inferno | 18+

XVII

"A masterpiece of tragedy."
- v e n t u m

DEVINA

"Hit me."

I stare at him with worry in my eyes. His hair is tied up in a bun, and he's wearing a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt. As if this isn't hard enough for me to look at, already. I raise my hand, and try. I really try, but I can't get myself to do it. I'm looking at him, trying to bite back his smile. He's enjoying this. Asshole.

"Afraid you'll hurt me?" he asks, and I sigh before nodding. He smiles this time. Amusement settles on his face, and I almost want to punch him in his face just for the fun of it.

"It's not funny, Zakaria. I will hurt you."

"You sound so confident," he utters, walking around me. I freeze, trying my best not to cower before him. Not to let the urge to bend my knees, take over me. I collect my hands into fists so he doesn't see the shaking. I can feel my lungs collapsing inside my body. The feelings he puts in me are too big; too unfamiliar. My body can't seem to figure out where to put them. Everything in me is too claustrophobic.

He runs a cold hand down my spine, starting where my tattoo starts, and retreats his hand when my tattoo ends. I don't know how much he's been studying it in the few weeks we've been in the house, but he certainly knows a lot about it.

It's been two more weeks since the entire guitar-garage incident, and I haven't been able to pinpoint what I feel. It's wrong. It is so wrong to want him the way I do. Shame fills me like water in a tub. He tried to kidnap my best friend. He stole his brother's only happiness and had plans to ruin her. I'm meant to hate everything he does; everything he says; the way he acts; talks; smiles; walks; everything.

Yet, my body protests. As if I am not the commander of my own body. I'm just a bystander, watching as my body allows him in over and over. Allows him to bend and break me into his own little nightmare. The kiss we shared in his bed was a sympathetic kiss. I was vulnerable- both times we'd kissed I was vulnerable.

He's not a good person. I know he isn't. He's the worst kind of man God ever could have created, yet my heart swoons everytime he says something. Every time he makes me feel wanted; seen; heard. Something my own family couldn't give. My husband.

An arm wraps around my throat, and my breath hitches, my body responding to the immediate danger I'm put in. I grab the arm with both of my hands, before twisting the wrist. I hear a gasp from behind me, and I now know the hand is Zakaria's. A smile comes onto my lips, before I turn around, his wrist still in my hand.

"Very good," he says pleased. Something in his eyes glints, and I tilt my head a little, before he grabs me by my throat and brings me to the mat that's placed beneath our feet. I gasp for air, trying to blink away the un-welcomed stars I'm seeing. Zakaria moves closer to my ear before whispering, "But not good enough."

Rage bubbles in my veins, and I knee him in the groin, watching him curl in pain. I stand up, and déjà vu hits me like a truck, and for just a second I consider planting my foot in his face once more just for the memoir. As if he can read my thoughts, he grabs my ankle with his hand. I feel his fingers squeezing around my ankle, and my eyes go wide, before I'm lying on the floor again.

Zakaria is quick to crawl on top of me. He pins my hands down with his own, studying my face. Our lips are inches apart. Sweat sits on his forehead. My chest is rising and falling - it's a never ending cycle. "You lost, angel," he says against my lips. I gulp, looking into his dark eyes. They almost look black.

Maybe he is a monster. Maybe he is the worst of the worst. Maybe he is the devil himself. But all I see in those eyes is someone who's been asking for help for years, and gotten nothing but laughs and scoffs in response. Maybe he truly is everything everyone calls him, and if that is so; he is a misunderstood monster.