by Rina Kent
There’s also a desk and a small sitting area.
“This will be your room. Breakfasts are at seven-thirty. No lunches on workdays and dinners are at eight.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
She throws me a weird glance like I murdered a puppy or something. What’s so hard about not eating breakfast? All I need is coffee and I get that on my way to work.
Seeming to let it go, Margot resumes speaking in her impersonal tone. “You’re not allowed on the third floor.”
“Why not?”
“Mr King’s orders.”
“If he has orders, he needs to tell me himself.”
She pins me with a stare for a long time, as if not believing I’ve just said that. Then she says in the same tone, “If you need anything, you can hit ‘one’ on any phone in the house. Dinner will be served in an hour.” She nods, turning to leave.
“Wait.”
She glimpses at me without saying anything.
“Where was Alicia’s room? Her and Jonathan’s, I mean.” I realise I’m implying that Margot has been here since Alicia’s times. She appears as old as Jonathan, if not older, so I assume she’s been working for him all this time.
“On the third floor. The one you’re forbidden to go to, Miss.” She pauses. “And Mrs King didn’t share a room with Mr King.”
With that, she’s out the door.
Her words float in the air like an invisible halo.
Did she just say Alicia and Jonathan didn’t share a room? But why? They had Aiden, so naturally, they must have had sex. And they weren’t that old to opt for separate bedrooms.
What the hell was going on in your life, Alicia?
The more I learn about her, the more shame I feel for not taking the time to get to know her as much as she knew me.
True, I was too young and focused on something more sinister, but that doesn’t give me the right to believe Alicia was all that she showed to be on the outside.
Ignoring Margot’s warning, I leave the room and head to the staircase we took earlier. There’s another set of marble stairs that lead to the third floor.
At first, I keep glancing behind my back, expecting Margot to show up and drag me down by the hair.
I shake my head at that image. Not everyone is the devil from my past.
No idea why Jonathan didn’t give me a room here, considering the floor is similar to the second one. Why do I feel like he likes to feel superior, even when it comes to the bedroom I’ll be staying in?
I try the first door, but it’s locked. Who the hell locks a door in his own house? Or did he do this because I’ll be here from now on?
The fact that it’s locked bugs me.
When I was young, I loved riddles, puzzles, and figuring out solutions. I used to love staking out, holding my breath, and waiting for prey to come out of their hiding places.
He taught me those things. The devil.
I followed him without knowing what he was capable of. I followed him because I trusted him, and that was the biggest mistake of my existence.
After he disappeared from my life, it took me so long to rid myself of habits associated with him, such as my love for puzzles and riddles. I erased every habit he’d brainwashed into me, I stopped believing in things I’d thought were a given, like love, care, and even puzzles.
Eleven years later, I still feel out of sorts when there’s a puzzle that I can’t solve. Like right now.
The locked door is a puzzle I have to walk away from.
Again.
With a deep breath, I go to the next door. It’s a conference room. Bloody hell. Does the tyrant bring his entire office here?
The next is a reception area with high back chesterfield sofas and a massive golden chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
The moment I open the following room, it hits me.
Her scent. It’s like summer breeze and marshmallow. Vanilla, lemon, and brightness.
It’s crazy how I remember Alicia’s smell eleven years later, and how I can smell it here, even though she’s been gone for a long time.
Sweat trickles down my back and my hands shake as I release the doorknob and stroll inside. The room is clean, but all the furniture is covered with white sheets.
Like a coffin.
I never got the chance to say goodbye to her at her funeral. I never got to say goodbye at all.
My legs barely carry me as I run my fingers over the angel statues on her console. I open the first drawer, the sound echoing in the silence. Her elegant jewellery and makeup are tucked neatly in there.
I go to her wardrobe and it’s full of her clothes. The fashion is eleven years outdated, but it’s posh and refined, like everything about Alicia. I hug a dress to my face and inhale it. It doesn’t have her scent.
It’s faded away, vanished. Just like her.
A tear slides from my cheek and wets the cloth. I hang it back where I found it and close the wardrobe.
I move to her bed, where a few books sit on her bedside table.
There’s no dust on them. Like the entire room, they’re cleaned and taken care of. The pages have turned yellowish though.
The three books are black with a bold white font for the title.
Six Minutes.
Seven Bodies.
Eight Funerals.
The author is someone named Allen B. Thomas.
I don’t really read thrillers, so I have no idea who that is.
Opening the first book, I’m struck by the dedication page.
To my muse,
May every muse be like you.
It’s circled over and over with a red pen.
Was this Alicia?
The word ‘muse’ causes a premonition to hit me. Someone else used to call me that, and I still can’t figure out the meaning behind it.
I check the other two books. Both of their dedications are also circled in red.
The second book’s dedication is:
To my muse,
My reason for living.
