𝐆𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 |𝟏𝟖+

37 | | His Prisoner

The Weeknd - Lost In The Fire

𝔚𝔚𝔚
Celina

Steam. Warmth. Stillness.

Lukewarm water hugs every inch of my bare skin as I submerge into the tub, while the pressure all around me begins to ease the thoughts flowing through my mind.

Like how I could get out of this.

How I wasn't going through with this.

How I'd rather commit murder than let him take me down the aisle.

My senses dull for as long as I'm able to hold my breath, and when I emerge does every semblance of peace wash away in depths of deep blue.

Intense and dark, his demeanour is one of intimidation as he stands in his bathroom, crisp suit, shaved face, and all perfect angles while he holds a duffel bag in his hand.

It's mine.

"We leave in twenty."

I look from the bag up to the hard ridges of muscle around his tight jaw.

He and I both know that bag isn't one I'd packed to run off to a summer house and get married. It's one I packed with the sole intention of escaping the tyrant that was him.

I don't bother with a response.

Not only had I mastered the art of shutting the fuck up, but in the past twenty four hours, I'd got to witness the slow and torturous demise of Adrik Kozlov.

I wasn't speaking to him and he was slowly loosing his mind over it.

I saw it in the way his eyes strayed to me when he thought I wasn't looking, like he was almost anxious about my behaviour.

I saw it in the way he somehow found an excuse to end up in my vicinity, every time, as though he couldn't help himself.

And I saw it in way he -in his own, two syllable words - tried talking to me yet failed to get a response, every single time.

Large calloused fingers tighten around the handle of my duffle bag, as though he's doing everything in his power not to tear it to shreds.

Common sense tells me he's minutes, if not seconds from doing so. Which is what prompts me to rise from my position in his oversized bathtub. I stand, with my back to him and take my time, pushing back my wet hair, and reaching down to the towel I'd laid out next to me.

His eyes, which I can't see, but can feel, stay glued to my backside. Burning a path from my wet hair as it cascades down my spine, all the way down to my ass.

It proves to be distracting enough to keep him eerily silent until I've stepped out of the bathtub, wrapped one of his towels around myself, and turned to face him.

The sight of his face, hard, emotionless yet somehow so perfect only adds fuel to the fire that burns in the pit of my stomach.

I hate him so much.

Yet despite wanting to be anywhere but near the man, I approach him but it's only to grab the handle of the duffle bag and pull it towards me.