by Emelia Blair
Zayn didn’t sleep that night.
And neither did I.
He holds me in his arms, plays with my hair, lost deep in thought.
“What didn’t you tell your friends?” I finally ask as the sight part in the curtains reveal a peek of the pink and blue hue of the sky as the first rays of the sun emerges.
Zayn is silent.
I am sprawled on his chest, wearing his T-shirt, and when he chooses not to answer, I nudge him. “Zayn.”
He sighs, a deep sound, before he looks at me and for the first time, I see a hint of wariness in his eyes, mix with fear.
He studies me as if searching my eyes for an answer.
Finally, he asks, “Do you think you could learn to love a man like me, Eve?”
I still at his question before answering carefully. “You got me into your bed, didn’t you? You got me into your home.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he replies, quietly.
I shift till I am now sitting on his stomach, straddling him.
Leaning over, I cup his face in my hands, unable to bear the stark vulnerability that he refuses to show the world and is revealing to me for the first time. “I’m already in love with you. I love you so madly. You’re in my blood, and I hate you for it at times.”
Blue eyes are on me, unwavering, and I feel strong, firm hands running over my waist, stroking, urging me to continue.
“I swore I would never need a man. Not after everything I went through. I promised myself that I could survive by myself. That I needed no one. And then you just…” I let out a shudder, closing my eyes. “You just swooped in and starting being you.”
“I’m sorry,” Zayn says insincerely.
“God, I hate you,” I murmur against his lips as I lean down to kiss him, softly. “And I can’t imagine not being with you. You’ve forced yourself into every part of me.”
I bite his lower lip. “So, if you think you’re going to leave me now…” I let the rest of the sentence trail off on a threatening note.
Zayn’s hand comes to grasp my nape as he kisses me, and I taste his blood on my lips. “I already put my leash in your hands. I belong utterly and entirely to you, Eve. Do with me what you will.”
“Do you love me?” I demand, wanting to hear the words from his mouth.
He gives me a serious look. “I adore you. I worship you. You are everything to me, Eve. So, yes.” His smile is faint. “I love you.”
“Good.” I take a shuddering breath, feeling as if a part of my heart is hurting with this knowledge. Opening my eyes, I gaze at him. “Now tell me what you think will have me walking out that door.”
Zayn’s hands move to my legs, and he grasps them. “The first memory I have of my mother is her on the floor with a man on top of her. She was a junkie who made money off of her body for the next hit. I don’t ever remember her being kind to me, but I remember her telling me that I was soon going to be her next paycheck.”
Knowledge moves inside me, settles, and horror grows. “No.”
Zayn’s lips twist humourlessly. “I was her paycheck several times; too young to understand anything besides the pain. Sometimes, she’d feed me afterward. Other times, she’d be too busy shooting herself up. It was one of her clients that got too rowdy with her, and he slipped her a little too much. She was completely out of it when he turned to me.”
Zayn’s breathing is harsh, as if the very memory is like a physical blow.
“There was a plate on the floor. It had a piece of rotting cheese on it that I had managed to get from the dumpster outside. And there was a knife that had looked so shiny and sharp that I had taken that too.” He paused as if gathering his thoughts. “He came towards me, and I could see the intent in his eyes. And I was so tired, and scared.”
“You killed him,” I murmur softly.
“I butchered him.” Zayn meets my gaze, unflinching. “And then Elijah came. And he took me away and asked me if I wanted a clean slate. And I said yes.”
“You killed a man who was going to hurt you as a child, and you think that’s going to drive me away?”
Zayn clenches his jaw. “I have blood on my hands.”
“I don’t care,” I say, and it shakes me to realize that I don’t care.
I spread my hands on his chest, marveling at the coarseness of his chest hair. “I’ll take you any way I can. But you’re not allowed to leave me. Ever.”
The small smile on Zayn’s face grows till the fierce joy in his cold blue eyes steals my breath away. He reaches out and tangles his hand in my hair, wrenching my head towards him in a breathtaking kiss that is pure unbridled joy.
“Never,” he vows.
17
Zayn
Three weeks.
Three weeks of silence.
Aside from the random article or a picture of Eve in public, the paparazzi started to back off. Especially when I sat down to an interview with a reporter, under the condition that Agatha was able to manipulate the questions. I mentioned the opening of my club which is in the coming month, and casual questions of my family were thrown in, enough to clean to refute all the garbage that made my family’s life hell for the past few weeks.
It was a difficult decision for Eve to reveal Mila to the public, but things were getting so out of hand that Agatha stepped in to make the transition easier.
I made it a point to discredit the pudgy tabloid reporter whose articles pulled Eve’s life apart. A small article popped up a few days later from Frank but it wasn’t as vicious as it could have been, and Agatha disregarded it, telling me the man faced a lot of backlash over the lies he had been spouting.
Good riddance to bad fucking rubbish, my friend muttered, a sharp smile on her face.
Right now, as I watch Eve try to convince Mila to put a shirt on, I can’t help but grin, popping a slice of mango in my mouth.
My daughter adamantly refuses to put on a stitch of clothing since it is so hot and Mindy from her class has a pool and she wants to play in a pool.
