by Emelia Blair
I stare at the door, still clutching the blouse to my chest, not knowing whether I should be insulted or embarrassed.
However, feeling the chill on my legs, I quickly slam the door shut and lock it, carefully, before changing.
When I leave the room, my insides are a tangled mess of confusion and feelings that I don’t know what to identify as. He is being kind, taking care of me, giving me looks like he just wants to strip me and fuck my brains out, and yet not making any obvious moves.
He told me he loved me.
He wants me in his life.
Why am I so scared of giving in?
Zayn is waiting in the kitchen, plating fresh food that must have just arrived, I muse vaguely. It smells heavenly and my stomach protests.
He doesn’t mention about him walking in on me, and I refuse to bring it up.
“You could go home,” I offer as we dig into the food, me more slowly than him.
“I’m not going anywhere till you’re well enough to form at least one proper insult,” he
retorts.
I eye his clothes. “That shirt has seen better days.”
He grins then, a helplessly charming smile that has my lips quirking, and he extends
his leg for me to inspect the pants. “So have these.”
I release a breath that I didn’t know I was holding. “If you’re not going to leave, you
can borrow Ron’s clothes.”
He doesn’t look up from where he is devouring his food. “Fergus sent me a change of clothes. He was worried you’d have to air the apartment out after I leave.”
I glance where he points at where a pink shirt and jeans hung over the back of a chair.
“It’s, uh, pink,” I say, lamely, unable to imagine him in it.
He looks up at me. “You powers of deduction are truly frightening.”
I can’t help but snigger at that, despite the flash of indignation. “I mean I have never seen you wear any color aside from black, blue, gray, and white.”
He shrugs, swallowing some of the pasta, and then says, “Black and white makes me look threatening.”
I blink. “You’d look just as much of a badass in pink, or red, or blue. You know, colors
that normal people wear.”
He grins at me, looking ridiculously pleased with my words. “Tell you what. You buy me a ‘normal’ shirt and I’ll wear it.”
I blush at the implications and then force my head down when he adds, “Eat your food. You need energy.”
It is a few hours later when I curl up on the couch with a headache, remnants of my fever. Zayn plops down at the other end of the couch and drags my feet in his lap. His legs are stretched out and are propped on the coffee table, his laptop just beyond my feet as he works.
Such intimacy.
And yet, I can’t find it in myself to tell him to back off.
When was the last time I was ever intimate like this with a man?
The answer is never.
Not even as a young woman. I enjoyed the company of men, but I never bothered to share such soft moments with them. I was so focused on my studies and on my side job. Then, there was Zayn, and I was blown away and fascinated by him.
I had too much fun playing our strange little games.
And back then, he was quieter, somehow more dangerous, darker.
And while the man who is currently using my ankles as an elbow rest still exudes danger, he is a far cry from the one who dislocated a customer’s shoulder for simply grabbing my hand.
“You have pointy elbows,” I mutter, my eyes closed. “Do something about them.”
“I’m sorry I can’t grow new elbows to appease you,” Zayn says, his tone distracted as he types something.
“What day is it?” I mumble, having lost any track of time.
“Friday. And before you ask, I checked up on Mila an hour ago. She’s having the time of her life. Agatha is spoiling her.”
I feel his eyes on me. “I wasn’t going to ask but thank you for telling me.”
His hands falter making me open my eyes.
He is giving me a strange look. “Why not?”
“Because I trust you with her. And I also know the kind of people Agatha and Ian are. You would never give her to someone you wouldn’t trust with your own life.”
He stills. “That’s a lot of confidence you have in me.”
“When it comes to Mila, I do.” The unspoken part of the statement hangs in the air.
When it comes to me, I am not so sure.
His hand moves to my foot, a gentle hold, and I ask, “Why did you look after me? You could have gone home. You could have asked Ron to come back early from his art show. You could have let me handle this alone.”
“Because I wanted to,” he replies, simply.
“I know I’m being an asshole to you,” I mutter. “Stop being so nice.”
The delight in his eyes transforms his entire look, and in a gesture that nearly steals my breath, he leans down and kisses my foot. “I adore you when you’re being an asshole to me. You’re my little rebel.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you, Zayn.” My eyes move over his face as he gives me a lazy smile, his thumb circling over a spot on my foot. “I’m not going to make it so easy for you.”
The words are out of me before I can stop them and instead of deliberately picking up on the fact that I graduated from ‘we are never going to happen’ to ‘I’m not going to make it easy for you,’ he simply grins. “I would have it no other way. Chasing you is half the fun. Besides—” His smile is wicked. “—I’m playing for keeps this time.”
9
Zayn
Eve finally fell asleep, a grumpy look on her face.
Her fever may have subsided but she was still weak and tired.
Dr. Haseeb gave me a disapproving look, sourcing undue stress as a cause for the fever.
