Chapter 14
Hours later, my heart’s still racing. I’ve tried everything to calm it, but sleep won’t come. The thoughts won’t stop, but it’s not the past that’s haunting me anymore.
Now it’s the present.
Where I am.
What my life’s turned into.
It’s been a week of playing it cool, holding my shit together for her, around her, because of her. A fucking week of holding back, and it’s eating me alive.
And every night I’m jerking off like some desperate freak, getting off to the thought of her mouth, her voice, the way she walks past like she’s not dragging me behind her by the cock. Fucking pathetic.
A week of telling myself to back off. A week of failing hard. I can’t stop circling, listening in like some creep, trying to figure out what the hell her father meant. “If anyone touches her, she dies.”
The fuck does that mean? Is it some threat? A warning? Some twisted curse?
All I know is, the more I try to stay away, the worse it gets.
I’m not even sure if I want her anymore, or if I just want to set this whole thing on fire and watch who crawls out of the wreckage.
I just want something to break. I want blood in the air, I want the silence gone, the twisted mess of it all to finally scream back.
Things aren’t well with me, that’s for damn sure. I have no idea what the fuck is happening, but I know one thing … I can’t stop thinking about her.
I feel the obsession growing inside me, sinking deeper every day. It’s constant, quiet, and it’s eating me from the inside out.
It has never happened before, and I don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know if I even want to, or if I even can.
All I know is that I want her to be mine. I want to be constantly around her, I want to touch her, I want to make her feel uncomfortable, and I can’t stop picturing the moment that I’ll get inside her.
I keep thinking about fucking her—oh, how roughly I want to fuck her. Her screaming my name while I’m deep inside her, her nails digging into me, her body giving in whether she wants to or not.
What I do know is that I’ve started scaring her; I saw it in her eyes. I saw it in the way they changed from looking at me with bashfulness and security to looking at me with fear and doubt.
I’m not what she wants me to be. I’m not the hero she believes. I’m the monster who wants to devour her.
It’s been three days. Three days that she hasn’t left her room, obviously trying to avoid me.
She didn’t pick up her phone either, and I tried quite a few times.
God, how pathetic have I become? I started wondering …
Doesn’t she have friends? How’s that even possible?
Has she grown up so isolated and neglected that she’s lacking something so given as friends?
Or maybe they’re still in Italy. Who knows?
After much internal conflict, I ended up at the stupidest decision to go to check on her and see whether she dares to look me in the eyes after what I did to that fucker.
Actually, he’s lucky he’s alive, but not for long. He’s successfully gained a spot on my long to-kill list. Lucky him.
I linger outside her door for a few seconds, trying to understand what she might be doing.
I hear absolutely nothing, which is just great for my nerves. Every instinct says to kick the door down, but no, I play the obedient little angel and knock like a good boy.
“Yes?”
Jackpot.
Slowly, I open the door and step into her room. She looks … off. Kind of startled, but also, I’d say—relieved?
“It’s you …” She exhales softly, her eyes dropping to the floor.
“Disappointed?”
Her blue eyes snap right back at mine, and that sense of relief floods her face again. “On the contrary.”
Yet you didn’t pick up my calls.
I hum, a soft smile tugging at my lips before I can stop it. Perhaps she’s not afraid of me. Or maybe she’s more afraid of everyone else in this house.
She’s wearing a simple soft, dusty pink A-line minidress, that clings just enough to show off that toned body.
Her hair’s done up in one of those perfectly careless half up-dos, like she’s trying not to look too perfect—as if that’s possible.
And those little white orchid pins are trying to sell innocence.
But nothing about her looks innocent to me.
I can’t help but wonder … How often does she wear them? Was it just a random choice the day I met her, or does she actually cherish them? Does she wear them often … for herself, or for someone else?
My eyes narrow as my gaze lands on the small black notebook in her hands.
I cross my arms. “Studying?”
“Not exactly,” she chirps, turning the page proudly. “I realized that I don’t know anything about you.”
“Strange, considering you asked me to be the man you’d spend every waking hour with.” I smile broadly with amusement, giving her a sidelong glance. “I guess mystery was part of the charm, huh?”
“Grow up.”
Ouch! Did she really just go spiteful on me?
“You’re starting to sound like you think you don’t need me, little orchid.”
She tilts her head, her gaze piercing mine intensely before she takes a seat on the velour pink armchair in front of that frilly little makeup vanity. Or whatever the hell women call it.
