Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
I push and shove at my pillows, shifting between sweating my bloody arse off and freezing my bollocks until they shrivel up, unable to find any semblance of comfort as my mind races with memories of that day just six years ago. It might as well have been a lifetime.
My heart was in my throat as I sat on the scratchy black carpeted floor with the girls, shuffling their toys around and rewinding the small race car so it would speed off, and with it, my sisters, for a brief, revitalising second.
All I needed was a moment to breathe, to prepare myself for the worst and plead for the best with anyone who might be listening.
“Lijah, what’s wrong?” Lyla asked, tilting her head as her high ponytail of curls fell into her face.
I gave her a small, unconvincing smile, shifting forward to gently push her curls back. “Just waiting for Mum, is all. She’ll be out soon,” I reassured her, skirting around the real issue. The one that would further determine the course of my entire life, as if I hadn’t already given up everything.
No one asked me to, but how could I not? How could I have made any other choice? That’s the thing though—there never was one.
Luckily, she’d accepted the answer, moving on to play with Ellie, bopping her on the nose. They both erupted into laughter, a sound so bright it threatened to swallow me whole.
My body was not my own that day, my thoughts far more grim than I’d usually allow. What if she dies? What if it’s not gone? How the hell will I make these girls well-rounded, responsible, brave, and kind? But above all else, how will I make them happy?
Those were just a few of the many thoughts running rampant in my mind that day and all the days surrounding it.
When the door creaked open, my head snapped up at the sound, eyes searching for answers. I was met with Mum’s wide smile and glassy eyes, mirroring my own.
“It’s gone, baby. The cancer is gone,” she’d said, and just like that, I was flinging myself off the floor, wrapping her frail body in my arms, never wanting to let go.
The relief I felt was unmatched, second only to the weariness that had crept into me, the fear that one day, we’d be learning of a new diagnosis instead of celebrating her remission.
Routine and therapy usually lend to eventual rest, but with the addition of Adhira’s blatant lies last night, I find myself lying here, trying to piece everything together like some knock-off Sherlock Holmes.
I can’t shake those thoughts from my mind, contemplating every interaction I’ve ever had with her.
So much has happened to get me to this point in my career, and while I wasn’t looking for anything more than a flatmate, Adhira has gotten under my skin.
She’s aloof and appears cold, but when she shares little glimpses of herself, I see the softness in her eyes and the warmth radiating from her. She’s intelligent, with an incredible memory, able to retain even the most seemingly meaningless information and regurgitate it back to me.
But most of what I know about her is from quiet observation rather than spoken words.
Sometimes, when we’re on the sofa and she’s watching the telly while I’m pretending to read, I just breathe her in.
I take in her concentrated stare, the furrow of her brows when she finds something ridiculous, the almost imperceptible quirk of her lips when she’s amused.
And when she takes a phone call from a friend or her parents, she handles them with such care, weighing their words and deciding whether she has anything meaningful to add.
When she does provide her two cents, her responses are blunt and weighted, yet full of meaning.
She never minces words, saying exactly what she means in as few words as possible.
And while I’ve come to know all of these traits through stolen glances and shared space, somehow, it feels like they tell a more truthful story of who Adhira is than if she were to tell me herself.
There’s something in the way she behaves, as if she’s built these heavy walls not to protect herself, but to shield me.
It feels so familiar. She puts on a brave face, much like I had when I feared my mum was going to die, leaving me to care for my baby sisters and my nan with dementia—may she rest in peace—but I don’t believe it. I don’t believe her.
It’s clear she can take care of herself, but she doesn’t have to protect everyone around her while she’s at it. That isn’t her responsibility, and whatever's going on, I can only hope she’ll let me in after I’ve proven myself worthy of her quiet struggles.
Sleep continues to evade me, and as it does, I become more and more restless, anxiety gripping my heart like a vice.
There’s no point lying in misery.
I roll over, flicking on the lamp, and grab my e-reader, hoping to drown my restless thoughts in Kath Richard’s incredible storytelling, falling just as in love with Maxim and Mary as I had with Nate and Vanessa.
