Riley sat on the linoleum floor against the bathtub, curly head bowed over his drawn up knees. He didn’t look up when Austin entered the small space. His shirt was bunched into a ball at his feet and Austin could clearly see the bruises already forming over his back and shoulders from a cruel beating. But it was the bloody razor blade clutched in shaking fingers and the thin slices cut into his forearms that made Austin’s heart stumble.
He dropped to his knees and carefully tilted Riley’s chin upward. “Riley?” No answer, Ryley’s hazel gaze distant, dreamy, lost in the pain he claimed eased the chaos and despair in his mind.
“Oh, honey,” Austin murmured, and pulled Riley close, bloody arms and all. He stroked the soft curls he used to wind around his fingers when they were kids.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered over and over, gently rocking Riley in his arms, and didn’t breathe freely until Riley sighed, coming back to him.4