Page 27 of Stained Protector

“When you ran,” he utters, a raw crack in his voice stings my heart. “It hurt.”

I jolt at the bitterness in his tone, my eyes reaching his with shock as the muscles near them tighten.

It stays and plagues me, rewinding repeatedly, and scratches the surface of my guilt. I never want to see that expression again. The third time’s the charm, the saying goes, but the time I denied our friendship and this instance become feed for nightmares.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry,” he avows sincerely, the pain singes in his husky tone. “I won’t bring it up again.”

His emotions lay bare, shredded by my hands, and bleeding on the floor because I couldn’t make up my mind. It should be easy, but every time I stand firm on my decision to not accept him, the words kill themselves in my throat.

“It’s not your fault!” I protest carefully when a glimpse of hope flickers in his saddened gaze. “I was surprised and didn’t know how to answer. I just needed space.”

Yes, space… that’s vital. Surviving two attacks by an insane individual is bound to leave trauma, and the best thing for me is to see a therapist to not let the attacks build resentment and anxiety.

“A lot of things happened so quickly, and I’m running on fumes.”

I thought about my life in general, what I’d do, and where I’d be in the next ten years. I was going with the motions, the flow of a routine, when I was forced out of my comfort zone and into the arms of a man I hardly knew.

Maybe this is the extreme version of taking someone on a Halloween date; fear ignites arousal, mixing in prior attraction, so it boils down to adrenaline-induced deception.

“I don’t know what to think,” I admit as I trace the column of his throat to the striking angle of his jawline.

It ticks and tightens in a split second, and I’d overlook it if the vein on the side of his throat wasn’t bulging.

“About you,” I add, undoubtedly as a survival instinct.

He shifts, the sun flaunting halo waves on his body. I notice the sun really likes him. It always casts heavenly light no matter where he is. The beloved sun-child is an ageless tale that ends with calamity because the moon can’t see them. The stars can; they’re trapped behind the sapphire windows where it meets the aquatic souls.

His eyes are terrifying, the most beautiful weapon I’d willingly succumb to.

He’ll watch me die, bleed on the canvas, and stain the new brushes, creating a meaningless piece of art where only he can appreciate and understand the meaning of the strokes. Abandoning all the emotions I’m not ready to face, I want to be his muse.

The roaring pulses savagely claw at my ribs, shaking them like a prison cage, and hiss promises to be a good girl if he’ll take me—spread me out on silk sheets, explore the soft skin with precision, and bring the cowardly part of me to life on his canvas.

His pretty muse, he’d say, and I’d preen with pride.

There’s a difference between a muse and a lover. He can discard a muse once he squeezes every drop of inspiration. I’ll be hurt for a couple of weeks and lick my wounds in the corner. But a lover has feelings drifting through kisses and an unbroken union, so it’ll be a lonely fight against the menacing monster my wretched feelings breathed life to.

“I will be myself,” he murmurs distractedly, “if you still don’t want me, then I’ll leave.”

What does he mean by being himself?

A fierce glare accompanied by terse silence stews and stirs the air with desperation—and in an effort to pull back the hostility edging over his lashes, his face claims a resemblance of a vigilant snake.

Then he smiles and becomes the charmer as daylight shrinks his dark pupils nearly to a sliver.

“It’d be cruel to stay friends, don’t you think?” he asks, and he pleads for mercy through a pinched smile.

What was that? It’s as if a different person was there, gripping my arms with bruising power to prove he and Levi share a face.

I don’t want this, him, and whatever he’s doing. I want the one who talks in soft tones and smiles like it can dissipate spring’s rainstorm.

“I don’t—”

He presses a finger to my lips and rubs the bottom flesh with an inkling of leaked cruelty. Echoes of a voice telling me to run seems to vanish as he gathers my stiff body closer to his shaking body, his breath puffing over my temple while his chest jolts another tremor.

He’s laughing. He’s crying. Or he’s overwhelmed and desperate. A part of me wants to care, but my sixth sense grunts in aversion. Could it be that he’s playing a character? A role that fits a scheme, a protective figure to guide me to the light, or a predator luring prey to his territory under pretenses.

But my heart thumps staunchly, crying for his arms to hold me, and I yearn for the kindness in the special smile he gives.

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