The third book’s:
To my muse,
See you in hell.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I open the three books and stare at them splayed out in front of me.
The way they were circled is aggressive, forceful even, to the point it’s left a mark at the back of each page.
There must be a reason why Alicia did this. What was she trying to communicate?
I start reading the first book.
The language is chilling, horror-film like. The prologue is about someone digging holes into the earth.
I pause reading, my fingers shaking, and trickles of cold perspiration glues my blouse to my back. Taking a deep breath, I continue.
The digging goes on and on. The thoughts of the person who’s doing the digging tighten my stomach and brings acute nausea to the back of my throat.
The memories I’ve spent so long burying rush to the surface like a demon snapping out of its chains. My head fills with dark, sinister images. The black dirt. The vacant eyes. The —
“What are you doing here?”
I startle, a yelp falling from my lips as I slam the book shut.
Fuck.
Jonathan towers over my sitting position, a hand tucked in the pocket of his trousers and his metallic gaze pinning me with utter disapproval.
Jonathan. It’s just Jonathan.
I don’t know why I felt like the character from the book would jump out from the pages and strangle me.
Or drag me to one of those holes he was digging up.
“You scared me,” I breathe out.
“So you realise you’re doing something wrong. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be scared.” The disregard in his tone throws me off.
It’s almost like a completely different man from the one who pushed my buttons until I unravelled all over his lap.
The man who made me feel after I’d come to the acceptance that I never would in this lifetime.
I hate him for it, a
nd I’ll never forgive him for resurrecting that part back to life without my approval.
“Do you have trouble following instructions, wild one?”
“What?”
“Margot must’ve told you not to come up here.”
I stand, steady my breathing, and grab the books from the floor and place them back on the bedside table. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“I do not care for being defied, Aurora. Is that understood?”
“Then you shouldn’t have gotten me.”
He grabs me by the arm and spins me around so fast, I gasp as I crash into his chest, my hand landing on his shoulder for balance.
Jonathan stares down at me with darkness so tangible, I can feel the smoke emanating from him and surrounding me in a halo.
That’s what Jonathan is — smoke. You can’t grasp him or escape him. The moment you think you’re safe, he comes out of nowhere and thickens with the intent of suffocating you.
“I have already said this and it’s the final time I’ll repeat it. If I ask a question, I expect a direct answer.”
“And if I have none?” My voice is breathy, small, wrong.
Damn you, voice.
“Then —” he reaches his other hand and grabs my arse cheek “— I’ll spank this arse.”
I instinctively push against him. Memories from last night flash before my eyes and it takes all my will to hold in the foreign sound fighting to get free.
“Now, is that fucking understood?”
“Yes,” I mutter so he’ll let me go.
It’s not about being spanked, it’s about the damn pulsing between my legs since he touched me or the promise that he’ll repeat what happened last night.
It’s about how I can’t stop thinking about the same fingers that are now clutching my wrist being inside me. Or that veiny, strong hand coming down on my soft flesh.
“Good girl.” Jonathan lets my arm fall and I step back on damn wobbly feet.
Why the hell did he have to say those two words using that raspy tone? He’s toying with parts of me I didn’t even think could be toyed with.
“I’m not a girl.”
His lips twitch, almost as if he’s about to smile, but Jonathan doesn’t do those. Not really. “Yes, you are.”
“I’m twenty-seven.” I don’t know why I need that information out there.
Maybe it’s my brain’s way to remind me that he’s seventeen years older than me.
Or that my sister, the only person I still consider family, had him first.
Or that we’re in her room.
The fact that Jonathan kept her room as it was without attempting to get rid of anything means one thing: he’s not over her death.
That’s why he wants me. I’m his sick way of bringing Alicia back to life.
I hate him for putting me in this position.
I hate him for barging through doors even I didn’t have the keys to.
Most of all, I hate him. The man. The tyrant. The unfeeling bastard who couldn’t protect Alicia.
“I know your age.” He slips his hand back in his pocket. “I also know you’ve been a ghost since you were sixteen.”
I thin my lips even when my scar tingles underneath my clothes.
“How does it feel to be a ghost, Aurora?”
“Peaceful.”
“Is that how you spell fake?”
“I’m not fake.”
“Is that why you invented a whole new persona, new name, new background, and even new habits?”
“Do you have a point here?”
“Does your black belt friend know about Clarissa?”
“Don’t you dare, Jonathan.”
“I do not care for being threatened, so for that alone, I might drop in unannounced and tell her.”
“Jonathan…d-don’t…” I’m ready to beg him, but I know that won’t work. Layla and her family need to stay the fuck away from my past. I can’t counter their kindness with malice.
“She’s a Muslim, no? Do you know their take on murderers and accomplices?”
“I’m not an accomplice.”
“Then what are you?” His voice drops in range. “Why did you disappear?”
“Because I needed a rebirth.”
17
Jonathan
A rebirth.
