The Merciless (h.s.)

Chapter Eleven

Arabella

I've done everything I can to pass the time, and it is only two-thirty in the afternoon.

I anxiously filled my stomach up with canned soup. I lingered as long as I could in the shower, taking my time shampooing and conditioning my hair, lathering my body with scented soap, shaving my body head to toe for absolutely no reason. Only to occupy my mind. Just to kill time.

I have already blow dried and straightened my hair to a pin, the split ends tickling the middle of my spine. Every time Harry's inevitable arrival springs into the forefronts of my mind, I shake my skull like a bobble head to rid of it. The pit in my stomach only wrenches deeper when I remember exactly what I am getting ready for.

Elle left her makeup sprawled across the bathroom counter, which I am assuming is because of the way Harry practically shoved her out of the front door. I take it upon myself to delve into her more expensive and smooth concealer, as well as her mascara. Her blush teases me, but I forgo it. I'm sure I won't be needing it artificially.

I stood in front of my closet for ten minutes, deciphering what rag will have to do for whatever outing this is. I'm more than positive Harry won't be taking me anywhere fancy, so I don't have to worry about dressing up. I finally settled with a pair of jeans and a basic black long sleeve shirt that is ever so subtly cropped at my belly button.

When I have no other task to indulge myself in, panic crawls up my spine like ice water. My once serene dorm room has transformed into a prison by the hour. I'm not entirely sure whether I want to break out of these walls as soon as possible, rip the bandaid off and get it over with, or hide under the bed and write a note explaining that I hopped on a plane back home and will never be returning.

The feeling of Harry underneath me, hands tracing the most intimate places of my body, is seared into skin like a branding mark. His hands are like fire, and they have permanently left behind their burn even hours after he's left. My hips are starting to itch, like they know he is coming. Scared to be burned again. The anticipation, the unknown, is making me queasy.

I am starting to believe that this little deal I made has gone too far. When the words, "I'll do anything you say" tumbled past my lips, I didn't think I would be barged in on or dragged out of my room.

When I start believing the walls are closing in on me, contorting into a claustrophobic cage instead of my bedroom, I decide to make my bed. There's really no point since I will be diving back into it the moment I am set free from Harry's reins, but I need my brain engaged or else the memory of Harry's intoxicating scent and calloused hands will swallow me whole.

I straighten out my white comforter, tucking the edges in the corners of the mattress. I make sure to smooths out all the wrinkles with my palms. When I am shifting my pillows into an upright position, a crinkling sound halts my movements. I lift my pillow up and spot the crumpled piece of notebook paper sitting on my sheets. My nimble fingers steadily unfold the paper.

Harry fights people for money.

The Italians and The Irish own the city.

My roommate's family owns half of the city.

Who is Lucy?

I must do everything Harry says.

Why did Ariella run away?

"Hmm," I hum to myself while my eyes scan over my hand writing, my brain absorbing each sentence like I am reading them for the very first time.