Ron tried to cancel his gallery showing, wanting to stay, but I stopped him from doing so. I didn’t know the man that well but I felt partly responsible for what happened to Eve and I could take care of my own woman.
Ron didn’t like the idea, but his boyfriend urged him to go ahead with the showing.
Mark Fallon is an interesting character. And I decide to keep an eye on him.
The man rubs me the wrong way.
There is something in his eyes, something I don’t like.
I stare at Eve’s sleeping form, lost in thought.
It is almost as if Mark wears a person suit over his true self.
His affection for the rambunctious Ron seems real enough though.
And he seems to be pretty attached to my daughter.
But there is still something about him that makes me wary.
Turning my attention back to one of the matters at hand, I stare at the email Agatha sent me.
Frank M.
It is an alias used by one of the paparazzi, but nobody knows who he actually is, or if it is a ‘he,’ even. The tabloid agency refused to divulge the name of the writer, and when trying to approach other members of that particular agency, Agatha hit a wall.
However, she warned me that her actions gave the bloodhounds a scent and since they figured out that I am trying to shut this story down, more of them are surrounding my family. Because that is what Eve and Mila are, now: my family.
I am grateful to Agatha that she spun the story as much as she could, keeping it out of the newspapers and entertainment sections of the various media outlets. Keeping it contained to just tabloids gives the story a fake vibe and since she often incites media personnel to cover events, she’s built good relationships with popular magazines and media outlets, and none of them want to cross her by publishing a story about her client till she is willing to divulge the specifics.
But Agatha has no control over tabloids and what they write.
And the next time a picture comes out, even she might not be able to do much damage control.
I close the laptop and put i
t on the table before frowning.
And then there is the matter of my father.
How does Elijah know about Mila?
He refused to give me any details, just wanted to meet Mila.
I was a preteen when Elijah found me.
If I close my eyes. I can still recall that day.
I was curled up in a corner of the room, my mother’s unconscious form a few feet away from mine.
My whole body was covered with bruises, and there was blood on the knife that I held clutched in my hand, blood that wasn’t mine. The same blood was on my face, a wild look in my eyes.
The man who turned towards me, after getting done with my mother, he was laying in front of the door, face up, a blank look in his eyes.
Elijah paused on seeing the body with blood pooling under it, and then carefully stepped over it, probably so as to not to get blood on his expensive leather shoes.
I remember seeing the shoes and the well-dressed stranger in the three-piece suit who crouched in front of me with cold eyes that looked like mine.
He crouched down to my level and studied me with disinterest, his eyes moving over the blood splattered over me. Taking the knife from me wasn’t a difficult task because I was in shock.
When he reached for me, I resisted, still scarred, terrified. However, he handled me in a clinical manner, and when I protested too much, he called me ‘son.’
He told me he was my father and that if I didn’t come with him, the police would lock me away for my whole life.
However, my legs wobbled, undernourished as I was, and after some thought, he took off his suit jacket and draped it around me before picking me up in his arms.
He didn’t spare my unconscious mother a second glance, nor was he bothered at the sight of the man I killed.
No, he walked past the front door, and as I clung to him, I saw the strangers in white overalls and masks enter the room holding bags.
Elijah brought me to a sprawling mansion that he owned in the middle of nowhere, a sign of wealth and status. Doctors prodded me and checked me over, and when they reached for areas that were so private, I snapped out of it and howled, a frightened child who thought he emerged from one hell only to go straight into another.
It was Henrietta, the old housekeeper, who held me down, murmuring soothing words to me, trying to calm me as the doctors understood the extent of damage done to me.
Elijah’s face was tight with anger, fury that he concealed when the doctors murmured their conclusions to him, but it was Henrietta I clung to. She was soft and kind. Sometimes she would wake me up from the nightmares that plagued me and held me to her when I would curl into a whimpering ball, trying to hold in my sobs.
I stayed with him for two months, recovering before I was shipped off to boarding school. Elijah hasn’t ever kept much in contact with me, but he took me aside and told me never to mention him to anybody and never to mention what happened in that room to anybody. Those were the secrets I was told to take to my grave.
And I intend to.
And while we never had a father-and-son relationship, I learned from Elijah how to adapt to the world. I discovered that the predators on top of the food chain survived and I chose to become one of them. He also made sure to keep himself updated on my life and now, instead of being intimidated by him like I was as a child—now that I am a man wielding considerable power of my own—I feel a wariness about him.
It was years later that I learned that Elijah had made the whole mess vanish, as if my mother never lived there, as if there were nothing and no one in that apartment. I never cared enough to ask about my mother but what I asked him was whether I needed to look over my shoulder for her.
And he gave me a smile that hinted at secrets and said, ‘No.’
I let out a small sigh and tilting my head back, stare at the ceiling.
I never knew Elijah to express interest in my personal life like this.
He always was aware of my friends, where I spent my summer holidays. He also told me that upon my graduation that I had complete access to funds if I needed them but I wanted to build myself from scratch, and I told him so.