“I have some questions for you,” she says, crossing her legs, turning the page back again.
God, isn’t she amusing as hell?
“Alright,” I exhale, heading toward her bed. I lie back, hands behind my head, eyes locked on her. “I’m all yours.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Mmm,” I say, the name slipping out a little too fast like a fucking idiot. “Mitchell.”
Not my best work, but it’ll do.
She ponders for a few seconds, and I’m left wondering whether she bought it or is just thinking of her next question.
My eyes wander around the room. There’s an easel in the corner by the window, right next to a pink ledge pillow.
The canvas is blank, and there’s no sign of any paint or colors nearby.
Abruptly, she speaks again. “Age?”
“Won’t you write them down?” I ask sarcastically with a nod.
“Unless you’ve got five names like some soap opera character, then no.” She turns solemn, eyes narrowing. “Age?”
It’s maddening how hard it is not to smile when she throws those smartass little quips. Like she doesn’t even know what she does to me. Or maybe she does, and that’s what makes it worse.
However, I keep my cool.
“Thirty.”
“Really? You look younger.”
“Awesome genes,” I reply, crossing my ankles.
“Favorite color.”
“Blue.”
Her thick brows narrow. “Just blue?”
I pause for a few seconds, looking deeply into her eyes. “Dark blue.”
“Favorite food.”
“Steak.” She tries to continue, but I interrupt her. “Just steak.”
“Oh …”
Fuck, she’s something else.
“Height.”
“Is it necessary for my qualifications?”
“No, it’s just … Curiosity.” She smiles bashfully, tucking a lose strand of hair behind her ear.
“6’4”.”
Her eyes widen mildly. “Quite tall.”
Maybe I’m enjoying this little interview more than I should.
“Uhm …” She lowers the pen. “Something random about you you’d like to share?”
My eyes wander on the ceiling. “Fun or cringe?”
“Fun.”
“I play drums.”
“Seriously?” she asks, her eyes widening almost in admiration.
I hum, agreeing, savoring the way her posture shifts with every answer I give.
“And the cringe?”
I can’t believe what’s about to come out of my mouth. I sigh, half a smirk tugging at my lips. “I wear glasses when I read.”
“You read?” she says, almost squealing. “What kind of books?”
“Stephen King, mostly. You know, homicidal clowns and haunted houses. Top notch.”
“Oh … And you wear glasses?”
“The mystery around me spreads, huh?”
She chuckles, lowering her eyes. “You must look good in those.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing!” she blurts out. “Favorite song?”
If there’s one thing stopping me from slamming her against the wall right now, it’s how much I enjoy watching her falter every time our eyes meet. That nervous laugh, the way she trips over her own words. It’s better than foreplay, and I can’t resist pushing it a little further.
“That’s a hard one.” I click my tongue. “I hate P!nk for sure.”
“What? I love her.” I know that, baby, but teasing you is more fun. “You’re crazy.”
“I know that.”
She snorts. “Birthday?”
“July 3.” Should I tell her I already know hers is March 28?
Her eyes travel all over my arms. “Favorite tattoo?”
I push myself up to sit, tugging the sleeve of my T-shirt higher, exposing my upper arm. “This one.”
She scrunches her face. “Mickey Mouse?”
“Mickey freaking Mouse!”
“Any special reason his eyes are Xs?”
“Yeah. He saw things he shouldn’t have.” I raise a brow, tilting my head forward. She catches the joke and smiles coyly.
“Any tattoo with a meaning?”
“Not really.”
Suddenly, awkward silence stretches across the room. She sits still and awkward, like her little interview’s over and she’s run out of reasons to keep me here or doesn’t know how to entertain me.
Little does she know she doesn’t have to say a damn thing.
She entertains me just fine with those fleeting glances she pretends aren’t there.
But I see them.
Every. Single. One.
And I wait for the next like it’s a fucking reward.
“Now my turn,” I say abruptly, cutting through the silence. Her eyes snap back to mine. “Don’t you have any friends?”
“No,” she replies quietly, as if she’s embarrassed about it.
“How’s that possible?”
She lets out a long sigh.
“I was always the rich brat,” she says flatly.
“Or the messed-up kid no one wanted around. That’s what they used to call me at school.
” She shifts forward, elbow on the armrest, face buried in her palm.
“No girl ever wanted to be my friend. I still don’t even know why.
” She gives a small, bitter shrug. “Maybe it was the bodyguards. Maybe it was just me.”