The Serpent's Groom

Chapter-10🌜 Dont Mess With My Hair!

William's POV

I am standing in front of Ryan's house—his parents’ extravagant two-storey mansion.

This mansion has a perfect old-money look. And I personally prefer this mansion above mine.

Not just because, “You always prefer what others have, more.” You know the whole comparison and shit. But I prefer theirs because although it's clearly luxurious, it's subtle.

Although we share the same neighborhood of Park Avenue. You can tell the difference from just their appearance.

It gives homey-vibes, unlike ours, which looks more like a real estate agent's high end site–ready for sale, if you have millions.

Or maybe…it's not even it's looks. Maybe it's because I never felt at home there.

Always the survival struggle, the silent death of childhood—the spring I lost.

I didn't get the spring, and just when I thought a flower was finally growing in my barren garden—she died.

And now the burning loo of summer has arrived—my unwanted marriage.

Arranged by others, we are getting married…

It's been four days to her and see how much has changed—and in another four days, I will be married.

Anyway, I am here to tell Ryan what happened last night. Because I know I can.

He's the only one I can.

And it's enough, he's more than enough.

Although the ache for Romie would always be there, but I know I have Ryan.

We have been best friends since childhood—seeing that he lives so close—I have been to their house tons of times.

I make my way through the driveway to the giant stoop, and I ring the bell, although I do have keys—yes we are that close, and they know I am coming—but I still prefer ringing the bell.

“Ugh, I knew you would make me open the door!” Ryan's voice fills the surroundings as he opens the door.

“You know me.” I smirk.

“That, I do. Now come inside.” He says. He is in a navy blue tank top and gray shorts, his hair is kinda wet. Although he is not stinking–because of his mixture of colognes–I can tell he was in the middle of workout.

I go inside, and make my way to the sofa in the living room—although I know for sure, we are either gonna go straight to his room, or his library, maybe home gym—but not his living room.

“Do you wanna sit here, because as you can see—” he waves a hand pointing to his sweaty torso, “I was in the middle of something.”

“And that something could have been done earlier or later–because you knew I was coming!” I tell him, not actually angry but still.

“So what? You can join in too. As if you haven't a million times.” He rolls his eyes. “It's pull day bitches!”

“Are you done with your protien-shake-gym-bruh mode?” I ask him, to which he groans. “Moreover, I am not in the mood to workout.”

“As if you ever are.” He teases.

“Hey I do enough for the kind of physique I want!” I tell him defensively. “Which is lean. Not everyone wants an athletic-toned body, and spend the rest of their lives lifting dumbbells.”

“Whatever you say shawrty!” He passes by my–and ughhhhh messes up my hair–goes to the open kitchen.

“Not my hair!” I scream, and instantly start fixing them.

“As if they weren't messy already.” He says nonchalantly, and pulls out a bottle of water from the fridge, and instantly starts gulping it down like a dying fish.

And when he's done after drinking like 5 gallons of water—he asks, "you want?”

“I mean if there's still some left…” I trail jokingly.

He pulls out another bottle and pours it in a glass.

I take the glass from him, and gulp it down sip by sip, because not everyone needs to be a caveman. “Where are the manners?” My dad would say.

“When you are done with your—“oh I am so demure” act—meet me in the gym.” He says, as he is already leaving.

Ugh! Workouts…

I won't do weight training, period.

I have enough weight on my heart to handle barbells today.

I go towards the home gym on the lawn. The whole gym is surrounded by glass walls, so it gives good nature-vibes.

Plus it's mildly sunny today, so I feel an instant brightness in my mood.

Working out here is just so peaceful, and you can actually get gains while still keeping your brain calm.

One of the many reasons why I like this mansion more.

Our house has a gym too, but having an open gym area wasn't my parents’—specifically my dad’s priority, seeing the lack of fitness-oriented people in our family.

I look at Ryan, who's already busy doing the pull-ups on the pull up bar.

“Which set is it?” I ask him.

“Third,” he says. While he's counting reps in between his breaths. “Seventeen…. Eighteen…”

I see him going up and down, and realise he's not getting done anytime soon, so I make my way to the treadmill.

Cardio it is.

I set it up at 8 Km/hr, and start jogging.

