Chapter 13 Eva #2
“Yesterday,” he answers and my teeth clench.
Him, he talks to. Yet I’m some persona non grata.
How did I go from being sick of seeing Dan’s face every day to getting updates from others about him?
A lump clogs my throat as memories flood in.
Even when he moved out for university, Dan never stayed away for more than a couple of weeks.
Back then, I used to hate him coming home and stealing my headphones and snacks.
How did I know he would abandon me like this?
I regret not spending more time with him while I had the chance.
When I don’t feel like punching him anyway.
And still. I need to know if he is okay.
“Is he still in London or did Grandpa ship him off to Mars?” I ask with extra bite.
“And you wonder why he doesn’t return your calls,” Jack quips, lifting his cup and setting it next to the sink.
Naturally, Jack agrees with Grandpa on this matter. But I know how hard our parents worked to build their lives away from London. It took Dan less than a day to abandon their legacy and claim Grandpa’s. That’s what kills me the most.
“I’m not wrong about this,” I say, jutting my chin out.
“If you say so.” Jack nods. “Not my business either way. I’ll leave you to it. Thanks for the tea.”
“He is ok, though, right?” I blurt out, before he leaves.
“As okay as he can be,” Jack replies, his hand pausing on the doorknob.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re not the only one who lost your parents, Eva.” Jack shrugs, then exits the flat, leaving me frozen in the kitchen that suddenly feels ice cold.
I decide to have a quiet night alone in the flat.
Penny wanted me to join her at one of her parties, Thea invited me to tag along to her group study, but I’m not in the mood to socialize tonight.
My brain feels too cluttered, an invisible weight wearing me down.
I hop into the shower, staying a little too long, hoping it will drain some of the burden away. It doesn’t.
Then I begin working on my term assignment. But two long hours later, I only have three paragraphs, and even that warrants a Select All and Delete. I can’t focus, and no matter how hard I try, the words don’t stop dancing. My eyes lift to the clock. It’s half past midnight.
Okay, this assignment is a lost cause. Time to give up.
I sink into my cozy bed with freshly washed sheets, but decide not to take my medication.
Instead, I stare at the ceiling, chewing my lips.
But neither sleep nor peace wants anything to do with me tonight.
Thea’s words sit on my skin, burning an itch I can’t scratch.
I groan and pull out my phone, then bring up Instagram to do something I’ve been actively trying to resist for days.
I search for Mason Grant.
His profile picture is a dark photo of him on the bike with his helmet on. I’m surprised he didn’t use a smug photo of himself; surely, he has many. The man has two expressions—smug face and murder face.
Of course, he has a large following, including Penny, Thea, Caden, and Charlotte Pike.
Most of his photos are bike shots, hilltop views, and snaps from his clubs, though he can’t be seen in many of those.
I find one with his mother outside what must be the Grant Manor.
She is beautiful, athletic and youthful.
Her long, honey-brown hair trails over a brown leather jacket.
Though she has a warm presence, even from a photo, she gives me the chills.
Because that woman right there is a legit mafia daughter.
I don’t realize how long I have been stalking him until I check the time again. Half past one.
My heart starts to race as the dark, lonely shadows slither toward me, crawling across the floor, slipping under the door, drawing closer with their cold fingers, ready to wrap around my throat, and suddenly I can’t breathe.
Flustered, I reach for my nightstand in desperation, my fingers trembling as I pull open the medicine caps and swallow my melatonin.
Click!
The front door unlocks. I close the app, place my phone and pills on the nightstand, and close my eyes, willing my pulse to quiet.
Twenty seconds later, my bedroom door opens, then shuts. Ignoring the pounding of my heart, I try to stay still as heavy footsteps make their way toward me. A mixture of leather and smoke floods my airways, my skin pebbling as I feel him in touching distance.
And then he does.
It takes all my will not to twitch as his fingers brush my skin, pulling the hair away from my face and tucking it behind my ear. He strokes my cheeks, then my lips, his warm breath washing my face.
Did red flush my cheeks?
Did he feel my pulse race?
Maybe not, because his weight shifts, then he moves away. A moment later, the leather on my armchair squeaks and the window creaks open, followed by the click of the lighter and the scent of nicotine.
I try to keep my breathing even as I lie there for long minutes, with Mason Grant—my midnight stranger—watching me sleep.
As he has been every night since he marked me.
How do I know?
Because I wake up every morning tied to my bed with the lingering taste of smoke on my lips.