All of it.
This can’t be happening.
“Stop!” My lips tremble as tears fall down my cheeks.
Aiden lifts his head. He stares at my face, at my tears, and the expression of hate that must be written all over my face.
His features are expressionless.
Closed.
Impassive.
“Good girl.”
He finally lets me go. The space between my legs feels kind of strange when he removes his hand. My shoulders ache from how he locked my wrists behind my back.
I expected him to step back and leave me be.
But Aiden never acts like you expect him to.
His upper body leans over and he darts his tongue out.
Aiden licks the tears falling down my right cheek. My skin turns hot and cold at the same time.
He moves to the left cheek, taking his time in tasting my tears.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t appear as shocked as I feel.
However, his devil mask slips.
I get my first glimpse at the real Aiden.
The one he hides behind the smiles. The true form.
If the smirk on his face and the manic look in his eyes are any indication, then the fucking psycho enjoyed licking my tears.
A phone rings, startling me out of my stupor.
He checks it and sighs like someone is ruining his fun.
He gives me one last, unreadable look. “Be smart and stop making stupid moves.”
More tears continue falling down my cheeks as I watch his stupid tall frame disappear behind the trees.
I turn in the opposite direction and run.
Chapter Five
Running in the rain steals my breath.
Ruins it.
Smashes it.
Nearly eradicates it.
When I arrive home, my soaked clothes are stuck to my skin. My shoes are slouching. My toes are cold and stiff.
Erratic strands of my hair stick to my temples and forehead, dripping all over me.
I stand in our small garden, catching my breath, and press a shaky palm to my chest.
My heart’s palpitations grow uneven and out of beat as if protesting. I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting the rain beat down on me.
Soak me.
Rinse me.
The droplets pound on my closed lids almost like a soothing caress.
I’ve always loved the rain.
The rain camouflaged everything.
No one saw the tears. No one noticed the shame or the humiliation.
It was just me, the clouds, and the pouring water.
But that’s the thing about the rain, isn’t it? It’s only a camouflage, a temporary solution.
It can only rinse the outside. It can’t seep under my skin and wash away my shaky insides.
Wiping away my memories isn’t an option either.
It’s been barely an hour since Aiden had his hands on me – all over me.
I can still feel it.
His breath.
His nearness.
His psychotic eyes.
I lock the encounter deep in the darkness of my head and trudge to the entrance. I need to change before I catch a cold.
Our house sits in a cosy upper-middle class neighbourhood. It’s two-storey and with more rooms than we need. The three of us did everything to make it as homey as possible. We planted an orange tree. A few roses. Uncle and I made sure to take care of the gardening ourselves — but lately he doesn’t have time to.
My movements are numb as I hit the code and step inside.
The interior design has been carefully picked by Aunt Blair. Despite being minimalist, it’s classy and modern. The lounge area has dark blue and beige sofas. The bookshelves are also dark blue with a touch of strength that doesn’t only represent Uncle Jaxon’s alpha character, but also Aunt Blair’s.
Not bothering to open the tall, french windows, I drag my numb feet upstairs.
Aunt and Uncle wouldn’t be around until late at night. The more their company grows, the less I see of them.
Sometimes, they pull all-nighters — whether in their company’s office or their home one.
Sometimes, one of them returns to spend the night, but most of the time, they don’t.
I’m going to be eighteen soon and I’ve always acted responsibly, so I stay alone just fine.
Deep down, I know they don’t like leaving me alone — especially Aunt Blair. When I’m by myself or with Kim, she calls a thousand times — even with the safe neighbourhood and the alarm system.
God. I can’t believe I ditched school.
I just couldn’t sit in the same class as Aiden and pretend I was fine.
For two years, I took pride in walking the halls with my head held high no matter what the minions said or did to me. Today was too raw.
Too deviant.
Just too much.
The steel will I thought I had crumbled in a matter of minutes.
I always heard about people’s breaking points, but I was too delusional to think I didn’t have one.
I discovered the hard way that I do.
A breath leaves me as I step into my room.
My sanctuary.
I always joked with Aunt and Uncle, calling it my kingdom.
The decor is cosy with a mixture of pastel pink and black. I have my own library stacked with psychological and Chinese war books organised alphabetically. CD’s hang from the ceiling like a curtain separating my bed from my desk.
The wall across the bed has two huge posters of my favourite bands; Coldplay and Bastille.
I let my backpack drop on the floor and press play on my Ipad. Hipnotised by Coldplay fills the space.
Tears barge into my eyes as I strip from my soaked clothes and step into the bathroom.
My hand itches. The need to scrub the filth off it fills me with an obsessiveness.
I stop at the sink and wash, scrub and rub my hands together until they become bright red.
When I lift my eyes to the mirror, my lips part.
It’s me. The witchy, white-blonde hair. The baby blue eyes. But at the same time, it isn’t.
There’s a void in there.
A… numbness.
I’m about to move to the shower when something else stops me.
My scar.
Several angry red marks surround it. Did the psycho leave freaking hickeys around my scar?
What in the ever living hell was going on in his defective brain?
I rip my gaze away from the mirror and take the longest, most scalding shower in history.
When I step back into the room, the song has changed to Good Grief by Bastille. I let the music drift around me as I climb into bed, still in a towel, and close my eyes.
I fight the tears and lose.
I startle awake.
My hair sticks to the side of my face with sweat.
Heat smothers my body and my breasts tighten against the towel.
That’s not all.
Oh. God.
My hand rests between my legs and I’m… wet.
I jerk my hand free as if I was caught stealing.
I don’t even remember the dream, so what the hell is this reaction supposed to mean?
My surroundings come back into focus. The soft light from the lamp. The music I left on. The chorus from Grip by Bastille strikes deep inside me. Something about the devil having him by the arm and pulling him into the night.
The neon red numbers on the nightstand read seven pm.
I slide from the bed, willing my body temperature to go back to normal.
With a deep breath, I put on my pyjamas shorts and a T-shirt, gather my hair in a bun, and sit at my desk.