Page 31 of Imprisoned Obsession

I swallow dryly as I watch the striking ink ripple across his back. “Elio?”

His thick arms stop rummaging through the drawer, but he doesn’t turn around. He hums as he waits for the question.

It’s too late to back away now. He’ll become suspicious, and I would rather that he doesn’t try to find out what I might be thinking.

“Are you alone?” I ask, promptly regretting how I phrased it.

“I live alone,” he says as he closes the drawer.

His diabolical evil is dormant, placated. Provoking him, intentionally or not, is a sure way to make the simmering fear in my gut run wild. Last night’s tides have settled; I’d be risking my sanity to stir up his evil tendencies again.

“I meant,” I whisper under my breath, hesitantly. “About your parents. Where are they?”

He has a beautiful back. Broad and thick with sharp grooves and a strong image. His shoulders carry a weight far beyond my understanding. The ashen scars that have eaten away the obsidian ink are stretched across his whole back.

It’s not because of his bulky muscles. The ink is being distorted by the tension radiating from his scarred skin.

I’ve touched a nerve.

“Dead,” he says tersely.

I sense he stopped before saying whatever he was about to add when he glares over his shoulder at me.

“You will never see them,” he sneers.

Family can be a touchy subject, and I make a note to be mindful about mentioning any related matters.

Shame rips my confidence to shreds, and my curiosity just brought out a nasty reminder that Elio has murderous tendencies.

I can’t believe I forgot he killed Janice.

I know not to push my luck with him. In a matter of seconds, he can let his brutality take ownership of my throat.

I like this side of him better, the calmer and sweeter side that doesn’t make my heart pound from fear or nameless paranoia.

I don’t have to be afraid of him every second.

Why can’t I want something too? I want what’s mine. I hate living in the limbo of indecisiveness. Is he good, or is he bad? Where does he fall on the spectrum of being human?

Is he even human?

I want definite answers, not “maybe” in all the decisions I make. I want normalcy.

Is that too much to ask?

My pulse skips a beat, but I get a laughable surge of bravery fueled by injustice. Despite the warning bells in my head, I shove my hands between my thighs and take a deep breath.

“I have a family,” I mutter lowly.

My statement doesn’t seem to distract him from making breakfast. He moves with fluidity and unreadable tension coursing through the lines of his back. Elio doesn’t look at me, which is probably a good thing. I deflate when he does glance at me with glaring amber eyes.

They send a profound message, more vindictive than his baritone could possibly convey.

“They’re looking for me,” I try again. “We’re a close-knit family, and they must be worried about me—”

Elio hisses coldly, “I’m not interested in your former life, little girl.”

I freeze like a deer caught in the headlights. My eyes struggle to blink as I dumbly stare at his scarred back with tormented thoughts flooding my mind.

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