Chapter 22 #2
“How long have you been a dancer?” I ask, wanting to keep the conversation going. Anything just to hear her voice.
“Since as long as I can remember. I’ve never known anything else. It’s the one constant thing in my life. Everything else always disappears one way or another.”
Something in my heart cracks at that. Maybe it’s because I know that feeling. Where dancing is her constant, Jac is mine.
“Your parents?” I ask cautiously. I don’t want to push her too far—I know the topic of my parents is something that even I wouldn’t want to talk about.
She huffs bitterly. “Slow down, cowboy. We’re only just getting started here.” She finishes on a light, genuine giggle. My throat seizes up at the sweet sound.
“Fair enough.” I nod, placing my arm under my head.
Lightning strikes, momentarily illuminating the room.
“How many people have you killed?” she asks. The question is steady. Sure. Like she’s used to this. My pulse picks up as I think of all the ways this could’ve happened to her.
“Didn’t you just tell me to slow down?” I chuckle. She tuts.
It’s not as easy as just holding the knowledge of what we do.
She would have to swear to take it to the grave with her, and as much as I want her involved in every part of my life, I can’t guarantee that she won’t run and tell the authorities.
I didn’t think this through. The one thing I want to do is make Camila mine, but getting her involved in my world is the last thing I want to do.
“I’m not scared of you, Xander.”
I know that now. I think.
I roll over to my front, leaning on my elbows and craning my neck to look up at the bed where Camila is cuddled up in the foetal position, her long, honey hair spread out behind her like waves on an ocean.
She’s staring out at the storm, eyes sparkling in the moonlight, and I wish that I could lie next to her and get lost in them.
She feels my gaze because she sits up and faces me, my black t-shirt slipping off her right shoulder, the moon casting perfect shadows along her collarbone.
“I’ve lost count,” I admit.
No reaction.
Just a plain, unreadable stare.
I swallow, bile suddenly rising up in my throat.
“Goodnight,” she murmurs, disappearing back into the safety of the quilts.
My mind and heart are racing. What did she mean? Is she okay with the fact I kill people? Am I going to wake up tomorrow morning and she’ll be gone?
She can’t.
I shoot up, glancing over at her sleeping form.
I can’t risk it.
I wait until I’m a hundred percent sure she’s asleep, then I creep over to the wardrobe and quietly pull one of the bottom drawers open to spare chains that Jac left here after installing a punching bag in his room.
With painstaking slowness, I pull them out and lay them next to the bed.
The cool metal clicks together, echoing quietly.
My fingers twitch with the need to touch her. To get into bed with her, if only for a few minutes to be close to her. I feel like a ticking time bomb. The longer I keep suppressing my urges, the more they build up, and it’s all going to blow up in my face.
My forehead breaks out in a sweat. I can’t handle it anymore.
Standing next to her sprawled-out frame, I reach out my shaky hand towards her. I pause and watch as my hand trembles, millimetres from her face.
Don’t do it.
Let’s be honest, that little angel on my shoulder advising me has nothing on the devil on the other one, whispering every depraved thought and begging me to just get one taste and keep her with me forever. Even if I am about to chain her to this bed, and she might hate me for it.
Against my better judgement, I connect the pads of my fingers with her temple, and it’s like a warm blanket is draped over me.
I run them down the side of her cheeks, towards her plump, partly open mouth.
I take in her curves, silhouetted by the city lights from outside.
She looks fucking incredible. My mind swirls with thoughts of buying her a studio.
Then, she’ll be able to ‘quit’ DL. Not that she’ll have much control over that.
I can buy the studio, then fire her. She won’t have to endure being leered at every night.
Working till late in the night, then sleeping all day.
She can focus on herself and her studio, and I’ll be there to watch every minute of her chasing her dreams.
My mouth twitches upwards. I separate my fingers and run my hand through her silky strands, which makes her move her head an inch. I snatch my hand away and hold my breath, not making a single movement. If she opens her eyes, I’m done for.
She turns and faces away from me. My chest slackens with relief.
Taking one of the chains from the floor, I carefully bring her wrist to the metal frame of the bed and wrap the chain around it, tying her to the bed. It’s loose, not the best form of restraint, but at least I’ll hear if she’s leaving. I round the bed and do the same to the other wrist.
Incredibly, she remains asleep.
Grinning, I move to the single chair by the windows, pulling out my sketchbook from underneath it and opening it up to a fresh page.
I begin to drag the coal down the page. I can’t see well, so I flick my eyes to her sideways frame and follow with my hand on the paper, capturing her calm, sleeping frame. The hair that’s sprawled out behind her, and a little bit of the storm outside, shading in every shadow and highlight.
A goddess in slumber.