HAUNTINGLY | 18+

41 | Camera Footage

Xavier's POV

After grabbing a few hours of sleep, I woke up, somewhat more refreshed. But it seemed my mind had other plans – it was anything but restful. All I could think about was Layla and Jason.

The fucking Rose siblings had taken over my mind completely.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of sweats along with a hoodie. After slipping into my sneakers, I headed to my drawer. Retrieving my gun, I tucked it between my waistband and the small of my back. I smoothed down my hoodie and left the room.

Layla's bedroom door was wide open, so I peered inside, finding it empty. Descending the stairs, I entered the kitchen and spotted her sitting on one of the stools, her gaze fixed on the view outside through the window.

Her eyes briefly flicked my way before returning to the window. I approached her with measured steps, lifting the edge of her sweatshirt. Another bandage lay fresh on the side of her stomach, adjacent to the previous one.

She quickly stood, taking a few steps backward. Her eyes locked on me in a mix of surprise and unease.

"When the fuck did you end up with two cuts on your damn stomach?" I demand, my tone laced with anger.

She meets my gaze. "Why do you care? It's none of your business," she retorts.

"None of my business?" I take a calculated stride toward her, my eyes narrowing. "Anything involving you becomes my fucking business," I snarl, my patience wearing thin.

She scoffs, her eyes rolling dismissively. "I'm still breathing and living under your roof. Isn't that all you care about?" Her words echo my earlier sentiment from this morning, a mocking tone in her voice.

"Don't fucking roll your eyes at me," I growl. I take another step forward, my posture exuding anger. "Now, answer my question."

"I hurt myself in the maze at the carnival," she replies. Her tone was flat and almost dismissive.

"How the fuck did you manage to hurt yourself that badly?" I demand. I was not going to accept her vague explanation.

"I tripped and fell," she mumbles, her voice so quiet it's almost a whisper.

"Tripped and fell onto a fucking sharp edge?" I retort with a hint of sarcasm, my irritation palpable. I close the gap between us and lock my gaze onto hers.

Her surprise is evident as she regards me. "How did you even know about the cut?" she asks, a mixture of shock and confusion in her eyes.

"Lucky guess. I let out a breath. "But I've got a feeling what you're telling me is a lie. This is your final chance to come clean, Layla."

She lets out a sigh and attempts to move away, but I quickly position my arms behind the counter, effectively trapping her. "You're not going anywhere until you start fucking talking."

She crosses her arms stubbornly. "Honestly, it's not as big a deal as you're making it. It's just a stupid little cut. I only needed stitches because it was deeper than it looked," she explains, attempting nonchalance.

"Try again. That's not what I wanted to hear," I grit out, my patience waning rapidly.

Silence hangs between us. "I guess you want to do this the hard way," I remark. I snatch a knife from beside her and hold it against her throat.

Tears begin to well up in her eyes. I apply a slight pressure with the knife, watching fear gradually invade her gaze.

"Are you going to tell me or do you want another fresh pair of stitches?"