To my surprise, Ryan comes down from the pull up bar, and comes near my corner treadmill.

He does some neck rolls, and asks in-between, “How are you doin…?” His voice is gentle–although you can hear the panting–but still gentle.

He asks me and that makes me pause–not physically though, because I would fall back–but mentally. I know what he means, and he knows that I know.

But I don't know how to tell him, or what to tell him…

Our dynamic has never been the one to discuss emotional baggage, although we tell each other everything, but minus the emotions.

“I am doing…okay.” I say.

He knows I won't straight-up talk about it, and he won't bring Romie himself. Because even if he does, what can we both do from discussing that..?

S-she is gone…

They took her…

And this time—I physically pause, and I haven’t clipped the safety key—and I am just about to fall—

“Oh fuck!” Ryan says as he comes behind and catches me before I have put my ass on the floor—not so gracefully.

“You okay?” He asks me.

And I nod, as I straighten myself. Ugh, what's up with this sudden numbness?

Is this how I will be able to take my revenge?

Dad is right…I am just too weak.

But Ryan doesn't make fun of me, or scolds me about the safety key. That's just not how he is.

Instead he turns the treadmill off, puts his hand on my shoulder to pat in a ‘move’ gesture. “Let's go sit, for a sec.”

We make our way to the bench, “You know something is clearly bothering you. And I know it's heavy…so it's better if we talk about it.” He says as we sit down. He is clearly worried about me. And ugh—

I hate emotions.

I hate expressing them.

They make you an easy target.

“Don't be too harsh on yourself.” Ryan says, while studying me. “You know you can talk to me right?” He asks.

“I know…” Damn, fuck it!

“It has started happening since Romie's… death. I just freeze whenever all these feelings are bubbling in my mind…”

“Hmm… So it happens when you are overwhelmed?” he says, more to himself than to me.

“Then maybe you should express your inner emotions, so that they don't overwhelm you this way. Because bottling up just fucks with your head.” He tells me and then, because he knows me way too well, “you know emotions don't make you weak. In fact, expressing them is a sign of courage.”

“I know…but just—I feel like talking it out won't change it so why talk about it?” I ask him while facing down and massaging my forehead.

“It won't change the scenario, but it will help with your mental health.” He pats my back and then, “now will you talk?”

“Okay…” I take a deep breath and then, “I am internally dying after Romie’s death and unfortunately, not externally—” I rant it all out but he interrupts me.

“Don’t say that…” There's sadness in his own voice now. Good. I have made him sad too…

Gosh why do I just bring negativity into people's lives?! Ughhh!

“Then what should I say? I am getting married to her killer in just four days!” I say and borderline scream.

“Four days? Just four days??” He asks me. Shock makes his straight brows raise. And I just nod.

And then as if he finally picked something else, “And what do you mean by getting married to the killer? How do you know he is the killer?” He asks.

Just the thought of Zane and his irritatingly perfect appearance comes into my mind, “I know he is. We know the prime suspect will be the groom. And then I also saw the ring on his hand and that snake tattoo.” I say, with a bitter voice.

The anger makes me grate my teeth.

“He has?” He asks, and maybe the look on my face answers his question, “are you sure it's the same—”

“I am.” I said in a clipped tone.

He studies me but then he asks another question, “But he as-in who? Vance?”

“No, his twin brother, Zane Valentino Belladonna.” The fucker who fucked my life.

“Vance has a twin?” He asks, and “Wait–Zane Valentino…as in Valentino Co.?”

“Yes and yes.”

“And he is the groom… and the killer?” I clench my jaw, but nod.

“Fuck I didn't know that Vance has a twin–or Zane Valentino has a connection with Belladonnas...” He says with surprise, still there in his tone.

“He does. And that fucker has not just a connection. He is the literal heir.” I say with disgust.

“And the killer.” This time, there's anger instead of surprise in his tone.

“Yes, the killer.” I say with rage flooding my veins.

And just then, my phone rings and I put my hand in my pocket to pull it out.

“Who's it?” He asks.

“It's an unknown number.” I tell him, and he just hums in return.

I pick up the call, “Who is it?” I ask, not wasting time in greetings.

“Hi, it's me Zane.”

Zane?

What the hell?