Destined | 18+

Part 2 - Roman

Isla's POV

Searing pain radiated all through my legs and feet before I even opened my eyes. My mouth was dry, my eyes were too painful to fully open and my back and chest felt like they were on fire. Holy shit! There was a fire last night, am I dead?! I laid in unknown surroundings and felt absolutely terrified.

I saw no one around the large beautiful room, illuminated with the faint sunshine of the morning light. Oh my God, oh my God, please don't let this be some serial killer's house, this was obviously not my place! My entire monthly salary wouldn't be able to pay for that lamp on the bedside table.

My legs were absolutely killing me. I dared to look back onto my thighs and saw what I can only describe as a fucking horror film. Did I even have legs?! I wiggled my toes and yes, seems that my body responded to my brain's instructions. There was blood everywhere, all over my legs and the sheets, holy fuck. My eyes stung with tears but my mind continued trying to piece it all together.

Weren't there two men here last night? Was one sewing me up? Oh fuck, it was so painful. As soon as I remembered, searing pain pierced me again just from the memory.

Did I lose my apartment? I almost died! What happened...I remember waking up and being unable to breathe, the heat was all encompassing and in my delirium, I reached my window and smashed it with a chair, desperate for a breath of fresh air. There was someone there, at the side of the house but then, ugh, it's so hard to piece it together.

Whoa.

My eyes suddenly landed on him. The same man from last night. I remember very faintly, seeing blue eyes a few times in between my incoherence.

He said hello and his voice sounded deep and uninterested. He stood at the doorway and stared straight at me. He was tall, too tall for comfort. He was big, his black t-shirt only defining his oversized muscles and holy shit did he have tattoos galore. Who has so much ink?! A tattoo artist? A rock star? A... no...

"Hello?" He repeated again questioning me and I realized my jaw was hanging open as I stared back and roamed my eyes over his body. He kind of looked like that hockey player, whose video edits are plastered all over Instagram...Michael Mrazik or Morozik or something? Same dark longer hair, same full lips, eyes that could undress any girl. A fucking dream. Wow, okay, bring it back, bring it back to reality.

"H-hi..." My tongue could barely move in my mouth.

"Don't worry. I'm not a serial killer. I can tell that's what's you're thinking." He smiled. Really? Did this seem like a time for smiling right now?!

"Uh...okay...I'm sure that's exactly what a serial killer would say." He smiled at my words again. Damn, his smile was perfect. Perfection. Straight white teeth and dimples, his eyes looked down and he looked shy. I was so distracted by the sight of him that I had forgotten the crimson cuts adorning my legs. I tried to sit up but was immediately humbled by the excruciating pain in my thighs.

"Don't sit up. Here's some Tylenol and water." This guy spoke slowly and with authority and pointed to the bedside table.

I finally realized I needed to get some information out of him.

"Who are you, and um, where am I and also, was there a fire last night? What...?" I tried to formulate my thoughts but had to squeeze my eyes shut to piece it all together.

"My name is Roman. You're in my house. Just rest for now and take pain meds and then we can talk." And without another word, he closed the door and left.

Wow. What a fucking start to the day. Who the fuck was Roman and why was his bedroom twice as large as my entire apartment? But he conveniently didn't answer the most important question - was there a fire?