Page 30 of Scarred Sins
The gray sweatpants are a few sizes too big, but thanks to the white drawcord, I’m able to secure the pants without fearing they’d slip down. I roll up the bottom parts because I can barely walk without tripping if I leave them down.
The shirt is enormous, too. The sleeves reach my elbows, and the bottom part covers my butt. It’s now that it dawns on me just how much he grew over the years and how much he’s changed.
Ignoring the odd feeling in my stomach when I smell his perfume on the shirt, I walk out of the bathroom, barefoot. I grab the small dagger and leave the bedroom, and the smell of freshly prepared meal hits my nose.
I follow the scent, lowering down a flight of stairs. I’m met with a big living room. The windows are big, clearly showing that we’re in a building on one of the higher floors. The weather outside is surprisingly cloudy, a storm threatening to come soon.
A big piano is in the corner, next to the wide windows. It’s massive, in a deep, rich shade of brown. My heart skips a beat, and I blink. This is where he recorded all of the pieces he sent to me. I shake my head, deciding to leave the thoughts behind. Instead, I make my way toward the kitchen.
Arlo’s back is turned to me as he stands over the stove, humming a song. He’s holding the handle of the pan, a wooden spoon in the other hand, stirring the eggs inside of it. The previously fried bacon is divided into two parts, one on each plate.
Arlo turns around, a wide smile tugging on the corners of his lips. He divides the eggs into two as well, then wipes his hands on the apron. I remain glued to my spot, unsure of what to do, fiddling with the hem of the long shirt, my other hand gripping the dagger tightly.
“I hope you’re hungry,’’ he says cheerfully. “I made a few different things. I’m not sure what you prefer,’’ he lies, easily.
He stalked me for three years. He knows damn well what I like.
Arlo is swift on his feet, placing the two plates on the kitchen counter. Two high stools are on each side of it, and he neatly places a plate of pancakes in the middle. He adds two glasses, and wouldn’t you know it, my favorite brand of juice.
As if he’s scared I’ll disappear from his view, he’s staring at me. He blinks, trying not to seem creepy as fuck. The entire situation is already creepy, and his strange behavior only reinforces my thoughts.
“Eat.’’
The tone of his voice confuses me further. It’s not an order, and it’s definitely not a question. His voice is filled with desperation, and it’s unlike anything I’ve heard before. My brows narrow, eyes flickering between the two plates.
With a sigh, he takes a seat, and my legs reluctantly drag me toward my designated seat. His entire face softens when he sees me sit across from him. The dagger rests on my lap as I pick up the utensils.
My eyes don’t leave his face. He takes his knife and fork, neatly cutting through a pancake. He puts the piece in his mouth, chews and swallows, then pushes his plate toward me and pulls mine to his side.
“Would you eat now, please?”
My head cocks to the side, unsure how to process the sincerity in his voice. He’s gazing at me with an expression I can’t name; it’s foreign to me. It’s enough to convince me that the food isn’t poisoned, and his words are almost too sweet for me to believe.
Why did he use the wordplease? Why is he begging me to eat? I’m going to eat regardless, now that I’ve seen him try the food himself. The thought brings me a headache, and with a sigh, I take a bite.
The pancake is soft, fluffy, and sweet. My eyes close, and I enjoy the feeling of the food sliding down my throat, almost releasing an embarrassing sound. And for the next thirty minutes, neither of us speaks.
He spends more time watching me eat than eating himself, and I’m feeling too self-conscious.
“So,’’ I cleared my throat. “What is your goal here?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I have an unhealthy obsession with you?’’
“Yes,’’ I nod. “That much is obvious.’’
He chuckles, the tone low.
“I’m about to do something very dangerous,’’ his tone immediately turns serious, eyes darkening a shade. It reminds me of a storm waiting to destroy everything in its path. “And there’s someone connecting you and me.’’
“Who?” I ask, swallowing harshly.
“Nelson Adams and Paul Simmons.’’
Blood runs cold in my veins, and the fork drops out of my hand, falling on the tiled floor with a thud. I blink, a bitter laugh slipping past me as I swallow back the tears, trying my best not to show any emotions.
“I have no connection to them.’’
I see something shift inside of him, like a switch is flipped. Briefly, he closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath. It’s as if he’s trying to regain control of himself, and for the first time, seeing nothing but emptiness on a man’s face doesn’t scare me.
