Chapter Three
Hannah
Vik’s home hums a tune of emptiness.
It’s a ghastly sound that I’ve rarely experienced before, living in an apartment block in the heart of the city. Without music filling the air, from two doors down, or the sound of overhead neighbors clomping around their living room, there’s little to stop the bone-chilling silence.
I fear quiet most of all. When everything falls silent, there’s nothing to stop my thoughts from returning to the mistakes I’ve made.
Before long, the nightmares of my past are there too, refusing to stay buried.
Every time I shut my eyes, images of that horrible night flash across my mind as if I were seeing them afresh.
I hear my parents screaming, tires screeching, and the sound of sirens far out in the distance.
If I focus hard enough, I can still see his face. Bloody and bruised, and drifting in and out of lucidity.
“Fuck,” I grumble and jump off the bed. I’ve been sitting around for an hour, maybe closer to two, figuring out where I go from here.
Obviously, it isn’t going well.
When I make my way out of the room, I’m confronted by the full length of Vik’s house. Our rooms are at opposite ends of the building, and I actually have to squint to even see his bedroom door, at the furthest end, down the long corridor.
I find it interesting that he chose length over verticality. In my head, I’ve always pictured billionaire tech types living in skyscrapers that mimic their office buildings instead of this stretched-out dwelling. Yet, somehow, the place suits Vik much better than one of those ever could.
He’s been reclusive since the day we met. When we were younger he rarely left his bedroom, other than to go to school or the gym. Now his home reflects that same personality perfectly.
Even with so much space, he’s locked himself in the furthest corner where no one can reach him. All the space for guests is in an entirely separate section of the building. He can live his own private life, while the rest of the world carries on around him.
I don’t know if it makes me happy to see he hasn’t changed, or if I feel sorry for him.
I know the pain and anguish he must be living in.
His strange relationship with people started long before our parents got married.
I heard stories, over the years, about what happened to his mom, but no one ever told me the full tale, seeing as I was a kid and all.
All I managed to learn is that his mother died and Vik found her body. I couldn’t tell you where my stepdad was at the time, but I can’t imagine how anyone could be normal after seeing something like that.
“Vik?” I call, reaching the end of the hallway. I don’t want to startle him if he’s in the living room. The lack of response means I must be alone.
I make my way to the kitchen, ashamed that I can’t wrestle with my loneliness for more than an hour, especially after Vik has had a lifetime of horror weighing on his shoulders.
Still, my pity party brings its own resolution. I want and need to get out of here before I become a burden to him. As strange as Vik’s offer is, it’s ultimately kind. But it isn’t a long-term solution to my problems. The only way to do that is by finding a damn job.
I grab a glass of water, and slide my phone out of my pocket, scrolling through the most recent online job listings. I actually find one that looks promising, so I search out the clinic’s details and give them a call.
“Mayard Clinic, how can we help you, today?” a female voice answers.
“I’m calling about the position you have listed as a junior nurse,” I say, stifling a dejected sigh.
Applying through the platforms feels like a waste of time. My previous employers have already dragged my name through the mud and, once any potential clinics or hospitals see it, they’ll scrap my application without a second thought.
However, getting in touch directly might give me the edge I’ve been lacking.
“Ah, okay. Well, we have an application process online which yields the best results for our screening—”
The word screening makes me ache inside.
“You can send your resume through and we’ll get back in touch if we think you’ll be a good fit,” the voice continues.
“Yes, of course,” I say, putting on my best professional voice.
“I did already try to go through that process, but I had an issue at the end of it. It wouldn’t let me press submit.
I am more than willing to send you an email with all my details, though.
I’ve got them right in front of me, so I can do it straight away. ”
“Well, you sound like a lovely girl and your determination is something we really look for at the Mayard Clinic. Why don’t you send it and I’ll take a look,” she says.
Oh. My. God.
Has it genuinely been this easy the whole time? Moving away from platforms that show my worst side, and trying to engage with an actual human?
I send the email directly from my phone without hanging up, then bring it back to my ear once it’s done.
“You should have it any second now,” I say.
“Let me see here,” she mumbles to herself. “Ah, here it is. Hannah Clarke, is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“Miss Clarke, your experience in the field far exceeds the junior nurse requirements,” she states.
She isn’t wrong, either. I’ve fallen so far. From being next in line for the head nurse position to begging for the scraps of a beginner once more. But there isn’t much I can do about that.
