"Shhh... take it like the good girl you are."
"I'm a good girl?" I whispered.
He gazed up at me, eyes glowing in amusement. "Do you want me to prove it to you?"
My eyes glistened with his reflection.
"I can prove it to you," he answered, "but I'll...
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AUTHORS NOTE: this chapter is a bit long, just a warning! It's about 1,900 words! And there's a LOTTA fluff! Enjoy! Riley
It was an hour after Paris took me upstairs and explained everything to me, and while he spoke, the nurses in his infirmary attended to the glass wounds on both of us.
Every little detail was explained to me.
That Violet wasn't my real mother—that my father had been lying to me all these years—that my real mother killed herself in an alleyway somewhere near the police station I was given to, and that I was an experiment of some infectious disease that Paris's father created; a disease that wasn't really that effective.
But most of all... was that all of my family by blood were dead.
All except for little Julie.
All this time, my birth was a mistake... all this time.
I was currently sitting on the floor of a bathroom upstairs, sobbing into my knees while I pulled my legs to my chest; an attempt to cradle myself.
My life was a lie.
A big, horrible lie.
And now there was a copycat trying to rid of everything in the bloodline.
Because we were all part of the experiment.
And only me and Julie were left, and this killer wouldn't stop until we were all dead.
The thought only made me sob harder into my knees, and my throat constricted.
I couldn't breathe with all the pain consuming me.
Not when my lungs tightened, and not when my throat felt swollen with all the crying I'd done for the past thirty minutes.
Who? Who would do something like this?
Who was the copycat? Who was it?
It was someone I knew, but it wasn't Claire or Paris or Violet, and Ryan was too lazy to commit murder despite his many awards from football.
Then who...? Who would do this?
But without a knock, the bathroom door creaked open, and I heard it close; followed with footsteps padding toward me.
I forgot to lock it.
Shit.
Until Paris kneeled down in front of me, watching me worriedly as I refused to make eye-contact.
I succeeded in stopping the loud sobs, but I knew if I locked eyes with him, I'd start crying again.
And I wasn't sure if I could stop then.
I felt is hand touch my shoulder, though I didn't pull away; just let him do what he was doing.
I trusted him now—somewhat. He was still a little crazy and not a very safe driver, but he'd proven that he wasn't the bad guy.
