RAIN
Chapter twelve
He’s not touched his burrito, and I don’t like that he’s not eating. I’d found his dietary plan the first night I was looking into him, so I made sure to order one with ingredients he’s allowed in a low carb tortilla.
“Do you want me to get something else?” I ask, drifting my eyes to him sitting beside me on the bed, his knees tucked to his chest. Loose blond curls float with a shake of his head. “You’re not eating,” I press.
“Not hungry,” he mumbles.
I soften my voice, pushing the plate closer. “Please eat.”
“Get out of my house, and I will,” he snaps.
I sigh and push off the bed, sliding my feet into my loafers. I even made the effort to dress up for him tonight. The least he can do is recognise that.
“Where’s my phone?” he asks.
Taking it from under the mattress, I toss it to him.
“Call the police. They won’t find me.” When I reach the doorway, my heart and still-hard cock beg me to go back and plant my ass on his bed.
Instead, I look over my shoulder at him as he stares at the lit screen.
“My world is dark and you’re bright. It doesn’t feel so heavy when I’m around you.
But you’re horribly mistaken if you think you have any chance of being rid of me. You’re mine, Rome. Mine.”
His full lips part, captivating eyes locked on mine as the light from his phone disappears, leaving the colours from the television dancing across his face.
I go to step out but stop myself, not daring to look back and be begged harder by my body to stay. My voice sounds in the darkness of the hall. “What’s your favourite flower?”
Tension thickens the air, and I don’t expect an answer, but then a quiet whisper sounds over the movie playing. “Lilies.”
“Lilies,” I echo, a smile lifting my lips. “Understood. Goodnight, baby.”
The black iron gate glistens with rain as I drive through and then stop inside, waiting for it to close and the light on the tall, beige stone wall to flick red. White stones crunch under the tires as I take off down the quarter mile driveway toward our new fucking house.
Dad chose to move to London because it’s central to many of the projects they’re conducting throughout Europe, but I swear to fucking God, it doesn’t stop raining.
I liked our apartment; it wasn’t far from the city but with enough distance that you could breathe.
We’re now an hour north of London, living on a secluded estate.
I dislike that I’m so far from Rome, and changing cars each time I go to the city then need to leave again is a thorn in my side, but it’s necessary to keep us hidden.
Tall trees sway either side of the drive as I round the water fountain, the water lit up by the green glow in the bowl. It did flick through colours, but I set it to a permanent light green.
I step out and throw the door shut, the droplets hitting my bruising cheek before sliding down my neck. I’ll have a bruise, and I’m fucking ecstatic about it.
I spin and scan the six white columns of the mansion. It’s a large house for the two of us, and Blade took the master bedroom that expands the entire third floor, but it’s Blade, so what else would you expect? A kind offer for me to occupy the biggest bedroom? Not a fucking chance.
I glance back to the fountain and smile.
Lilies.
Navigating up the slippery steps, I punch in the pin on the keypad. Throwing the door shut, I wait to hear the pad beep and the lock click, and then I glance right to the open door of the study and left to the sitting room.
It’s not uncommon for Blade to sit somewhere in the dark, smoking a cigarette and staring off into the abyss. There are times I stepped in front of him, and I could swear, he looked straight through me.
Dropping my keys to the round mahogany table, I approach through the stairs. Turning right, I stop, my heart sinking at the sight of the stitches lining Blade’s back. He has his black sweats on, a red cap backwards on his head as he flips pancakes.
I smile at the familiar scent. “Blueberry?”
“Always.” Surprising humour plays in his reply.
Mum would make blueberry pancakes every Sunday.
Once her cancer became more vicious, she could barely hold herself up, let alone make them.
So, Blade and I made them for her. I was banished to go sit beside Mum after the second time.
Blade nearly bit my head off because I was ‘doing things wrong’.
I was following every instruction Mum gave with precision, yet he deemed me unworthy of holding a spatula.
“Found them yet?” he asks in a rough tone.
“No,” I hesitantly answer.
He just nods and slides the pancakes onto a plate, beginning to pour two more.
If Blade’s cooking, entering the kitchen is fine. If he’s making pancakes specifically, don’t. So, I turn and leave.
The floorboards whine as I exit my bathroom and enter the adjoining closet, pulling on white boxers. I round the bed with a white duvet, same as Rome’s, and pass the mounted television.
I hung sheer white curtains to cover the floor-to-ceiling windows and double balcony door to match Rome’s, but I have white blackout curtains I’m planning to replace his with. I don’t like the thought of anyone even glimpsing at his silhouette.
What if he’s walking around naked? Or getting changed? They’ll see that mouth-watering body and giant fucking cock.
Here, sheer curtains are fine, unless the forest animals plan on watching me change.
Dropping into my desk chair, I turn on the monitors and quickly lose the fight to my itching fingers. So, I take my phone, pull up Rome’s number, and begin typing.
Me: Did you eat?
I stare at the loading desktop, becoming increasingly infuriated with myself.
The CCTV and traffic cameras around our apartment were spliced at the time Blade was attacked.
I’ve been digging for two weeks trying to find the IP source, but Ezra’s used countless proxies to hide his location.
So, I’ve moved on to surrounding house and ATM cameras trying to spot their car.
My best guess is that these are hired people, considering Ezra Smith, Ryan White, Sam Kidd, and Josephine Wheeler all needed to report for their weekly check in at a police station in LA.
