𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙍𝙏 𝙊𝙁 𝘿𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂

𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐀 [ 𝐥𝐢𝐞-𝐥𝐚𝐡 ]

For the better part of her day, Layla stayed locked in her room. It felt wrong calling it a room, for it was nothing more than a large closet with enough space for a mattress and an oil lamp. The same oil lamp that flickered as she held a tin of salve next to it, slowly melting it with the small flame. The wounds on her back were smarting again, every time she rolled over in her sleep, sharp pains would wake her up and she would have to reapply salve.

However, she found herself grateful that besides striking her with a cane, Ivan hadn't interacted with her that much. She reckoned that she had broken the trust he held towards her, what with her fleeing for his nemesis and whatnot.

She turned her head to her small window, her hair spilling softly over her skin. Frost had begun to climb over the thin pane of glass and the moon cast a dull glow into the room. It was cold enough that every breath of hers created a cloud in the air, billowing softly and disappearing.

Layla cursed as her wounds stretched and opened as she reached to apply the warm salve to her broken back. If only she had someone to assist her in the gruelling task.

Instantly, her mind flashed to bone-white hair and the metal shine of a gun.

Traitorous brain.

It hurt to think about Cain. About the things she could've done if she hadn't come here. She found herself lamenting over the lost shopping trip, admitting that she was a little excited to go with Cain. Not for any particular reason. She just hadn't had a friend for a long time, and found the concept slightly addicting.

Not that she wanted to be friends with Cain. That infuriating man deserved nothing more than her words. However, he wasn't completely bad. Sure, he was irritatingly arrogant about his skills with his handgun, and she could never quite decipher what he was thinking when he looked at her with those striking, long-lashes eyes. But he was surprisingly kind, as much as she hated to admit it. He had lent her his bed in a time of crisis and was patient with her. Plus, he had a nice body.

And a nice face.

Layla's lips tightened in despair. She found herself missing him quite a bit.

Her chest tightened as she traced circles into the musty, wooden floor. Would she ever escape this hell? The possibility of staying in this position forever scared her so deeply, so deep that her breathing quickened and slick coated her palms.

She lay back down onto her lumpy mattress, trying to ignore the one spring poking into the fleshy part between her shoulder blades. That would be a pain in the morning.

Closing her eyes, Layla counted to a hundred and back down to 1. By the time she reached 30, she was fast asleep.

—————-

The next day, Layla was on her way outside when she bumped into a familiar figure.

Leonard stood in front of the stairway to the florists, his reedy body clad in a second hand, grey suit that seemed to have never been ironed properly. That same reedy body blocked her from exiting.

"Layla, you're back." He smiled, his lips cracking with the movement.

She was not in the mood to socialise with anything that breathed. She had been in the same clothes for a full day, and would probably continue to be in those same clothes until she bought something new. Her mood didn't lighten with the insufferable man-child standing in front of her.

"What do you want?" She deadpanned.

"I wanted to accompany you outside, if the lady would allow it."

Ew?

'The lady?' Layla was grateful she hadn't eaten breakfast, for she feared she might just have thrown it up at his feet.