From Mary’s overall reluctance, cold exterior, and hidden gooey centre to Maxim’s complete, utter obsession with her, even when she’s being downright mean to him, I feel like I’m being called out.
Between all the pining and dirty fucking these two are doing, my mind has taken a different turn over the last several chapters.
I try to ignore the growing pressure in my groin and the need coursing through me. I really bloody try, but when I reach a particularly depraved scene, my mind betrays me, swapping Mary’s face for Adhira’s. I realise I am too far gone to recover without blowing a load in my briefs.
I groan, tossing the e-reader to the side, and head into the bathroom, turning the knob on the shower. The white-tiled walls quickly bead with condensation, steam billowing around me as I strip down and step inside.
Hot water burns down my spine, warming me from the inside out, and I bask in the feel of it, of something wholly good. I tilt my head back, and my eyes close, my callused hand gripping the base of my length.
I squeeze my shaft tightly, wishing it were a softer, smaller hand wrapped around me, my body yearning to have someone I care about sharing this intimacy with me. I’m unable to stop the images of the little spitfire of a woman I’ve grown so fond of on her knees before me.
“No,” I growl, blinking open my eyes, determined to picture a faceless woman or focus on sensation alone.
I close my eyes and try again, but as soon as the pleasure begins to build in my spine, the image returns, and a small whimper escapes me.
It’s all wrong, and I know it; I’m completely aware it would be me on my knees for her and not the other way around.
I shouldn’t even be considering such a thing.
Adhira deserves better than to be objectified by me, though I’m sure if she knew about this fantasy of mine, she’d say something like, “This is a totally normal human reaction, Elijah. Do whatever you must to relieve yourself and prevent prostate cancer while you still can. Your member won’t work like that forever. ”
If tears weren’t beginning to prick the backs of my eyes, I’d chuckle at the thought. But as it seems, it’s not just any human touch I crave—it’s Adhira specifically, in any way I can have her. Even if it’s in my perverse fantasies, ones she never consented to being a part of.
Guilt weighs heavily on my chest, but goddamn, my cock is hard. It hasn’t gotten the memo that while I’m a fucking goner for her already, this is wrong.
It’s all wrong, and I should stop. But as soon as I try to remove my hand from my shaft, another whimper passes my lips, my knees trembling with the combination of emotions, and I’m too bloody weak to stop myself now.
I get lost in my imagination, picturing that perfect woman with my cock in her mouth, her hot tongue swirling over the tip. I’d slide my fingers into her thick dark waves, impaling her throat.
She’d give me those eyes. The ones telling me to be a good boy who waits to come until I’m inside her tight pussy.
But just like right now, I’m definitely not a good fucking boy.
And at the mental image of blowing my load down her throat as those cinnamon-brown eyes stare up at me in challenge, I combust.
My breaths come out in ragged pants, my legs trembling with the effort to stand upright. My release coats the shower wall, muscles relaxing in euphoria as I come down from the high and enjoy a few more fleeting seconds of calm before anxiety and guilt crash back in.
I don’t know what possessed me to do it, or why I can’t seem to let it go, but the thought of her—and the release it gave me—makes me want her more.
Every time I think of her like this, it heightens my need to figure out what’s really going on with her, to offer her a safe space to confide in, and to find reasons to be near her, even just a little.
I crave her company, and every stir of desire only makes that craving sharper.
I continue pacing my room, wringing my arms at my sides as I wait for any sign of Adhira. Mercifully, I hear her stomping around the kitchen, the rustling of her keys, and finally, the opening, closing, and locking of the front door.
For someone who despises noise so much, she sure makes a lot of it.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, cursing myself for how nosey I am.
What are you going to do, Elijah? Follow after her like a goddamn stalker?
Glimpses of that bandage covering her clavicle, her switch to oversized T-shirts, the bruises littering her arms in various stages of healing, her progressive but noticeable weight loss, the constant retching, the standoffish mannerisms—it’s all I can think about.