None have the past two weeks. They were all released early on good behaviour.
On the same day. At the same time. That’s sure as fuck not a coincidence.
My phone vibrates, and I bite back a smile.
Rome: Yes.
Me: Yes? That’s all I get? One word?
Rome: Do you want a goddamn novel on each bite I took?
Me: I’d hang onto every word, baby.
Rome: Are you insane?
I begin typing but stop when another message comes through.
Rome: That was a legitimate question.
Me: I have an IQ of 160.
Rome: Is that supposed to impress me?
I snort, heat rushing to my aching cheeks.
Me: It does with most people, but you aren’t one. That must be why I like you. Hard to get is my favourite.
After not receiving a reply for another three minutes, I take my shadow phone from my drawer and pull up the app I created just for him. The circle fills to connect, and his screen flicks through IG, liking a few posts.
That’s pissing me off. He likes people’s photos. I haven’t liked anyone else’s photo since I first saw him.
I watch him click on his messages. Two thousand-eight hundred-sixty-four unread messages. He does have six million followers, but I’m feeling a murderous rage at the fact that so many people believe they can message my King.
Taking my other phone, I type another message.
Me: Unless you’re texting me at 2AM, you should be asleep.
I watch the text come through on his screen. He ignores it and continues scrolling. So, I type another.
Me: Well done in your game. Fucking hot in that uniform.
The text comes through, and no activity occurs on his phone for a few minutes. Then, my texts appear.
Rome: Don’t patronise me. I fucked up.
Me: Mistakes happen.
Rome: I shouldn’t make them.
Me: You also assisted the other two goals.
Rome: Irrelevant.
My thumbs slap against the screen.
Me: Stop putting yourself down. It’s making me mad.
Rome: I don’t care. Goodnight, Rain.
He said goodnight. Not bye or no reply…goodnight. And he claims he doesn’t want me. Lies, lies.
Me: Goodnight, baby.
I watch on my second phone—no activity takes place, meaning he’s asleep or isn’t using his phone.
My fingers caress my keys as I debate hacking into his phone camera to confirm his actions.
I haven’t yet installed cameras inside his home, but that is very much an option for the future.
The more I see him, talk to him and discover the secrets lurking inside him, the more intense my obsession with him becomes.
Just as I turn off my computer, my door swings open, and my brows knit when Blade silently hands me a clear bag and container, then takes a seat on the edge of my bed.
I look at the small scissors, tweezers, antiseptic, gauze, and gloves then sigh and drop the items on my bed.
“They aren’t supposed to come out for another three days. ”
“You’re the reason I have these. I’d take them out myself if I could reach.”
Guilt gnaws at my heart as I sit behind him and put on the gloves before I sanitise the equipment.
The scar is healing nicely, and we’re incredibly lucky the cut didn’t sever any nerves.
The weighted silence grows as I move the scissors toward the last stitch beside his spine.
Stretching his skin with my thumb and finger, I sever the ties.
He stays fixed, hardly drawing a breath.
“I won’t cut you,” I assure, using the tweezers to slowly pull out each stitch and collect them in the container.
“I’m sleeping in here tonight,” he says.
“No,” I argue. “I’m not your fucking comfort teddy, Blade. You went after Rome when I asked you not to.” Pulling out another, I hear the faint rubbing of flesh, so I peer around him, and, sure enough, his thumb and forefinger are rubbing together, his knee bouncing. “Calm down,” I whisper.
“You make me calm. She makes me calm, and I have neither of you right now.”
“I’m right here.”
“I can’t fucking touch you unless I pin you down, and I’m getting very close to doing that.”
“We aren’t fucking, Blade.”
“I didn’t say I want to fuck you, did I? I just need to…feel you.” Each time I’d woken to Blade in my bed, his hand was on my chest, over my heart, like the rhythm somehow soothed him. “I need you, Rain.”
Telling me he ‘needs me’ is the only time he ever displays any vulnerability. I know the turmoil he experiences before expressing those words.
“Fine,” I sigh in agreement. “But your hand stays on my chest. If I feel it wandering, I’ll put a hole in your palm.”
His back bounces beneath my hand. “Yeah, whatever.”
After all the stitches are removed and I’ve cleaned Blade’s back, he pulls back the comforter and slides in beside me. It takes almost an hour before he’s asleep. In the meantime, I flick through Rome’s Instagram, just as I do every night.
I’d deleted my profile a week ago, erasing all my photos with Alexa along with it. Removing them is something I should have done years ago, but until now, I couldn’t bring myself to let go of that part of my life.
I will forever appreciate the memories Alexa and I made.
Without all we survived together, I wouldn’t be the man I am today.
The breakup was one-sided, and it ravaged my heart to see her shattered in the doorway when I turned to walk away.
I was a fucking mess as I drove away, and I might be the worst prick of all in thinking what I had the few months prior… what about me?
Loving an addict is hard. I did love her. I poured everything into helping her, but you can’t help someone not willing to help themselves. I was screaming into a void day after day, begging her to open up to me, to stop taking what she was. I know she was hurting. I fucking know that, but so was I.
Blade succeeded in carving himself into her mind. I could see it in her eyes—when she looked at me, she saw a reminder of him.
I sigh and place my phone on my nightstand, staring at the trashcan beneath my desk containing the prematurely removed stitches. Then Blade’s hand weighted on my heart.
I glare at his parted lips, the black strands falling across his forehead. “You manipulative prick.”