Page 24 of Beautiful Deception

“Do you want your or my alibi?” Remo questions, “One of us is always with her.”

That’s wrong. I recall them being gone at times; I assumed they were touring the villa, which has a lot of history. However, Remo’s presence does have this unconventional way of either being demanding or doesn’t exist, a ghost to an extent.

Was he watching me the whole time? How does he have time to look into Kimberly, my bedroom, and Peter’s poisoning? Does he just clone himself?

“That leaves Ms. Kimberly and Mr. Morgon,” Dr. Kian ponders loudly.

As I overpower the grogginess, my eyes peel open to see the man with gold-rimmed glasses smiling down at me. My heart skips a tiny beat at his handsome face, heat flushing my cheeks as his breath fans over my lashes.

“Good to see you awake.”

My shaky elbows collapse on the soft bed, and my face mushes into the pillow as I struggle to sit up. Remo grips my palm tightly and tugs, rotating my body to let air into my lungs, but he doesn’t let go. His calloused finger draws across my palm, sending tingling flutters down my spine as my fingers wrap around his.

They’re so fixated on me, so openly possessive when their eyes burn shame into my skin—the shame of liking their attention. A silent threat is in their focus, a narrow javelin of hurtful promises, and it breathes to life when one of them utters simple words.

“Peter is fine,” Dr. Kian reassures, almost saddened by the news. “He hit his head on his way down.”

“Unconscious,” Remo adds, and the pity is palpable. “The mess was hard to clean.”

I pushed him down the stairs. The memory is fresh, yet my heart is calm and rocking to a steady pace of the pendulum after escaping from timelessness.

I committed a crime. Trauma, distress, queasiness—I feel nothing but content.

I hurt my kidnapper. The law of retaliation feels hysterically addictive, and a cruel part of me wished I shoved him hard enough to snap his neck. He’s worth the trouble; after all, Peter buried me underground and hoped someone would find me before I ran out of oxygen.

Whatever his reason, I’m no longer interested in hearing it. Perhaps it’ll be a sob story of needing money, but he never contacted my family for ransom. Junnie was the next victim after I was found, and she had thirty seconds of oxygen deprivation.

A close call that would not have occurred if Peter had not abducted her.

If it’s for his sick fulfillment, my only hope is he suffers for the rest of his life. Death is too easy on him.

“Still out of it?” Dr. Kian murmurs and presses his palm to my forehead. “No fever.”

Comfort purrs into resonance and shakes my core while I nuzzle into his hand. He chuckles as he rubs his finger over my temple, caressing the soft skin with melted honey in his eyes.

“I’ll check on you in a bit,” he promises while pulling away.

A pitiful whine rumbles in my throat, but I stay lying on the bed to watch Dr. Kian rip open an antibacterial wipe to clean the residual blood on Remo’s shoulder. His wound doesn’t look deep or too serious, but an infection can create a slew of complications.

“How did you get that?” I slur and drag my body up.

“I heard the commotion and went to subdue him,” Remo voices offhandedly. “He stabbed me with a broken railing board.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble shamefully, anger feeding on each other as it spreads through my quaking nerves.

He wouldn’t have been injured if it hadn’t been for me. But I’m not sorry Peter is hurt. My heart says a prayer that absolves my sins as my breathing returns to normal. A notable strength to forgive and forget, a personal mantra to put myself first because nothing is more important than me.

“When people live in constant fear of their trauma,” Dr. Kian guides with the voice of poisoned bait, “they respond violently when met with the trigger, especially if they have not yet begun to heal.”

Remo cups my cheek with his free hand and lightly strokes the trembling muscle.

You’re fine; we’ve got you—their eyes, so full of life and confidence, speak loudly without words.

We sit in silence as Dr. Kian finishes bandaging Remo’s wound. And the senseless boat in the middle of the vast ocean arrives at the port with a ripping tide.

“Back to his room or staying?” Remo asks while throwing his shirt over his head.

When the fabric brushes against his muscles, his arms flex, all sharp lines and adored by strength. I lower my gaze to the black ink snaking down his spine; a plaguing slither that bears witness to the white scar slanted in the middle.

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