Chapter 11 BETH
BETH
I like being yours. I would love to be yours.
“So…your vacation home, huh?” I asked Callan as he walked behind me–more like hovering, because I could almost feel his breath ghosting over my skin from the level of proximity.
My phone buzzed again and a tiny disapproving frown materialised on my face. I lifted my hand that held the phone, my finger quick as it swiped the decline button.
I loved Kenzo. And there was nothing I appreciated more than the way he always went out of his way to look out for me, protect me. But he was really bugging me right now. Especially knowing I was hanging out with my fair, prince charming.
‘Don’t be quick to judge,’ a wise man once said. But Kenzo only saw Callan once, from afar, and he painted this questionable, bizzare picture of him. He was sure Callan had dirty, hidden intentions.
But I was wise enough to tread with caution, and knew enough to grab my shoes and run if things went south.
Callan was a kind man as far as I knew. And if eventually this was a mask, all I knew was that he was kind to me, at least. That kindness was enough, even if it was fleeting, even if the mask would soon rip off and reveal this mean, vile thing Kenzo had dreamt about.
And really, I once did track. I ran quite like a cheetah. So if this charming smile ever turned into a sneer with his fangs bared, eyes blood-red, I would run like a damn cheetah.
“It’s kind of a guesthouse?” His voice floated in the quiet around us as the polished stone stairs opened to a rather large bungalow. Its glass shone like water, black bricks anchoring its frame, while green flowers spilling warmth over its edges.
Spontaneously offering to follow him here was a reckless decision, yes. But beholding the beauty of this simplistic home was worth it.
He had said something about business-related stuff that he needed to attend very early in the morning, so he was sleeping over at Braemont and returning to Glenfallow tomorrow.
I had so kindly asked him which hotel he usually lodged at whenever he had to stay the night in town, and he said it wasn’t a hotel, that he had a place. I said I wanted to see the place…for some reason I hoped to find out soon before Kenzo would come and drag me out of here by my ear.
The thing was, I was just being greedy…like always. Because I was always so hungry that whenever someone offered me a finger, I would crave the whole arm instead. I just wanted more time with Callan, more time than he was probably willing to offer me.
I wanted more chances, more of his strange, enigmatic and refreshing presence.
I didn’t care if following him to the house was like walking into a lion’s den.
Being in his presence felt like I stepped into a far away land, and I wanted more of that feeling.
We could just sit for hours, merely staring at the sky, and I would be content with it.
Kenzo said it was a bad idea following a stranger to a private place.
But the man walking before me looked like he would apologise to a piece of furniture if he bumped into it, or host a burial for the ant he mistakenly stepped on.
He didn’t seem to have a mean bone in his body.
And I really hoped I was right and Kenzo was wrong…
which was a rare occurrence–Kenzo’s hunch, that is.
“It’s really beautiful,” I smiled, pressing hard on my phone’s power button until I felt the vibration of it turning off.
Now, peace and quiet…and death, with my blood spilled all over this clean floor if Kenzo was right and I was just na?ve and stupid…again.
“Thank you,” he replied.
The house was quieter than the outside, all soft lights, black furniture, echoing halls and empty rooms.
I was a bit startled seeing armed soldiers hanging at shadowed corners, eyes like steel, arms lined with ink. They didn’t move, barely even breathing. Like a statue, they just stood there, watching, hunting for danger that would never come.
Their stares were powerful and intimidating, threatening to open sealed doors and crack open long buried secrets. With a glance at them one more time, I nearly dropped to the floor, confessing to crimes I didn’t even remember committing.
But with Callan behind me, I felt a layer of confidence. I could make my jelly-like legs move.
“Wow,” I breathed, my face pressed against the sliding door that led from the kitchen to the stone terrace, my heart stirring in awe of the infinity pool lying still beyond it.
I had only ever seen infinity pools in movies. The indoor pool at Kenzo’s house came close, but it wasn’t quite the same, though it had been enormous.
“It’s so pretty.”
The water glowed turquoise, still and inviting, awakening an ache in my chest, the need to dive in, to vanish under the stillness, disappear for a moment.
“Do you swim?” He came behind me, the feel of his presence weighing down on me, rising hairs on my skin. And he wasn’t even that close. He was more than an arm’s length away from me.
