A monster’s face.
But here I am, willingly back with him at his place. Is it through fear? Loyalty? Confusion? I have no answers. I just follow him down the hallway of quiet wealth, my pulse in my throat, my thoughts tangled and incoherent.
His penthouse is dark except for the city spilling in through the windows. New York glitters like a nervous system outside, alive and unaware of the drama that’s gone down tonight, of the evil that lurks.
Ethan doesn’t ask if I’m okay, he doesn’t apologize and he doesn’t explain. I watch as he removes his jacket, sets it down with surgical neatness, and pours himself a drink.
I stand near the hallway like I might run, but I don’t.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” I say finally.
He turns and looks at me the way he always does. Like he is not seeing a person, but an equation to solve.
“You came because you wanted to,” he says.
“I came because I was scared.”
“Yes, and you need to be close to me,” he says and the word lands softly.
“You still want me, Leo. Nothing will change that.”
I swallow as I move closer to the windows in the living room. My reflection floats faintly in the glass behind him. I look pale, like a ghost is wearing my face. I’ve been lucky in my life to never be surrounded by violence like that. It’s like an out of body experience. I was conflicted because the asshole was a creep and deserved it, but on the other hand, how can I condone such violence?
“You hurt him,” I whisper.
“Yes, he touched you,” he says with no shame.
“I could have been arrested, you could’ve been arrested.”
“But we weren’t. Dima’s bar isn’t like that. We’re safe there.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is the only point.”
I close my eyes. When I open them again, I ask the question that’s been rotting inside me since we left.
“What are you?”
Ethan studies me, but not like a man being accused or one who is holding guilt. More like a puzzle deciding how much of itself to reveal.
“Honest,” he says.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he agrees. “I’m dangerous. There are no limits to what I will do, Leo.”
My throat tightens as he walks closer and I begin to regret asking the question. This isn’t a normal response. Does he feel nothing at all?
As he moves closer to me, my body reacts before my mind can argue. Fear should push me back, but instead, it pins me in place.
“I saw your face,” I say quietly, like I’m afraid someone else may hear. “When you hit him. There was nothing there. No emotion. No hesitation. You looked like —”
“A monster, yeah, you’ve already said.”
The word tastes like rust as he doesn’t deny it.
“I was horrified,” Icontinue. “I still am.”
