Twisted Obsession

49 - Checkmate

Athena Luciana Bianchi

As Valentin stalked off, his shoulders rigid and his hands clenched into fists, I trailed behind him at a cautious distance. His movements were tense, a simmering storm barely contained, and I didn't dare get too close in case it erupted. His temper had always been like that—volatile, unpredictable, and devastating when unleashed.

"I need you to find Federico," I called after him, forcing my voice to stay steady despite the knot of unease tightening in my chest.

He didn't respond, didn't even turn his head to acknowledge me. Instead, he pushed open the door to one of the bedrooms, his presence filling the space like a shadow.

The moment I stepped inside, the metallic tang of blood hit me, sharp and nauseating. My eyes fell to the bed, where the sheets were streaked with dark, rust-colored stains. Whatever had happened here, it wasn't something I wanted to dwell on. A chill ran down my spine as I fought to keep my composure.

"Let me guess," Valentin said finally, his voice sharp and dismissive. He didn't bother to face me, his gaze fixed on the room's far wall. "It was a fake."

I nodded, my throat tightening as embarrassment prickled at my skin. Heat flooded my face, a rare sensation that made me feel small and exposed.

"Je te l'ai dit," he muttered, the mocking edge in his tone cutting through me like a blade. [Translation: I told you.]

"Please, Valentin," I said, the words tasting bitter as I swallowed my pride. My voice was quieter now, almost pleading. "Help me."

He let out a low, derisive laugh, shaking his head as if I were a child who hadn't learned their lesson. Without a word, he tugged his shirt over his head, the fabric catching briefly before falling to the floor. My eyes involuntarily tracked the movement, landing on the scars and bruises that marked his torso—silent testimonies of a life lived on the edge. Each line, each discoloration told a story I didn't want to know.

He unzipped his pants, the sound sharp in the tense silence, and stepped out of them with the same mechanical indifference. "Je t'ai dit de ne pas lui faire confiance," he said, his French accent thick, his words clipped. He glanced at me, his dark eyes full of disdain. "Je t'avais prévenu qu'il te baiserait." [Translation: I told you not to trust him. He told you he would fuck you.]

The accusation stung, and I flinched, the guilt pressing down on me like a weight.

"Valentin, please," I repeated, the desperation clawing its way up my throat. My voice cracked slightly, but I didn't care. "I'm desperate."

"Clearly," he said, his tone icy and dripping with condescension. He stripped the last of his clothes and walked into the bathroom without another glance in my direction.

The sound of the shower turning on broke the silence, a rhythmic pattern that seemed almost cruelly indifferent to the tension between us. Steam began to billow out of the open door, curling around him as he stood beneath the spray.

I hovered near the doorway, torn between retreating and pushing further. My gaze followed the trails of blood spiraling down his body, mingling with the water before disappearing down the drain. His movements were slow and methodical, as if even the act of cleaning himself was a calculated performance.

"You screwed up," he said finally, his voice calm but detached, as though he were stating a fact rather than passing judgment. "Fix it yourself."

His words struck like a slap, and my chest tightened, frustration mingling with the sting of rejection.

"I can't," I said, stepping closer despite myself. My voice rose, the raw edge of desperation breaking through. "I need your help."

"Athena, leave me alone," he said, his tone sharper now, each word a blade cutting through the air. "You're starting to piss me off."