on Isaac—I cave to him even when he isn't here. There was a part of me that was afraid that he wouldn't come back tonight, that I would sleep alone and a little colder than usual. I went to bed in my underwear and one of his shirts that he's worn so long the fabric is buttery soft and full of holes. "I'm going to explain myself, okay? But I'm not going to argue with you."

"So you get to explain yourself and I don't?"

"Yes," he says in my ear, and he kisses my jaw. "I started this territory from nothing because I stuck to my gut and didn't put shit up to a vote."

"This isn't—"

"Let me finish. Every wolf here has stayed because going back to their packs wasn't a viable option. You think they stopped wanting to go home just like that? Reiner left for his pack twice before he realized that this was the only home he had left." His arms tighten into me, and I can feel him looking at me even though I won't meet his gaze. "What you're feeling right now? Those are growing pains. And you're going to thank me one day when you finally understand that."

"When you limit my contact with my family, it makes me feel like a prisoner."

"Look, if you want to go home I'll drive you to your match's doorstep tomorrow morning."

"That's not what I meant..."

"Then at least try to be a little appreciative that I give a shit." The coldness in his voice is back. "I don't have to give you a place here, Layla, I don't have to feed you or clothe you or protect you from the law."

"I do appreciate it," I try, but he's already pushing me gently but firmly off of his lap. "I just—"

"Show it, then, instead of criticizing me for the way I care about you." He tosses the blankets over himself again and reaches for the light, letting the room wash in darkness when I reach the foot of the bed. As I lie beneath the blankets, I've never been so aware before of a back turned to me. I can hear his breathing and I know that he isn't sleeping, and I wonder if we're both going to be kept up by our anger. Maybe we're too similar, each incapable of admitting defeat or making up. But as stubborn as I can be, I don't think this is a time when I should bite the bullet. I've never felt so out of sync with reality before, angry about something that he insists isn't a big deal, something that is for my own benefit. And the only person I could talk about it to is Isaac. I don't think Sam would want to talk about Isaac behind his back, and I know that I couldn't bear to share the burden with him anyway—there's something about complaining about having my phone privileges taken away that makes me feel too small, that makes me want to cry.

And in the midst of it all is Isaac, so close to me on the other side of the bed, but farther away than he's ever been. I know that his actions are out of caring, even in some warped way. I think for someone like him, showing any sign of caring is difficult, and maybe in some way he thought my anger was rejection. But I do care about him, more than I ever expected to—more than I really want to. It was easier to take his harshness when he was just someone to fuck. But I can feel the shift in the way he touches me, in how his eyes search for me when he walks into a room. It makes my heart ache to have the feelings of someone like him. I don't want this to be the end of those feelings, even if I'm on the right side of our argument. I don't want to have nothing again—to be alone again. Maybe Isaac is the last person in this world I have to care about me.

When I touch his shoulder, I feel his arms relax, fingers slipping over mine. "Isaac," I whisper, and he rolls onto his back, tilting his head to look at me in the darkness of the room. He lets me lay my head on his chest, and I listen to his heartbeat with my arm wrapped around him, feeling suddenly like I've come too close to losing moments like this. His fingers brush through my hair and down my back, resting on my hip beneath the blankets. When I lean up to kiss him, his hand tightens into my thigh, and there's a sick thrill in my chest at the realization that he still wants me, that even after our arguments and his coldness, he's still drawn to me in the way that I am to him.

Isaac's finger traces along the bottom edge of my underwear as he kisses me harder, and I know he can feel the way my heart is pounding against him. A hand hooks around the back of my thigh and pulls me on top of him, and I straddle his hips as his hands cup my ass and pull me into him. I like that he touches me how he wants when I lean in to kiss him again. I like how hard he holds me to him, the way his wrists pull up the edges of my shirt as he brushes over my ribs, thumbs teasing close to my nipples. When I sit up to pull the t-shirt over my head, the warmth of his hands closes over my breasts.

Here, Isaac's hands fall to my hips again and I let him push me back onto the bed and crawl over me. I don't question the change in power anymore, and there's a certain freedom to not having to think about my actions or the noises coming out of my mouth. I let Isaac decide how I'll lay as he pushes my arms above my head and sucks a nipple between his teeth. I entrust my pleasure, my pain to him, crying out when his hand grips brutally into my thigh and losing my breath again when he dips his lips to my neck. I let him put his hands where he likes—in my hair, between my legs, around my throat.

Maybe it's different because I always felt close with Cam, but there's something about fucking Isaac that drags me to him, that closes whatever gap keeps us separate when the lights are on. Fucking Isaac is like mending a rift—between us, within me, within him. With his hands gripping tight into my wrists, shoulders shoving behind my knees, I'm lost to him, disappearing from myself to simply exist within this moment. There's only the sound of our bodies and our breath.

I don't know when the shift happens, but I'm aware at some point that a threshold has been crossed, that my wrists are aching under the weight of his hands and that pleasure inside of me that skirts the line of pain has moved beyond it. I flex my fingers in his grip and whisper his name, but Isaac doesn't answer, and although his eyes are open it's like he can't see how I'm searching his face.

"Isaac," I try again, "Slow down." And as if in response he pushes harder into me until I'm crying out. I know he can hear me, I know he can feel my attempts to twist my hands free of his grasp. Trying to comprehend this moment is like thinking through cotton; I am aware only of this sickening feeling of disbelief, of terror, and the feeling of his body bearing down on me. I feel like I'm calling his name from another dimension where I don't exist as something tangible or living to him. "Isaac, please, please, stop." It's a strange sensation to be lying on the bed all while sinking so deep, deep, deep into it. 

As if from somewhere else in the room, I can hear Isaac's hoarse breathing mixing with my own strange sounds that have devolved from words to quiet, unintelligible pleas. The body above me is not mine—it's a vessel floating between me and Isaac, something for him to pour himself into, something that receives wordlessly what it's given. Eventually, my mouth stops trying to form words, and my body goes slack beneath him despite the burn of my wrists and the splintering pain between my thighs. Even while my mind reels, the rest of me understands the inevitability, the futility of this moment. There's only movement and stillness and some limbo in between where my body is not my own, but Isaac's.

I don't understand the distant cold of the dark room when Isaac rolls away from me. I think he says something, but if I hear it it doesn't stay long enough in my head for me to comprehend it. The bathroom light flicks on, and he doesn't look at me when he flings a condom into the trashcan and lets the room sink into darkness once again. When he slips behind me, I think for a moment about saying his name, or clawing his face, or sobbing until this horrible weight in my chest disappears. Instead, I close my eyes and and pull the blankets closer to my chest. His arm wraps around me and pulls me into a cold, smothering embrace, and out of the dimness of the moment I think of Laocoön being crushed to death by the serpents of the gods.

XX

Layla is coming to fully understand Isaac's true colors, isn't she?

This chapter's a little early because I am going to hike my heart out this weekend starting tomorrow morning <3