Page 35 of Scary Suitor

Teary eyes search my face, and it’s adorable to watch her remaining bravery shatter when pity is absent from me.

“One more chance,” I say, rubbing the tears from her cheeks. “I’m giving you one more chance to be a good girl.”

My offer smothers her like a wet blanket. I demand her to breathe, pushing her bottom lip open and squeezing her jaw. She hiccups, and her worry dissolves into more lifeless tears.

“Her death isn’t your fault,” I say, nudging my chin to the bloodied woman. “But the next one will be.”

I do things for a reason, and this one is a lesson for Alina. I glare at the shaky parting of her lips, no doubt a rebuttal to what I said. Her pitiful nerves deflate into sea foam.

“Whoever you run to for help,” I bait tauntingly, the glass reflecting a devilish glow of green in my deranged gaze, “you have nobody to blame but yourself.”

Alina will run to Finny; luckily, I know where she sleeps. The convenient thing is, Alina can walk next door and watch me do a gruesome encore.

“Tell me, pretty,” I purr after a wry chuckle. “Am Iyourmonster?”

My hunger for her obedience is insatiable.

Chapter Nine

Alina

“A trial run,” he had said after he patted my thigh. “We’ll spend tomorrow together and fix your attitude before we go home.”

Sometime during the car ride to his elegant home, he had called me a spoiled brat and said that he wouldn’t be tolerating my tantrums anymore. There were more things said, but I was in a spell, held hostage by the haunting memories of his brutality.

He’s not harmless, I think as I lay on the bed, eating my naïve words.

It’s a strange sensation. If I put those memories an inch behind my mind, it just seems like a sleepless night from work stress. But when the teeniest trickle of remembrance creeps through the cracks, the tsunami of anxiety slams into me.

The duel in my head finally subsides when the first break of sunlight hits the horizon. Rays of warmth stroke my face yet pierce my eyes with ruthlessness. My body is too numb to sense the pain, but the man next to me does.

Cassio flexes the arm around my waist, tugging me snugger to his chest, and raises the same arm to the side of my head. He turns my face toward his chest, the steady heartbeat thumping on my forehead, and his lips linger on my hairline.

He sleeps like Wisteria vines, twisted limbs shaping around my restless body with festering poison in my veins and death in my heart. But his dreams are fragile, and one nudge will have his green eyes spin in an iridescent tempest.

When they do open, it’s a light shade of starry-eyed green. They are kind, taking in my blank features in silence. Then they close, and his hands tangle in my hair to angle my nose to his collarbone as he lets out a sigh. He tousles my hair, squeezes my skull, and clenches my nape—actions confused as if he’s checking if I’m real.

He shuffles closer, our chests meeting to synchronize our heartbeats. He wins with a conquering pulse when mine speeds up unwillingly.

Fear is on the tip of my tongue, but my brain has already accepted my predicament.

Don’t push him, the logical voice says,he’ll hurt you.

I want to sleep and have a few hours of peace.

I’m tired of conceding to my body’s desire to have him close. I’m so tired of thinking about yesterday’s blood and pain, and I’m so incredibly tired of being stuck in the middle that is hellbent on being the abyss. And I’m tired of fearing him, even when he repeatedly promised he would never hurt me—only to undermine my feelings, because “I know what’s best for you, pretty, so don’t worry your little head off.”

Can someone tell me what to do?

How do I healthily process my feelings without losing a piece of me?

Everything is a mess, but his muscled arm around my waist reminds me he’s the small bit of order that is holding the pieces together.

He presses a chaste kiss to my hair, murmuring a gruff “good morning.” The room is too quiet, making his voice sound enormous. Kneading my hip as a silent warning, my mouth parts meekly to return the greeting.

Cassio lands one longer kiss on my temple and untangles his heavy limbs from mine, then he leaves the bed without looking at me. The expanse of his back muscles tightens as he cocks his head to the side, and my heart mimics the pop.

His ink is an insignia of evil. Still, the pattern is beautiful on his back. I close my eyes, curbing the longing to trace the sharp lines, and grip the comforter tighter. The fabric doesn’t yield, hurting my fingers further as I grasp the abstract door to shove the unpleasant memories back.

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