The last time I went up these stairs, it ended terribly. I hesitate, though he doesn’t wait. Why would he?
My mind races with all the things my parents warned me about. Zain is the embodiment of all those things. So why can’t I stay away? Maybe something is wrong with me. Each thud of my boots on the stained carpet has me feeling like I don’t know myself anymore. I’m questioning everything I’ve been taught.
I reach the top and poke my head around the stairwell. Zain is leaning against one of the doors to a room I can only assume is his. He has a dead-eyed stare, and he’s tinkering with his switchblade again. The very same one he fucked me with just days prior. I stand as straight as an arrow.
His eyes skate over my body, and he mutters something under his breath as he starts tapping the handle against his temple. From what I’ve gathered, it’s a coping mechanism for something. What, I don’t know.
“It’s in here,” he grits through his teeth. He pockets his knife, clearly contending with something.
Instead of being sensible, my feet carry me forward. He bides his time at the doorway waiting for my next move. My eyes drill into him as I slowly creep toward the doorway. I peer over the threshold, lingering. The room has seen better days; it matches the rest of his house. Messy, unorganized, and chaotic just like him. His black bedsheets cover his bed. A single blanket lays at the end of the bed. The wallpaper is cracked and peeling, like a rabid animal destroyed it in a fit of rage. His dresser is littered with red Solo cups and used cigarette butts. He has little bags of weed laying around.
I inch inside and settle onto the end of his bed with my hands on my lap. His head cocks, and he licks his lips as he joins me in the bedroom.
I finally muster up the courage to ask what’s been weighing on my mind. “Did you do that to Jax?” My curious eyes meet his.
He doesn’t falter or show a single ounce of sympathy, just cold indifference. “Yeah.”
A lump forms in my throat, my hands shake in my lap. If he’s capable of such atrocities, what else is he capable of? “Why?” I dare ask. It’s not like I am important to him.
He refuses to answer, instead he shuffles over to the closet and rummages on the top shelf. I take the opportunity to scan over his stomach and his self-harm scars. They look self-inflicted.
Before he turns back around, I avert my gaze.
He hands me my phone. “It’s dead,” he supplies.
I give it a once-over. No cracks or breaks. “That’s okay. You saved me the trouble of getting the third degree from my dad.” A light airy laugh leaves my throat. When I look back up at his towering wall of steel, he looks murderous. I bristle.
“Your father,” he says slowly, testing the word on his tongue, but the way he says it, is like poison.
I nod slowly. A dry laugh leaves my lips. “Yeah, my dad is kinda a control freak,” I admit, embarrassed.
It does little to change his demeanor. His chest heaves slightly. He’s swimming through a whirlwind of emotions. “Do they love you?” He lunges forward, making me lean back. My hands dip into the mattress. His eyes are lit with a fire I’ve not seen before. He locks onto me as if I’ve deceived him somehow.
My brows knit together. What an odd question. “Yes, very much. At least my mother did before she died,” I say solemnly.
His knuckles crack and his jaw tenses. As he pulls back, his mouth buttons tight and he rolls his neck.
For whatever stupid reason, I keep talking. A nervous habit I adopted over the years. “I’m actually visiting my father over break. You’re welcome to come too,” I offer. I realize my mistake once I say it. One, my father may not like him at all. And two, it sounds like family is a rough subject for him.
His lip curls into disgust. “Wouldn’t be welcome,” he jeers.
His reaction takes me off guard. I jump up and throw my hands out. “Of course he would welcome you,” I say, confused. Sure, he’d probably go ballistic if I brought him home, but he’d still be polite.
A dark, cynical laugh falls from his lips. I meet his gray eyes and find they’re still full of hate and disdain.
I change the subject quickly, shuffling backwards towards the broken window he’s secured with duct tape. “Will you go home for the holidays? “That was clearly the wrong thing to say, because he flicks open his knife and twirls it along his middle. The blade scrapes against his delicate flesh and healed scars. I kept silent, bracing my hands against the windowsill. His veiny hands shake as if teetering on the edge of darkness. He’s on the verge of a volatile explosion, and I’m in the impact zone.
A set of bloody clothes on the floor snags my attention and recognition dawns on me. Those are the clothes I was wearing when Jax tried to force himself on me. I threw those away…in my dorm’s bathroom. Goose bumps travel up my spine.
The knife slices along his hip, and he lets out a groan of…pleasure? His void eyes meet mine as he drags it across his skin. “They’re yours.” He delivers his confirming words with a disturbing calmness. No remorse, no regret for his depraved actions.
Blood seeps down his side, over his waistband and onto his baggy jeans. This is too far, too much.
My voice shakes as the words leave my lips. I glance between him and the clothes. “Zain, why do you have those?” I’m afraid of his answer.
He scrapes the knife along, the blood beading down his side, then he uses it to collect the fluid on the blade’s side and brings it to his lips. “Wanted to know what your blood tasted like,” he replies.
She’s terrified. Containing myself turns impossible the moment her cherry scent fills my bedroom.My sanctuary. The one place I let myself release the beast; I let the thoughts consume me without consequence.
