❝Goddammit! I hate you! I hate you and your dumb voice! and your stupid muscles and your awfully attractive face!❞
❝You think I'm attractive?❞
❝Fuck no!❞
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Dangerous, wild and rebellious.
Calm, cool and collected.
Darya just wan...
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I couldn't sleep throughout the night.
The anger I was feeling made it hard to. It was eating me up from inside, fueling my drive to do something. Anything.
That's how I found myself sitting alone in the kitchen's dark embrace, the only sound the soft jingle of my bike keys as I flick them between my fingers.
The air is heavy with the scent of my mother's favorite stale coffee and night. My thumb and index finger move with a life of their own, the keys dancing in the dim light that seeps through the cracks.
In my mind's eye, I recall her face when she was telling me about the story; the lines of exhaustion etched into her skin, the bruises under her eyes. Her beautiful smile was gone, which was replaced by a guarded wariness that made my chest ache.
I'm replaying the moments that led to this, the what-ifs and the should-haves swirling in my head like a storm.
My fingers still, the keys motionless for a moment as I think of him—the one who's broken her trust, who's hurt her when she needed protection most.
A cold determination seeps into my bones, my grip on the keys tightening. Plans begin to form, dissolving, reforming into something sharper, more precise.
I'm so going to kill him.
The darkness around me feels like an ally, a cloak that wraps around me, hiding my intentions. My fingers resume their rhythmic motion, the keys clicking softly as I weigh my options, every scenario playing out in vivid detail.
The silence is my canvas, and revenge is the art I'm about to create.
"I pity whoever's got you looking like you've got murder on your mind."
My dad's voice drifts from the entryway, warm and low, with a hint of roughened edges.
I raise my eyes to meet his gaze, taking in the familiar contours of his face and the concern etched into his features. His shirtless torso leans against the doorframe, a relaxed pose that belies the intensity of his scrutiny.
As our eyes meet, he pushes off from the doorway, his movements fluid and purposeful. The dim light casts shadows on his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline. He walks closer, his expression morphing from casual observation to genuine concern.
I straighten my spine, my shoulders squaring as I stand to meet him halfway. "Dad, I need your help," I say, cutting straight to the point. My voice is firm, but a thread of urgency runs beneath it, drawing him in.
He halts in front of me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he searches my face. The lines around his mouth deepen, and his brow furrows, confusion and concern warring for dominance.