Fascinating.
I stare down at Aurora’s defiant gaze, but I don’t see the façade she’s spent so long perfecting.
I don’t see her stand-offish reaction to me or how she challenges me like it’s her favourite sport.
Now, I see the girl who hid behind her sister’s dress. The girl who was innocent and then was tarnished so badly that she wished for a rebirth.
But she didn’t only wish for it. She made it happen.
Or so she thinks.
Even as a grown-up, there’s still a spark in Aurora’s eyes. Granted, it’s not the same as the brightness of that little girl’s. It’s almost like an update — a second version of sorts.
She thinks she’s had a rebirth, though.
That is fascinating.
People’s misconceptions about themselves or the world surrounding them is a form of weakness I latch onto without mercy.
But this one?
This one will be more interesting to explore. I’m going to dig my fingers into Aurora and unravel her thread by each tangled thread.
It started with my hand on her soft skin last night, and what soft skin it was. My cock twitches at the remembrance of my red handprint on her pale flesh and how she held on to me as her body proved to be the opposite of dead.
This will end with her falling at her knees in front of me.
Willingly. Without a fight.
“Have you paid your debts, Aurora?”
She straightens, her long, delicate throat turning rigid with the motion. A throat that will have my hand wrapped around it soon. “Debts?”
“Surely you know that even with rebirths, the current life carries the legacy of previous lives. It’s called karma. If you screwed someone over, you’ll pay in full during the following life.”
“You…you believe in rebirths?” Her full lips part. They’re still not red, but the pink colour coupled with the hitching of her breath sends energy straight to my groin.
My dick strains against the confines of my trousers, demanding to thrust inside that mouth and fuck those lips. Since he didn’t get his turn last night, it’s making him even more riled up.
Soon, though.
I’ll keep reviving that dead body and watch it fall apart by my own hands.
That’s my form of rebirth.
“You do,” I say. “I’m explaining it from your perspective.”
She lifts her chin, but it trembles as she speaks, “I’ve done nothing to pay for.”
Guilt. Fascinating again.
She feels guilty. But for what? For taking a stand? Does she regret being the reason she had to disappear?
Aurora Harper is nothing as she seems, and I’ll take my sweet time breaking her apart and peering inside that well-strapped armour.
“Dinner time.” I turn around and leave.
I need out of this room.
It should’ve been destroyed a long time ago, but I kept it as a reminder of what it feels like to lose.
Since then, all I’ve ever done is win.
Aurora follows soon after. From my peripheral vision, I catch a glance of her gazing at the door of Alicia’s room with a nostalgic, almost tearful expression.
After rebirth, people tend to never look back. To pretend like they’re newly born.
Not Aurora.
Her past has grown roots so deep, she couldn’t get rid of them even if she tried.
And for that reason, I’ll dig them up one by one.
Sure, I could’ve come with more underhanded methods. Threatening her company and her best friend could be only the beginning.
If I choose to, I could crush her and watch her wither to nothing at my feet.<
br />
But where’s the fun in that?
Besides, I’ve grown to like the slight spark in her ocean eyes when she decides to challenge me, or the grumpiness whenever she begrudgingly agrees to my demands.
Falling under my influence will come naturally to her. Eventually.
In the dining room, I sit at the head of the table and she takes what’s usually Levi’s seat on my left.
That punk will throw a fit if he sees someone else in his place, but it’s not like he ever shows up anymore.
For long seconds, Aurora and I eat our spaghetti à la carbonara in silence. Or, more accurately, I eat. She picks at her food, twirling the pasta around her fork, but barely brings anything to her mouth.
She did the same last night. I thought it was because she was nervous or out of sorts. Turns out, it’s a habit.
“Are all dinners going to be like this?” she finally asks, boredom clear in her tone.
“Like what?”
“Like a funeral home. I’m used to chatter and people. I usually have dinners at Layla’s family restaurant, where everyone is speaking and discussing the latest news or just…talking.”
“Talking without a reason is idiotic.”
“Are you calling my friends idiotic?”
“You’re the one who just did.”
She narrows her eyes, that spark rushing to the surface with a vengeance, but she quickly smothers her expression. It’s fast, almost imperceptible if I hadn’t been focused on her face.
She might share Alicia’s physical appearance, but she’s nothing like her sister.
Aurora is a fire where Alicia was earth. Deep and silent and everyone could step on her.
Aurora would burn anyone before they even attempted to.
“Surely you usually talk about something. How about if Aiden were here?” I don’t miss the way her voice lowers when she says his name.
Guilt. Again.
This time, I can guess why. The fact she didn’t make an effort to meet her nephew before now is eating at her.
And because she was careless enough to show me that bit, all I can do is use it.
“Aiden and I don’t talk during meals. Due to the absence of a motherly presence in his life, he grew up to be emotionally abnormal.”
