Harry Styles, a secret service agent working for British intelligence is tasked with finding the killer after a series of brutal but calculated murders across Europe. His mind is sharp, he's smart, arrogant and works with a precision that leaves no...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Winter
My eyes opened.
Everything was still, silent. Peaceful.
No fluorescent lights, no high-pitched beeping, the rhythmic sound of my heartbeat over and over. No hospital gown, no hospital bed.
But my body felt hollow, and heavy. Both at once. Like my limbs didn't quite belong to me for a moment.
The room smelled clean, but not the sterile smell of bleach and chemicals. It was more like fresh linen, a clean cotton that had been hung outside to dry on a warm summer's day. A hint of vanilla. But not just any vanilla, the dark, sweet smell that my body craved being surrounded by. I was in the guest room—my room. It was the exact way I'd left it. The blanket I picked out, the vanity with the mirror, surrounded by my makeup that had been neatly organised—not by me. And a fresh bouquet of roses. I was asleep in my room that I'd never spent a night in, wearing pyjamas I'd not worn in ages. Because I always ended up tangled in Harry's sheets, sleeping in his clothes.
I sat up slowly. The sun was up but it gave me no indication of what time it was, I knew it began to rise around six in the morning, so it could be any time from then on. My head throbbed when I moved, a dull ache, not sharp but it was enough to make me wince. When I was upright and turning to place my feet on the floor in an attempt to get up, I noticed the glass of ice-cold water sitting on the bedside table. I took a few sips, and water had never tasted so good in my life.
When I stood, my legs trembled for a moment, but I was quick to steady myself.
One of Harry's hoodies hung over the back of the chair at the vanity. I grabbed it, slipped it on and headed for the bathroom.
The mirror was cruel to me. My skin was paler than usual, blotchy, and my eyes were swollen from crying and sleep. I ignored my reflection and brushed my teeth, trying to get rid of whatever taste was in my mouth. Once I was done, I opened up the smaller mirrored cabinet out of habit. But it was empty.
I didn't panic seeing the empty shelves.
Because I knew what I'd done.
I remembered waking up to the sound of breathing, steady and soft, and the weight of someone's hand resting gently on my shoulder. When I blinked, I was warm, but everything was dark. My head was in Harry's lap. He was sitting up on the bed, one arm wrapped around me. Sitting like he hadn't meant to fall asleep. But even with his touch that I always craved, I felt nothing but terror.
A deep fear. Something rotten. Something that clung to me, surrounded me, and something I'd never be able to escape from.
My brain hadn't felt like mine. There were pieces missing, like everything had been destroyed and put back together wrong. I didn't know how I got there or why. All I knew was that something was wrong. And I didn't trust anything. Not the bedroom, not Harry's hand on my shoulder, not myself.
