LETTERS OF A VIRGIN

27. Sin City and Agreements

VARYNUS GALYNER'S POV

The night was suffocating. Silence pressed down on me like a weight, heavier than the guilt I carried. For three days, sleep had eluded me, and now, like a thief, it finally stole over me. I collapsed onto the sofa near Paris's bed, her labored breathing and the rhythmic beeping of machines forming an eerie lullaby. Exhaustion, my only reprieve, allowed me to escape the responsibility for a moment.

When I woke, sunlight was filtering through the heavy curtains. The golden warmth felt alien, out of place with the storm inside me. Disoriented, I turned my gaze to Paris. She was still asleep, her chest rising and falling steadily. The Relief that flickered through me— when I returned with Jonathan to find her alive, though I knew Jared would be relentless, I thought seeing Paris in critical state wouldn't bother me, but I found myself heading home, hoping she isn't gone. She had survived the torment Jared had put her through, torment I had ordered, but not to this extent.

I stood slowly, the guilt gnawing at me. I had signed off on her interrogation, yes. But Jared had gone too far. She was a hostage, a tool—nothing more. So why did the sight of her bruised and broken body make something twist inside me?

I summoned a nurse to attend to her. She needed to be cleaned up, fed. I gave the instructions methodically, keeping my tone flat. I couldn’t let them see that I was beginning to feel something—something dangerous. Paris wasn’t supposed to matter. She was just another pawn, another hostage. But somehow, she was different.

Once I was sure Paris was in good hands, I retreated to my red room—a space originally designed for entertainment, a place where I could indulge my desires and forget the ugliness of the world. The deep reds and dark shadows usually provided me an escape, but now they felt oppressive, like the walls were closing in. I ran a hand through my hair and stripped off my clothes, stepping into a hot bath. I sank into the water, trying to let the heat chase away the tension coiled deep within me.

But no amount of hot water could wash away the guilt.  I had ordered her to be tortured, but what Jared had done... it had gone too far. She wasn’t just another pawn anymore. She was a person, fragile and hurt, and for some inexplicable reason, I felt responsible for her.

"Why do you care?" my mind whispered, bitterly mocking me. "She’s just a hostage. Disposable. Like all the others."

But I couldn’t shake the image of her lying in that bed, vulnerable, haunted by what Jared had done. I had to protect her now, even from myself. I couldn’t let her get hurt again. Not by Malcolm. Not by anyone.

Why am I even thinking this way?

Fuck.

I shouldn't give a damn.

But then I do.

When I was clean and dressed, I returned to Paris’s room. She was sitting up in bed, a tray of untouched food in front of her. Her face was pale, and her eyes held a wariness I had seen too often in the eyes of those I’d interrogated. But there was something else—something raw and human that tugged at a part of me I had long buried.

“Good morning,” I said softly, standing at the foot of her bed.

She glanced up at me, her expression guarded. “Morning,” she muttered, her voice strained.

I moved closer but kept my distance, unsure of how to approach her now. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been run over by a truck,” she said, her lips barely curving in what could have been a smile. But there was no humor in her eyes. Only pain. “I’m tired... of all this.”