He sounds resigned. A fresh wave of anger rolls over me, slamming into my chest like a tsunami of rage. “How can theydothis?”
“They can do whatever they want because I’m seventeen and my mum can’t take care of me. She’s gone to rehab.” He laughs hollowly, like it’s some kind of sick joke, but his muscles are pulled taut with tension beneath my fingertips.
Even though Zayn’s the one who’s whole life is being upturned, it’s my legs that give out beneath me. Zayn holds me and we sink to the ground together until I’m straddling his lap and cupping his jaw, tears streaming down my face and splashing onto his chest.
“What are we going to do, Zayn? What are we going to do?”
“I’ve tried fighting it.” His voice is hoarse and I realise heprobably hasn’t been as calm over the last two days as he’s trying to be for me now. “I’ve tried everything. There’s no way out of it.”
I cry harder until his face blurs through my tears, and Zayn cups my face in return.
“Gianna, I promise you…” He says, his gaze burning in to mine. “I will be back the minute I turn eighteen. I’ll get a job and save every last cent and at the stroke of midnight on my birthday youknowI’ll be flying back to you. It will always be you, Gianna.”
Neither of us knew it then, but that was the second promise he made me that he would break. My heart would break along with it.
We stay clutching each other, tears streaming like a constant force down my face as my world crashes down around me. I don’t know how much time passes before we see a police car cruise slowly past the school gates.
Zayn takes my hands. “They’ll be looking for me. The foster carers will definitely know I’m missing by now.”
We stand reluctantly and my heart shatters to pieces when Zayn lands one last chaste kiss on my lips, then lets go of my hands. “Remember my promise, Gianna. I’ll always come for you.”
Then he was gone.
I wouldn’t recognise him when I saw him again, ten years later.
28
We only leave Zayn’s bed over the next two days to grab the Uber deliveries from the door, use the bathroom and to shower (together, of course). The rest of the time is spent in bed talking, laughing and half-assed watching movies until we’re distracted by our hands on each other. Zayn takes his time with me when we’re intimate, to the point I’m sure he’s trying to commit every inch of my skin to memory as he runs his hands and mouth over my curves, working me into a state of frenzy before he’ll allow himself to slide into me and finish off to the sound of my screams. Sometimes he fucks me, hard. Other times he makes love to me, slow.
Every time it’s perfect.
I’ve never felt so raw, so sensitive to touch. He’s inside me so often I feel empty when he isn’t.
I miss my first family lunch. By Sunday night, both our stomachs are growling and I force him out of his bed and into the kitchen where I scrape together enough ingredients to make spaghetti bolognaise.
“You’re in for a treat.” I smirk at him as I finish choppingthe onion and garlic and add it to the pan. “This dish is my specialty.”
Zayn sits on the barstool across from me wearing nothing but a pair of black briefs. Lucky there’s a huge black marble island bench separating us or I’d already be caving into temptation and running my hands over the smooth expanse of his chest.
His kitchen is pristine, of course, with top of the range appliances. I feel like I’m messing it up just by standing in it with my tousled hair and nothing on except Zayn’s hoodie.
“I should really put more clothes on. This doesn’t feel hygienic.”
“Gianna, I’ve had my mouth on your pussy for the last two days. It doesn’t get more contaminated than that.” He grins wolfishly, resting his forearms on the bench as his eyes darken with a different kind of hunger. A flush heats my cheeks.
“Gross. Turn around while I add the secret ingredient.”
He makes a show of covering his eyes with his hands, and I pull my eyes away from his broad shoulders long enough to add a handful of salt to the onions. “You can open now.”
“What did you add?” He glances around the bench. “It wasn’t spit was it?”
I bark out a laugh. “I can’t tell you without a rock on this finger.” I jokingly flash my ring finger at him. “It’s a family secret.”
“That can be arranged,” he says smoothly, not missing a beat.
My face falters before I quickly school my emotions, my last failed marriage at the forefront of my mind. Zayn clocks my reaction and an awkward silence settles between us, which I fill by asking him to twist the lid off the sauce. Zaynand I have only just reconnected, surely he isn’t thinking about marriage yet? I never thought I’d get married again, but I also never thought Zayn would be coming back into my life, either.
We make small talk while I finish cooking, but there’s a tension lingering between us.
