[𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒] [𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍]
Gabriel Sinclair was no saint, and he made no pretenses about it.
Ruthless, cunning, and unhinged -those words only begin to scratch the surface of his true nature.
Like a merciless hurricane, h...
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"A villain is just a victim whose story hasn't been told."
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Transitioning from the brink of a monumental panic attack to something even worse launches my emotions into a dizzying tailspin. The whirlwind is relentless and swift, ripping away my usual facade. In these tumultuous moments, pulled in countless directions, I grasp onto the most overpowering emotion amid the chaos.
The one I know and live with for as long as I can remember.
Anger.
"Why the hell are you lurking behind the door like that?" I hiss through clenched teeth, my eyes narrowing into slits as they scan Gabriel's figure. "Is listening to people piss some sick thrill for you?"
Gabriel tilts his head, a few strands of hair brushing just above his eyes. His face remains a mask of stoicism, yet an undercurrent of malice—or perhaps conceit—flickers beneath the surface, subtly coloring his demeanor.
"What about you?" he retorts, his tone dripping with impish glee, deepening my scowl. "Do you get off on listening in on other people's phone calls?"
I bite down on the inside of my cheek with such force that I'm surprised no blood comes out.
"If you don't want an audience, perhaps have your private conversations somewhere other than a public space."
"And if you fancy yourself a lecturer, try not to find yourself in such a desperate position first," he comments, one eyebrow raised as his gaze shifts to his chest. It's only then that I notice my hands, unconsciously planted there. What the hell? "If I knew all it took was you tripping over your own feet to latch onto me like that, I would have provoked it sooner."
I jerk upright, my body stiffening like the rigid pipe protruding from the wall ahead. With a forceful shove against Gabriel's chest, I compel him to step back, wrenching myself free from his arm encircling my lower back in the process.
"What a buzzkill," Gabriel mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible over the sound of my footsteps heading straight for one of the bathroom sinks.
When I turn on the tap, the cold water hits my hands like a shock, but it doesn't soothe the itch. It's as if tiny needles are prickling my skin, setting my fingertips ablaze. The more I scrub, the more intense the burning grows, spreading up my arms like wildfire.
I know it's all in my head.
It always is.
The smudgy, inky blur spreading over my hands is nothing but a figment of my imagination. There's still a part of me clinging to rationality, though it's crumbling. But sometimes that rational voice is too faint, drowned out by the cacophony of self-destructive thoughts in my brain. Like right now. They play on like an unending, discordant symphony.
