Page 42 of Game of Hell
The black marble countertops glint in the dim yellow light from my lamp I left on and old ass random portraits hang on the walls, staring soullessly into us. I take off my shoes and plop down on one of the sofas. I place my mask onto the coffee table and breathe out a sigh of exhaustion. Fuck, it feels good to be home.
“You’re the first to enter alive, Little Devil. Make yourself at home as this will be your home now.” I murmur and lay my head back against the vintage wool.
Her eyes meet mine with frustration, exhaustion, and curiosity before roaming our house again. “Ronan, this is your home?”
I look at her as if she’s grown two heads. “Yes, just sit down and relax. Aren’t you tired?”
What the fuck kind of questions are these? Did she think I was a homeless douche?
I stand up and as lightly as I can, grab her hand in mine. I led her down the hall, passing the spiraling black staircase. Her eyes never leave the walls we pass or the rooms we spare. She continues to gape like a fish out of water.
I push open the door to my room and pull her inside with me. I don’t know if it's shock from leaving the maze or if she’s truly lost her mind but she remains frozen in place. She looks at the long dark curtains, to the dark wood flooring, and stops on the bed, big enough to swallow her whole.
“Are you ok, Little Devil?” I murmur and lean into her view. Her eyes glisten and snap to mine with genuine earnestness.
“Yes, I’m just surprised. I did not expect this, I guess.” She sits down on my bed and lowers herself to lay down.
I let her lay down however she’d like. Maybe some sleep and she’ll be back to normal tomorrow? Dead bodies can affect people more than they affect me.
“Well goodnight.” She whispers and snuggles into my blankets and pillows.
The sight of her in my bed makes my cock twitch. I will never get enough of her. Her sweet little cunt will always be mine.
“Good night, Little Devil, and don’t mistake your survival for mercy. I didn’t carry you out of that maze as a good deed, nor did I bring you here to be nice. I carried you out because you’re mine to keep alive, mine to break, if I want.” Fear shines in her irises and I pat her head, leaving her to sleep as I shower.
Manipulation was a gift given to people. One I use to get exactly what I want. I let her think that the choice was hers by secretly embedding whispers of me in her skin, leaving her lost without my guidance. Sometimes you have to be nice to get whatyou want, sometimes you have to be mean, harsh, or feared. I’m all those things and now Ember is mine.
My Little Devil.
I won the game.
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HOME SWEET HOME
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ember
“A happy ending is all they needed.”
My head spins as I sit up, the soft comforter pooling at my waist as I prop my back onto the pillows.
Nothing feels better than being safe.
The room is still draped in dark shadows—the thick black velvet curtains hang keeping the sun from piercing our eyes. The walls are black to match and odd paintings are hung around the room. The bed is situated in the middle, against the farthest wall from the door. A love seat is to my left in front of a big mahogany fireplace and a plush grey rug is situated underneath the couch.
The room screams Ronan. It’s like stepping into his head and seeing the world in black and greys.
I glance down but Ronan’s not there. I lightly trace my hand across the crumpled sheets and they're cold to the touch, meaning he’s been out of bed for awhile. I glance at the big ornate clock on the wall and it’s still quite early being only 9:00 am.
I slip out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. A chill settles in me and I wrap my arms around my torso. When my arm brushes over the silk fabric I look down. Ronan has showered and changed me into a silk nightgown. My skin smells of him—rich in pine and something musky, something only he owns.
I smile and look at the photos on the wall, each small detail catching my eyes. One with a broken frame catches my attention and I grab it. As I pull the picture free from the nail on the wall,a small paper falls to the ground. I place the frame back on its hook and lean down, grabbing the picture in my hands.
A little boy with brunette hair and a sly smile stares back at me. His grey irises shine with mischief and I know from the pining stare it’s Ronan as a child. An older lady with greying hair stands beside him, holding his shoulder and smiling at the camera as well. Her eyes hold so much comfort and stability I get lost in the kindness radiating off her.
“That was my favorite teacher, Mrs. Warcliff. She was too kind for this world.” I jump at the sound of his voice behind me, deep and rough.