And before long, I’m flinging my bedroom door open, slipping my feet into my trainers, and hustling down the stairs after her.
My rubber soles slap against the concrete, the sound bouncing off the walls of the narrow stairwell as I make my way to the lobby. I peer out through the small rectangular window and see that she’s just exited through the revolving glass doors.
I chase after her, careful not to look too conspicuous as I pass people along the pavement, their furrowed brows and sidelong glances inquisitive. I cannot believe I’m really following her. I’m going to be bloody sick.
I pick up the pace, my eyes fixed on the back of Adhira’s head, an unseasonably warm black coat hanging from her thin frame.
With the streets this packed, she’d be unlikely to hear me call her name, so I hurry on, rushing to catch up before she can slip away.
She walks down the steps to the Tube, and I follow, digging around in my pockets as I walk, searching for my wallet.
I pull out my card, ready for when we board.
My body begs me to turn around and quit this mess while I still can, but as she gets on, my feet carry me after her.
Adhira moves towards the quieter end of the carriage, where commuters keep to themselves and the noise is a little easier to bear.
I sprint towards the closing doors, slipping inside just in time. With a harrowing breath, I find my way to her carriage and plonk down beside her.
“Hiya,” I gasp out.
My pulse is bounding, my heart threatening to break free from my chest. I’m going to hell for this. I must have lost my goddamn mind because I’m sitting on the Tube, following the woman I live with because I’m too damn nosey for my own good! My nan would be so ashamed of me.
Her spine stiffens, her gaze lifting from her phone to meet mine.
She doesn’t say anything for a painfully long moment. I wipe my clammy palms on my thighs, dragging a breath in for six, holding for six, then releasing.
She speaks in a hushed but agitated whisper. “Did you bloody follow me?”
My stomach churns as I nod, wincing at just how bad this looks.
“I don’t think this living arrangement is going to work, Elijah. I specifically said I wanted a flatmate who would mind their own goddamn business. And look at you, following me like a bloody stalker!”
She speaks through gritted teeth, but being in the quieter end of the carriage hasn’t stopped us from drawing attention, and my spine prickles with awareness at all the eyes on me.
You’d think, with how many strangers recognise me from my time on the Wyvern Warriors, I’d have grown used to it.
I lower my lips to hover just above her ear, my cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I can see how this would look bad—”
She grips the strap of her bag and stands, moving to leave, but the Tube halts abruptly, sending her flying backwards into my lap. Instinctively, I grip her hips to steady her, and she slaps my hands away, making a high-pitched sound of distress as she scrambles off me.
“Adhira, please, wait! I’m so bloody sorry, I—”
She swings her gaze around before narrowing it on me. “You have from now until we get to my stop to convince me not to kick you out. Now hurry up,” she barks out.
I scramble after her, taking a seat beside her in a carriage where children are screaming and adults are chattering, oblivious to our situation.
“Talk,” she instructs as soon as my bum hits the hard blue plastic.
“I—Coach thinks you’re pregnant.” I blurt the words and internally cringe. Jesus Christ.
Her brows raise. “What are you on about?”
I scratch the back of my neck, eyes darting around for anywhere to look but her.
“That day at my game. You’d been sick, throwing up at home, and right before that, I thought I saw a bandage on your chest after you’d been gone for a few hours.
When I told Coach I needed to find you because you’d been throwing up, he asked if I’d gotten you pregnant.
” My cheeks flame, and she cocks a disbelieving brow.
“Well, that would be rather hard to do, seeing as you’ve never put your dick in me.”
“Jesus,” I murmur, shaking my head. “Anyway, I—”
“You’re getting on my last damn nerve. Spit it out already. You've got less than two minutes before we reach my stop.”
I look up at the sky as if asking for some higher power for help, but none is provided, and I continue to flounder through this whole conversation. And like the bastard that I am, I speak the words I’ve been fearing all night.
“Adhira, do you have cancer?”