“We have a pool,” I say casually, chewing another cooled slice.
When Mila’s eyes brighten, I shrug. “But it’s not for kids. Too deep.”
“But Uncle Ian has a pool. Why can’t I go there?” Mila pouts, and I instantly know that is a fake pout.
My child inherited my powers of manipulation, and they are all wasted on Eve who just raises a brow. “I got you the inflatable pool. What’s wrong with that?”
Mila’s lower lip trembles. “Jake and Sam don’t want to play in it. They say it’s for babies.”
Oh, so that’s what this is about!
“They’re ones to talk. Jake was scared of water until last year.” I offer up this random bit of information to my child and from the unholy gleam in her eye, I know it isn’t going to be used for anything good. “Why don’t you go fill up the pool and I’ll play with you.”
When Mila hesitates, I urge. “We can play with that fish doll of yours.”
“It’s called Ariel, Daddy.” She gives me an offended look.
“Yeah, that one.”
A little more cajoling and she is on her way.
Eve glances at me wryly from where she resumes writing in the notebook. “You’re rubbing off on her in all the wrong ways. She’s going to make Jake cry now.”
Mila’s little crush on Ian’s younger brother had been amusing at first but my four-year-old delights in tormenting the kind-hearted boy who usually gives in to her whims.
I wince. “I’ll, ah, warn him.” Then, curiosity rising, I try to peek into what her little notebook. “What are you writing?”
She has an ink smudge on her lower lip from where she was absently chewing the pen, and she gives me a distracted look. “I’m reopening the dance studio next Monday. Just doing some brainstorming on discounts I can offer to lure students back in.”
“Are you sure about this?” I walk around the island counter to her and lean against it next to her. “We haven’t caught who was responsibl
e for the attacks.”
Eve tugs up the strap of her tank top for the second time. “I can’t keep sitting in the house. It’s driving me crazy. Besides, Elijah said he will look into a constant security detail.”
I barely hear her words, staring at how her clothes, which had once fit her so well, now were loose and hung from her frame.
She lost an incredible amount of weight since I met her.
“Eve.”
She doesn’t look at me, crossing something out in the notebook.
I hesitate. “You’re happy, right?”
That got her attention. She looks up at me, and pushing back from her chair, she studies me for a while before asking. “Why are you asking me that? Of course I am.”
I tug at her tank top, and she grimaces. “I forget to eat sometimes. That’s all.” When she sees that I didn’t quite believe her, she rolls her eyes and grabs me by a fistful of my shirt, dragging me into a kiss that is all heat and woman.
I am dazed by the time she releases me, and she smirks. “If I weren’t happy, I would have kicked you out of my bed a long time ago.”
I believe her.
However, there are things we need to talk about. Things she refuses to speak.
“I think we should talk.”
Sighing, she glares at me. “I’m in the middle of this very creative brainstorming session.”
I snap her notebook shut and she narrows her eyes. “I don’t appreciate that.”
However, I refuse to budge. “I have questions.”
She just stares at me, stonily.
“You’re hiding things from me. What happened five years ago? With your parents and Thomas Richards?”
Eve’s face tightens. “I’m surprised you haven’t done your own research into it.”
I sense the hostility behind her words and I keep my frame relaxed. “I don’t want to go behind your back and dig up your secrets. I would rather you trust me enough to tell them yourself.”
The struggle on her face is apparent as she meets my eyes and when her face finally falls, I have to hide my disappointment, along with hurt.
She takes some time in choosing her words. “It’s not—it’s not about me not trusting you, Zayn. Or maybe it is, I don’t know. I’m just not ready to talk about that period of my life.” She lowers her eyes to the marble counter, a dull blankness in her eyes. “I—I can’t. Don’t ask that of me. Not yet.”
There is a pleading note in her voice, and I hate it.
“All right,” I put my hands up with a wan smile. “I can be patient. But—” I add at her relieved look, “is it possible that this Thomas is responsible or could be responsible for what’s going on?”
Eve hesitates and then shakes her head. “He’s nothing but a bully.” The smile on her lips does not linger in her eyes. “And all bullies are cowards at the end of the day.”
I watch her leave after that, to Mila’s room, and I think about her words.
While I don’t plan on going behind her back, I do want to confirm from another reliable source that this is not Eve’s past coming back to haunt her.
Elijah’s house never felt like home to me.
Even when Henrietta, God bless her kind soul, tried her best to make it so.
Tucked on the edge of the city, encased in the tightest security measures, this piece of architecture is a sprawling mansion, with gardens and small orchards.
Why one man needs all this space for himself, I never bothered to ask.
As I walk through the marbled hall, surrounded by snobbish paintings, I wonder where Henrietta is. Walking up the spiral staircase, I hear two voices in a heated argument, and I blink upon recognizing them.
“Well, I quit!”
I know that voice.
Never in my life had I ever heard the soft-spoken housekeeper raise her voice like that.
When she launches into a stream of passionate Spanish curses, I wonder what happened to rile her up.
“I refuse to accept your resignation!”
My father never roars.
