Chapter 2
A Dream
Isla
Searing pain radiated all through my legs and feet before I even opened my eyes. My mouth was dry, my eyes could barely open, and my back and chest felt like they were on fire.
Holy shit! There was a fire last night; was I dead?! I lay in unknown surroundings—absolutely terrified.
I was alone in a spacious and beautiful room, illuminated with gentle morning sunlight. Oh my God, oh my God, please don't let this be some serial killer's house! This was very obviously not my place! My entire monthly salary wouldn't be able to pay for that lamp on the bedside table.
My legs were fucking killing me. I dared to turn around and look down and saw what I could only describe as a fucking horror film. Did I even have legs?! I wiggled my toes, and yes, it seemed that my body responded to my brain's instructions.
There was blood everywhere—all over my legs and the white sheets. Holy fuck. My eyes stung with tears, regret and fear filling up all of me, just as my mind continued trying to piece it all together.
There were two men here last night…one was sewing me up. Oh fuck, it was so painful. Goosebumps spread through all of me just from the memory.
Did I lose my apartment? I almost died! What…what happened...
My memory was so hazy. I woke up choking.
There was no air, no oxygen, the heat was all-encompassing, and, in my delirium, I reached the window and smashed it with a chair, desperate for a breath of fresh air.
There was someone there, at the side of the house, but then…
ugh, it was so hard to piece it together. ..
Whoa.
My eyes suddenly landed on him.
It must have been the same man from last night—his blue eyes almost glowed in the morning light. I remembered very faintly seeing blue eyes a few times in between my incoherence.
“Hello.” His voice was deep and uninterested.
He stood in the doorway and stared straight at me.
He was tall, too tall for comfort. He was big, his black t-shirt only defining his oversized muscles, and holy shit did he have tattoos galore.
Who had so much ink?! A tattoo artist? A rock star? A...no...
"Hello?" He repeated, questioning me, and I realized my jaw was hanging open as I stared back and roamed my eyes over his body.
He kind of looked like that hockey player whose video edits were plastered all over social media…
Michael Morozik or Mrazik or something? Same dark, longer hair, same full lips, eyes that could undress any girl. A fucking dream.
Wow, okay, bring it back, bring it back to reality. That was an unexpected and inappropriate detour in my mind.
"H-hi..." My tongue could barely move in my mouth.
"Don't worry. I'm not a serial killer. I can tell that's what you're thinking." He smiled. Really? Did this seem like a good time to smile?!
"Um, okay…I'm sure that's exactly what a serial killer would say." But my answer elicited another smile.
Damn, his smile was perfect. Perfection. Straight white teeth and dimples, his eyes looked down, and he seemed shy. I was so distracted by the sight of him that I had forgotten the crimson cuts adorning my legs. I tried to sit up but was immediately humbled by the excruciating pain in my thighs.
"Don't sit up. Here are some pain meds and water." The tattooed guy spoke slowly and with authority, pointing to the bedside table.
I finally realized I needed to get some information out of him.
"Who are you, and um, where am I, and also, was there a fire last night? What...?" I tried to formulate my thoughts but had to squeeze my eyes shut to piece it all together.
"My name is Roman. You're in my house. Just rest for now. We can talk later." And without another word, he closed the door and left.
Wow. What a fucking start to the day. Who the fuck was Roman, and why was his bedroom twice as large as my entire apartment? But he conveniently didn't answer the most important question—was there a fire?
The pain was becoming unbearable, so I did as he told me, unable to fight any longer. I downed two mysterious-looking pills and the glass of water and fell onto the soft and cool pillow, shutting my eyes to the world.