There was an approving look in his eyes as he gave a small nod.
Elijah never tried to build a relationship with me till now. He was a benefactor, funding my studies under the guise of a scholarship. But a few years ago, he started taking something akin to a fatherly interest in me.
And I find it annoying.
Henrietta fondly blames it on his age, but even in his sixties, Elijah looks as young as ever, except his few health issues.
I know that Elijah has both feet planted firmly in the dark and he prefers it that way, but his businesses are so well disguised that no one is the wiser.
A past shrouded in darkness, the monster that gave birth the day I took a life. I tried hard not to walk down that path. I know my past makes me who I am and I try to find a balance between the light and the dark, not wanting to tip the scales.
I, unconsciously, squeeze Eve’s ankle as if to assure myself she is still here.
Now, I have my child to protect, and Elijah taking an interest in her, it worries me.
Picking up Mila from Ian’s place, my daughter launches herself at her mother, suddenly realizing that she missed her. However, she has become quite attached to Agatha.
Once my friends realized the situation, everybody pitched in, letting my daughter get to know them, surrounding her with affection and distractions to keep her from getting homesick.
I can’t help the warmth in my chest on seeing how they all reached out and circled the wagons without a second thought.
Agatha watches Eve, who is crouching in front of Mila, carefully listening to everything she has to say. Finally, when Mila is all talked out, Eve lets her cling to her legs and studies Agatha and Ian.
“Thank you. I really appreciate you letting Mila stay with you.”
Agatha looks a little stiff, and I wonder at that before she says, “Zayn’s a good man.”
Eve raises a brow and inclines her head. “Okay.”
“And he’s a good father,” Agatha continues, stubbornly and I see her fingers flexing in agitation.
Eve lifts her chin, her eyes clear. “I know he’s a good father. I wouldn’t trust him with Mila if he weren’t.”
Agatha looks uncomfortable, but she still plows on. “Then, don’t treat him as if he’s not worth crap.”
“Agatha.” There is a warning in my tone as Eve flinches at her harsh words.
My friend raises her head, her eyes flashing with anger before she crosses her arms over her chest. “Shut up, Zayn. I’m not talking to you.”
Eve stares at her, her face smoothed out before she nods. “I understand.” Then she looks between both Ian and Agatha, and I see something akin to envy move in her eyes before she says, “It was nice seeing you two again.”
And that is it.
We leave, and I feel uncertain as she cuddles Mila in the car, talking to her in a loving tone.
Agatha shouldn’t have said anything, I think furiously.
“Can we have ice cream?” Mila asks, looking up at Eve.
Eve glances at me, and I give an easy smile. “I don’t see why not.”
There is an ice cream parlor nearby, and since it is evening and the sky is a canvas which is splashed with the most stunning of hues, we decide to eat the ice cream in the parking lot.
When have I ever done these sort of things?
Eating ice cream in a parking lot, leaning against my car, laughing as Mila tries to give me sticky kisses and have my face wiped by Eve who looks amused.
I feel like I am part of a family.
With Mila asleep in the backseat, I drive the two of them home and carry our daughter upstairs.
“You sure you’ll be alright?” I ask as I close the door to Mila’s room.
Eve nods.
There is color in her cheeks and she looks better.
“You probably want to
get home and rest,” she says, sounding odd.
As Eve walks me to the door, I say, “Let me know if you need anything. You’re not completely recovered.”
When she rolls her eyes at me, I can’t help but grin.
She is already feeling better if she can be a brat.
“I’ve got fluids and my fridge is full of food that Fergus sent. I’ll be fine.” A slight hesitation. “Thank you, you know, for everything. You didn’t have to do any of this, but you did, so thanks.”
The look in her eyes is so bewildered, as if she can’t understand why anyone would look after her that my chest tightens with emotion and before I can stop myself, I lean in and cup her face, looking into her pretty brown eyes.
Her hands automatically go to my wrists, but she doesn’t push me away.
Her breathing hitches as I just watch her, marveling at the thousand specks of color in her eyes, the confusion in them, the wariness, and the need.
I brush my mouth against hers, and her eyes flutter shut.
It is a soft melding of mouths, a tender moment that is over far too soon when I pull away.
Her eyes are dazed, her lips parted, and I wish that I could take her into her room and strip her and ravish her from top to bottom till she is nothing but sighs and moans.
But I have to take this one step at a time.
She has to come to me.
So, I step back reluctantly and leave.
As I make my way to the car, I pause and look around.
Was it just my imagination or was someone is standing in the shadows of the building?
I stand still, my eyes narrowed on the spot, my hand reaching for the gun that is tucked in the back of my pants.
However, there is nothing there.
I enter the car and then send a quick message to Eve.
‘Lock your door.’
I meet Agatha at Fergus’s bar a few days later for a drink.
With everything going on, I didn’t get the chance to meet up with my friends.