Chapter 8
My eyelids remain heavy as I swipe the sweat from the side of my face with the back of my hand. I haven’t felt like this since the last time I was heavily hungover, and it brings back memories I’d much rather bury beneath the ocean floor.
It almost feels real when I open my eyes and see bright blue ones staring back at me, his face smothered in blood as it seeps out of the wound from his head and onto the ground.
The sour taste is back as my vision blurs, and I sit up abruptly, trying desperately to create space between me and the imaginary body.
Only my legs are tangled and unable to move.
No, no, no. This isn’t real.
It’s not real!
Squeezing my eyes shut, I open them again, but he’s still there, a lot fuzzier than before, but he’s still there.
Staring.
Accusing.
I’m sorry.
“I…” Pressing my hand to my chest, I will my heart to slow down, to take a rest, but it continues pounding angrily, wanting to be let out of its cage. I close my eyes again, the whimpers involuntarily squeezing out of my lungs.
Breathe.
One.
Two.
Three.
Think of something else.
I work my way around the jumbled thoughts in my mind to find something happier to cling to, but everything seems dark, convoluted, and intimidating.
Everything besides my sister, Beatrice.
Her irradiating laughter echoes around my dark thoughts until her face emerges.
With my eyes closed, I smile at her long, silky blonde hair with her favourite butterfly clips on either side.
I remember that day, before it happened.
She and I spent the entire day watching rom-coms, eating popcorn, and waiting for Mum to get home so we could bake her favourite double choc fudge brownies.
Beatrice loved them arguably more than she loved me, but I didn’t care.
I would give her my brownies because I loved her more than anything in the world.
I loved her more than I loved myself.
Steadily, I open my eyes to a small bedroom, the body no longer there on the floor.
Instead, the large grey tiles are decorated with fluffy black rugs on either side of a large queen bed in the middle of the room.
My head pounds with every small movement as I survey the room in search of my bag, but it’s not here.
Where am I?
How the hell did I get here?
A sudden rush of panic rolls over me in waves as I remember the very last moments in my house with Malik.
Stepping out of the bed, I ignore the dizziness and try the handle on the door, only to be left with frustration as it rattles, staying locked in place.
My fists hit the door hard, and I feel the adrenaline start to rise within me.
“Let me out, right now!” I demand, unsure if there is anyone behind this door. “Kidnapping is a federal crime and punishable by law!”
Gently pressing my ear on the wood, I strain to hear whatever is going on outside, but the voices are muffled.
“Let me out of this fucking room!”
A migraine begins to form in the front of my head, and I wince, covering my eyes. The door clicks, and I remove my hand to see Malik stepping into the room with a phone pressed to his ear.
“Yeah, she’s awake,” he says into the phone.
I hide all my discomfort and straighten my spine, making a move to get around him and out the door, but he stops me, blocking my exit. “Move,” I demand, my voice harsh and humourless.
“Just this once, Ezra. Once this is finished, you can get someone else to be her bodyguard.”
My bodyguard!?
Ezra!?
He hangs up and puts the phone in his pocket.
“What the fuck is going on?”
He leans against the doorframe, his head just shy of touching the frame above.
The black tee clings to his body, hard and taut in all the right places.
The stubble on his jaw accentuates the sculpted lines on his face, framing it.
He looks put together, but the skulls covering his skin in ink tell a different story. One of risk, mystery, and immorality.
“I’m not answering your questions until you answer mine,” he says, his voice numb and indifferent. Whatever flirtation I thought was there before is gone, replaced by a stern, apathetic expression.
“What do you want from me?” My voice starts to waver, and I don’t like it. “If you want money, I can give you that.”
He stares at me, still giving me nothing.
“Are you going to hurt me?”
A small flicker of emotion passes through his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
Stepping into the room, he closes the door behind him, and I take a step back, keeping the distance between us.
“Take a seat, Isla.”
I shake my head, afraid that if I do, I won’t be ready for his attack. I knew one day this life would kill me. Maybe it’s my time.
The familiar smell of nicotine mixed with a spiced cologne engulfs me as he closes the distance between us, and I look away, every hair on my arms prickling upward.
“Don’t touch me,” I whisper, fighting the sting behind my eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he reassures me, the tone of his voice a low hum.
“You drugged me,” I breathe, clenching my hands at my sides.
“I told you I didn’t want to. If you had just listened to me, I would have—”
“Fuck you!” I spit, pushing him with all my might, and he tilts backward, catching himself with his heel. The muscle in his jaw flickers, visible anger on his face, but I don’t stop.
I don’t think as I whip my hand through the air and across his face. It stings more than I anticipated. I hit him hard and with purpose, so when he looks back at me with blood tainting his full lips, a dart of pride centres inside me.
He doesn’t speak, letting the blood trickle down his mouth to his chin as he stares at me.
“Again,” he murmurs, and I’m taken aback.
“W-what?”
“Did I fucking stutter?” He steps closer to me. “Again.”
I don’t move, and he waits.
“Hit me.”
“No.”
“Aw.” The smirk he gives me would have had me handing him my number on any other given day. But not this one. “Scared you’ll hurt me, Isla?” he taunts, and I hate that he’s enjoying this.
“Are you ready to answer my questions, or would you rather play a little more?”
“What do you want?”
“First, I want you to tell me how you injured your hand.” His eyes fall to my palm, but he makes no move to touch me. “No lies.”
I don’t miss the way he mimics the words I spoke to him on the night I agreed to represent him.
“Adrian,” I breathe, uncomfortable with the conversation. “He tried to—He…I didn’t—I don’t know why this matters to you.” I try to step around him, but he blocks me.
“What did he do?”
“He touched me when I didn’t want him to, so I hit him with a glass over his head, and a piece got lodged into my palm.” I throw my hands up. “There. Happy?”
He remains quiet, his dark honey-brown eyes meeting mine.
“Let me clean it.”
I give him an incredulous look. “You don’t know me, so I reiterate, why do you care?”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, why is it so hard for you to let someone help you?”
“I don’t need your help. You need mine.”
He reaches inside his pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper, and hands it to me. “Can you protect yourself from this?”
It’s the paper I threw into my sink. The threatening note I received in the mail.
“Whether you like it or not, you now know too much, and as a valued asset, you must be protected. Unless, of course, you’d rather end up buried alive. If that’s the case…” He steps aside, opening the path from me to the door. “Be my guest.”
“My father—”
He laughs, his stupidly handsome grin back in place. “Daddy can only do so much, Little Nycto.”
I ignore the nickname and continue in my pursuit.
“I have friends in the police force.”
He cocks his head to the side, bemused. “You of all people should know that with this gang war, the police can’t be trusted.”
“If I can’t have faith in the justice system, what do I have?”
He moves in front of me again, standing over me, and I lose myself momentarily in his suffocating presence. The velocity of energy warping around us makes me dizzy, and I feel like I know him, like we’ve met previously, in a different life.
“You have me.”
I consider his words before I respond and catch his gaze dropping to my lips.
“How long will you be chaperoning me?”
“However long it takes to find out who’s been threatening you.”
“And what about your day job?”
He huffs a laugh, bringing his inked hand to his chin. “My day job handles itself. My night job, however, you’ll need to acclimate to as soon as possible.”
“What’s my role? Magazine assembly?” I joke, and his face remains unchanged. “You’re serious?”
“Deadly.”
“I will not be an accessory to murder.”
“No, but you will be the perfect accessory on my arm.”