The anger in his voice is unmistakable, and I find myself hurrying towards his study, suddenly feeling as if Henrietta might be in need of help.
The sound of something crashing has me quickening my pace into a run.
Something else is smashed against the wall, shattering on impact, the noise loud.
I am nearly there.
I just set foot in the office when something flies like a missile and lands right next to my head on the wall, and I freeze.
Henrietta is holding a vase in her hand, a delicate Chinese artifact that I know my father takes pride in and she looks wild-eyed enough for me to realize that it is the next thing to go.
Swiveling my eyes towards where the massive mahogany wooden desk lays, I see my father standing behind it, his face pale with anger.
“What’s going on?” I gape at the two of them.
“Get out, Zayn!” my father orders, strain in his voice, his eyes fixed on the slim brown-haired woman who looks dangerously angry.
“Henrietta?” I ignore Elijah, ready to defend the woman who was always nothing but kind to me.
She lowers the vase and glared daggers at her employer before saying, sharply. “No, let the boy hear this.” She turns towards me, gesturing wildly. “Your father,” her upper lip curls at the term. “refuses to let me take a two-month cruise, a vacation, on my own money! One which I had been planning for a year.”
She rounds on Elijah now, snarling. “I have worked my ass off and not taken a single vacation for the past thirty years. If you’re not going to give me a six-month leave, then you can take my notice and stuff it down your throat!”
I blink.
That’s what this is about?
The way my father is glaring at her, I feel like I am missing something deeper.
“It’s just a vacation, Elijah,” I start, uneasily.
“Stay out of this!” he thunders at me.
Never having seen him lose his composure in all the years I had known him, I freeze, my eyes darting between the two.
“I need you here!” he bites out at Henrietta, who just scowls at him.
“You always need me here! There are a hundred other maids in this house! There is a stand-in for me just waiting to take over! Don’t feed me your crap!” Henrietta’s brown eyes flash dangerously.
I could see Elijah struggling for control and failing.
“They’re not you!” he shouts.
This is starting to sound more and more personal. There is a deeper undertone to this, another conversation that I am not privy to.
“I can’t take six months off!” he grits his teeth, and I frown at that.
“Why do you have to take six months off?”
My father looks utterly pissed, and Henrietta looks satisfied. “See. Even he gets it. This is my vacation. Away from you and this house!”
Did I just imagine the sudden hurt in his eyes?
It is almost as if he feels rejected.
“You don’t want me to go with you?”
Henrietta’s face softens as if all the fight suddenly drains from her and she sets down the vase, before glancing at me. “Zayn, your father and I need to talk. Can you please wait downstairs?”
I nod mutely, horrified at the implication of what is going on.
Henrietta and my father?
As I walk down the stairs, numb with the realization of what I just found out, I try to shake the image out of my head.
I could never have imagined it!
Elijah is so cool and composed, and she is so, so, different.
But then, I have never seen my father date as well. He leads a private life, but even when I had to see him at social events, he never had anybody on his arm.
For a time period, I assumed he was just a sexless droid.
But now, I recall small things between them, exchanges, eyes lingering too long, soft brushes of the hand.
I close my eyes, forcing those thoughts a
way.
One of the maids sees me roaming around the halls aimlessly, and she offers to bring me a snack. That’s how, an hour later, I find myself halfway deep into a fresh casserole, when Henrietta descends the stairs, my father following her.
His suit looked mussed up.
It hadn’t been mussed up when I saw him.
I groan inwardly.
He catches the motion and gives me a displeased look, his eyes telling me to mind my own business.
“You and him, huh?” I ask Henrietta, who leans down to kiss my cheek.
“Sorry for yelling at you,” she whispers in apology.
I grasp her hands. “You can always yell at me. I don’t mind. So, is it true?”
She nods, and when I wince, she narrows her eyes at me. “Your father and I are adults, Zayn. Behave yourself.”
Feeling chastised, I still persist, “You can do so much better than him.”
“I can always kick you out of my house, as well,” my father reminds me pleasantly, and I scowl at him.
Henrietta just pats my cheek. “I’ll bring you and your darling girl souvenirs from my trip.”
As she walks away, I glance at my impassive-faced father. “So, she’s going, huh?”
Elijah’s jaw tightens. “Henrietta always seems to get her way.” He fixes his hair, adding absentmindedly, “Stop eating out of the dish. Get a plate.”
I don’t stop, and he doesn’t repeat himself.
Seating himself in the chair opposite me at the dining room table, he watches me. “It’s rare for you to come all the way out here. Is something wrong?”
A bitter taste is in my mouth.
I push away the casserole.
Wiping my mouth with a napkin, I say, “Thomas Richards.”
When Elijah’s eyes darken, I see a deep rage in them that he hides very well. “What has he done?”
I pause before saying, “So, you’re aware of the history between him and Eve.”
My father’s upper lip curls. “Intimately.” Then his expression clears and he raises a brow. “If you’re here to question me—”
“I’m not,” I say, hastily. “I don’t—when Eve wants to tell me, she can. I just want to know whether he could have something to do with this. With all of this shit.”
