Page 32 of The Pretty Psycho

"It's your meds," he murmured, setting both items on top of the nightstand.

"W-What do you mean, my meds?" I frowned. I didn't have meds. Or did I?

Yet, he never answered my question. He simply dropped it down and stood there, staring at me with an unreadable look on his face. Goosebumps erupted all over my skin at the fire in his eyes, and something else I didn't even want to touch with a ten-foot pole.

Something that shone like love and admiration.

Something that made my heart pitter-patter.

Something that was so far out of my reach.

"Don't look at me like that, Adrian."

"Like what?" He smiled.

"You know." I shrugged. "Like you're…" I couldn't bring myself to say those words. At least not out loud.

Like you care about me.

Like you love me.

Like you need me more than I might need you.

Like you're terrified to lose me.

Like none of what we did matters if we have each other.

I couldn't think with him standing so close. I couldn't fucking breathe, because every single time I inhaled, it was the fresh scent of his detergent with something like the aroma of the forest that trickled through my system. He was everywhere—aroundme, in me, and all I wanted was to run far away from here, because what I wanted was something I would never be able to get.

"I just want to shower and go to sleep, Adrian. I," I stammered. "If you're not gonna allow me to go anywhere else, then please. Just leave me be."

His eyes narrowed, those dark depths eating me alive. I halfway expected him to argue, to tell me what I should do, but he didn't. He nodded slowly and came closer, pulling me up into his arms just like before. I didn't have it in me to protest.

Instead I wrapped my arms around him, looking at this man, this fucking enigma, as he carried me toward the bathroom, keeping his mouth shut the entire time. He set me down on my feet, slowly removing his arms from my body, and the moment he stepped away I felt cold, the bone-deep chill spreading through my body, but it didn't last too long.

His fingers landed on the hem of my sweater, sending a completely different kind of chill all over my body. His dark, fiery gaze landed on my face, as if he was asking me for permission, making me choke on the emotions threatening to swallow me whole. Bobbing my head I let him undress me slowly, carefully, as if I were the most precious thing in his entire life.

My throat was filled with the sob threatening to erupt, choking on everything attacking me at once. He wasn't supposed to be kind. He wasn't supposed to look at me as if I was a shining star in the night sky. None of this was supposed to happen.

I wanted to disappear, to go far away from here and lick my wounds in private, but he obviously wouldn't allow it.

The tic in his cheek appeared the moment those eyes landed on the bruises on my ribs, and as my leggings dropped down, that tic only became more prominent when he saw the carved-up place that piece of shit left behind.

His fingers trembled as he lifted his hand, reaching toward the bruises first, his touch featherlight, careful not to hurt me. My breathing hitched, alerting him to my distress, and the moment his eyes slammed into mine, I knew I wasn't going anywhere.

He owned me—body, mind, and soul. He fucking owned me and I never wanted to be owned up until this moment. I hated this and loved it at the same time. I hated him for breaking me, for making me fall for him only to find all those things. But I knew my anger wasn’t because I didn't want him to win.

It came because I wanted him to win me over, so fucking badly. I wanted him to show me that pretty things were still possible for people like us. I wanted him to let me dream with him, because he was my dream and not another nightmare. He was the tether that held me to the now in this world, and I just wanted to get lost with him.

His sorrow ate me alive. The sadness I could see in the dark abyss staring at me was my unraveling.

He dragged his fingers over my bare stomach and all the way to my hip. Seconds passed as he stared at that spot, his gaze laser sharp as if he could erase it by the sheer power of his will. I wished he could. I wished I could go back in time and change what happened to me, but I couldn't.

"I'm not a victim," I rasped, hating, just fucking hating how weak my own voice sounded. He looked up, his fingers flexing as he gripped my hip in his hand, bringing me closer to him. "He didn't break me."

"I know," he grunted.

"I'm not a victim," my lower lip wobbled, my eyes filling with tears. "I'm not."

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