𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

35 || Bet On It

The Weeknd - After hours

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Celina

Women were suppose to have boundaries when it came to men.

Some drew the line at being degraded, some at violence, others at cruelty, and most, if not all, drew the line at flat out murder.

I was beginning to think I had no boundaries.

My fiancé - fake or not - killing a man in cold blood should have crossed the line. Watching his large frame as he steeped away from the corpse, used his non-bloodied hand to pick up the tray of food and slide it next to me, before pulling me up into a sitting position and handing a glass of juice, should have been a boundary crossed. And realizing he'd been nothing but silent, emptiness swimming in his endless pools of blue should have been a red flag.

Instead, I sat up in a bed that wasn't mine and indulged in food that was intended for me, while he disappeared behind a nearby door. The sound of water following soon after telling me he'd started the shower.

Of course he was showering.

I sit in the room, finish my juice and listen to the waves crash against the boat as we near the docks where the lights of the city sparkle in the night sky.

Ten minutes ago, I was far too weak to do anything, all I could do was lay there with my chest constantly constricting and my pulse fast enough to send me to an early grave.

I hated that feeling.

Hate that I couldn't stop him.

Hate that it scared me.

Hate that it made me vulnerable.

I fiddle with the empty glass in my hand, my gaze flickering to the bloodied corpse mere feet away from me, his blood staining the plush carpet beneath him.

I wish I could've killed him.

And as though I need to make up for the disappointment, I chuck the glass in my hand towards him, with all my strength until it shatters against his head.

Of course, he doesn't flinch, he's dead.

It calms me enough to finish my food and get lost in my head where I can't help but think. Only thinking seems to be the last thing I want to do.

I don't want to think about what killing the kin to an Italian mafia family meant. War.

I don't want to think about why Adrik lost his composure- the one thing he never did. For me.

And I most certainly don't want to think about what his actions say about his feelings towards me. I don't know.

A knock sounds on the locked bedroom door and after a long moment, I stand on wobbly legs and make it to the door. I recognize a few of Adrik's people.

Buzzcut, whom I'd deemed the most bearable of Adrik's minions speaks first. "We're here to dispose of the body."

I cast a glance over my shoulder to said body, limp and still on the floor, somehow feeling unsatisfied. "I'm not done with it." I mumble, contemplation heavy in my words.