“Yes, but I’d rather not jump the gun. I’m willing to work my way up and prove my worth.” I’d say anything to get the job.
Who am I kidding? I’d do anything just to get an interview, let alone the position itself. It’s been months since I lost my job and I’ve gotten by selling my things to make ends meet. It’s why I arrived here so empty-handed.
So, there isn’t much left to do but start from scratch. I will take what I can get and give it my all to prove I’m still worthy.
“Are you sure you’d—” she falls silent before finishing the question. The gap persists until my nerves coil into a tight knot in my belly.
“I’m not sure if we got cut off,” I say.
No answer.
She’d recognized my name.
Shit.
I make my way over to the corridor that separates the west wing from the rest of the house.
I call Vik’s name one more time. For comfort, I suppose.
I stare down the corridor while I wait, watching the doors of the forbidden rooms for any sign of movement.
I turn my head to catch it, listening for any squeak or sound he might make.
Would he shout out a response, or would his reserved nature have him speak and hope I hear?
Either way, nothing comes back. I peer out the front door and see that his car is gone from the driveway.
He slipped out without saying anything. It shouldn’t upset me, but it does.
I walk back to my bedroom, my head hanging low. Guess I’ll have to try again later.
***
I cried from the moment I fell onto my new bed until teary-eyed exhaustion whisked me into a turbulent slumber.
Now, enough hours have passed that a swollen full moon has replaced the sun, lighting my room through the still-open curtains.
It’s beautiful, and an ethereal glow washes over me like a blanket of reassurance.
However, my body has other plans than just enjoying the moment. With a loud, desperate rumbling, my belly announces its hunger. The sound of it would convince anyone that it’s starving.
I leave my room and see the kitchen light is on at the end of the corridor. That can only mean Vik’s home. My pulse starts racing. I can’t decide if it’s from anxiety about sleeping the day away or from the exciting thought of seeing him again.
The kitchen is empty, but I hear movement from the laundry room behind it. There is grunting, the sound of heaving and cupboards slamming, and a general air of annoyance with every action.
Ah shit, he’s had a bad day.
“Hey, Vik,” I say, fending off the shiver in my voice. I don’t want him to think I heard anything. If I pretend everything’s all right, he might pretend the same.
“Hannah.” His voice is bone-chillingly cold.
I step out from behind the island that separates me from the kitchen, cautiously.
“I’m gonna make something to eat. Would you like to join m—”
Vik steps out of the laundry room before I can finish my question. The action shouldn’t be enough to knock the words out of my mouth, but it does. Vik is not wearing a full suit and tie as I expected. He’s standing in nothing but a pair of black boxers that hug his densely muscular thighs.
However, it’s not his thighs that catch my attention.
It’s the bulging package straining against the front of his underwear.
I’d gasp if it wasn’t so damn awkward already.
Of course, him walking around half-naked isn’t a problem, per se.
I’m in his house after all and he shouldn’t feel he has to change his habits for me, but seeing him like this is wrong.
Especially since I’m locked onto parts I should never see.
The rest of his body is a great distraction, though.
His broad shoulders, thick muscular chest, and sharply defined six-pack are a lot to take in.
His defined muscles are the canvas for a myriad of tattoos that stretch over his pecs and down his right arm.
Without seeing it, I can tell his back is also littered with them.
God, get a grip.
I have to fight to stay focused on his face instead of the inked body he usually keeps hidden beneath several layers of clothing. But, as soon as I meet his gaze, I regret it more than ogling the rest of him. His stone-cold face doesn’t give anything away, but his blue eyes are burning with fury.
“What did you say?” he asks, stepping closer to me.
And with that, my head instinctively drops. Not to stare at him, but from nervousness. That’s when I notice that his artwork acts as a cover for old scars beneath the tattoos. Scars from cuts and scrapes that no one should have in such abundance.
There’s one place in particular, square in the middle of his chest, where jagged scars circle a long, surgical cut.
“You hungry?” I ask meekly, as I tilt my head to the side. “Want something to eat?”
He stops walking, inches away from me, and his hand moves up to my face slowly. He presses his palm against my cheek, guiding my face back to his.
My heart skips a beat on the first contact, and my unease is amplified by a strange, familiar scent that I never expected to smell on him. It’s coppery, stale, and unpleasant.
“Not yet,” he says. The corner of his mouth twitches before he turns and leaves.
I have no time to wonder why he chose those words, and not not now, not tonight, or whatever else he might be famished for.
All I can do is wonder why Vik smells like blood.