“Yeah,” I whispered softly, gently pushing the door to the side, the loud screeching sound slicing through the quiet. “Sometimes.”
A soft gasp broke past my lips when again, I was met with more soldiers, three of them, hanging in three different angles, an invisible line connecting them into a triangle.
Why were they everywhere? Jesus Christ. So scary.
When I asked why soldiers were always with him, he said it was a requirement as a Marshal of special operations. Marshal sounded like a really big title. But I didn’t know that it warranted for so many soldiers breathing down his neck.
“Would you love to swim?” he asked in his usual soft tone, as though I would break like glass if his voice was louder.
“Can I?”
“Yes.” He nodded, stepping gently into the terrace.
From the corner of my eyes, I saw him exchange looks with the soldiers, a silent command, perhaps, and the next second, they were gone, their heavy footfalls vanishing into a quiet echo.
“You?” I asked, walking toward the pool bench and dropping my tote bag. “Do you swim?” I bent over, pulling off my sneakers and black socks.
“No.” He sank into one of the benches, right next to where I placed my bag, legs crossed as he settled his iPad on his lap, ready to work.
“Why don’t you swim?” I pried.
Was this beautiful water just for aesthetics?
“I don’t like the waters.” His gaze was on the screen of his device, face blank of expression. “Never attempted learning how to swim.”
“What a bummer.” I pouted. “Swimming is therapeutic, though.”
“Don’t worry.” His gaze lifted to acknowledge me briefly, eyes warm. “I’ll just sit here and watch.”
“Okay.” I nodded with a beam. “Watching is also fun.”
I turned away, walking closer to the edge of the pool, the floor damp against my feet as the water invited me with a gentle ripple.
Taking in a deep breath, eyes closed, I hooked my fingers under the hem of my grey shirt, pulling it over my head.
And I heard it, a quiet, strangled inhale.
It was sharp, involuntarily. I knew what caused that reaction.
The straps of my black bra weren’t enough shield for my scars like my shirt was.
They glared at him; the lash marks–angry, crooked, and unfading, a reminder that I was born into darkness and would never be able to run from it.
This was why I didn’t pay too much attention to swimming anymore even though I loved the silence beneath the surface.
I couldn’t use the school pool because it had been claimed by athletes who treated it like their personal kingdom.
I couldn’t tell everyone to disappear, to give me a few minutes alone because I wanted to hide, because I carried a secret I didn’t want them to see.
Everyone was wearing a mask. Mine were stitched into my clothes that covered a body carved with secrets. Scars that were too loud, too unforgiving, and too impossible for someone like Callan Raskov to ignore.
He was still staring at me. I could feel heat blooming on my neck. But I was too afraid to look at him, afraid of what I would see in those fiery eyes, afraid of what it would do to me.
So I took off my jeans and dove into the water. There was a splash, a ripple, the effect of body slamming into the quiet, then as the water settled, the world seemed to soften immediately, sounds fading.
Just the way it should be.
I folded myself on the tiled floor, legs crossed like a monk in prayer, palms opened, lungs slowly burning as the second ticked by.
This was my ritual, my private, suspended between drowning and breathing…holding on or letting go.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 16—
Then I heard it, the sound of something crashing into the water above me, shattering my quiet. My eyes snapped open and I found it, a body sinking clumsily, violently, legs kicking, arms flailing, yet fighting, reaching for something…for someone.
Callan was drowning, yet his eyes were scanning the blue of the water, searching for…me?
I shot up immediately, kicking back toward him as he sunk deeper. I parted my ways up until I reached him, grabbing him by his upper body, and pulling him up with me.
Only ever visiting the gym once in my life, I had fragile limbs that failed at holding his weight. But this was someone’s life, and I needed to save it, so the adrenaline came, aiding me in successfully pulling us to the edge.
By the edge, he leaned, coughing, choking, gasping desperately for air. His hands clutched the floor as his body shook either from shock or cold. He did feel cold beneath my touch.
“It’s okay,” I murmured, my voice clinical as I rubbed his back…though I doubted that was enough to erase the trauma of almost drowning. “You’re okay.” I added nonetheless.
When he woke up today and stepped out of his house, I was sure he didn’t think of dying. And death just literally dangled itself before him. He must really be in shock.
I lifted my gaze briefly, scanning the environment, but saw no one. Just us.