Serina Accardi had everything, and wanted for nothing. Her brother gave her whatever she desired, but kept the parts of her destined world out of her reach.
Until she lost everything in one night to a man who's eyes looks like the devils wrath.
Th...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Serina POV
After I fired the gun everything went black. I wasn't sure how long it's been since I killed Kye. If it's been hours or days since I'd pulled the trigger.
I killed a man. I killed a man. I killed a man.
I didn't know what day it was, but I did know that I was tired, too tired to panic about being a murderer. Actually I was exhausted, I felt like I was being weighed down with an anchor, floating in a void of weightlessness.
I couldn't open my eyes. Or rather I didn't fucking want to. I didn't know what had happened to me after I blacked out and I was to scared to open my eyes to find out.
I feel my body drenched with a cold sweat, the aching numbing pain in my arms and legs and neck. I could hear voices asking me to open my eyes—but the thought of opening them made everything that happened seem darker, and I couldn't muster the strength or the will to do so just yet.
I could feel everything and hear most of what was said around me. The wet cloth that was draped over my forehead. The shuffling of the nurses I wondered if Lorenzo hired.
I heard Lorenzo's voice close to me a couple times, one right next to my ear, but it was like he was saying things that I couldn't or didn't want to understand. I wasn't ready for him.
I would feel my teeth chatter and the rip of gauze off my skin. I must have caught a fever—or maybe this was all from shock. Or maybe I imagined Lorenzo saving me, and I was really just dead.
That would be the easiest solution to this. If I had died. The weight of what I have been though settles on me like a weight on my shoulders, flashes of the nightmare of being tortured relentlessly as I screamed made the darkness I was trapped in a prison of my own making.
I wanted a funeral, with some pretty flowers maybe. And drinks, lots of drinks.
My body had raked with the cold even though I felt warm covers rest over me, hands brushing over my arm and a hand brushing over my cheek. So I came to the conclusion that maybe I wasn't dead, because hell is hot—not fucking cold, and touch would be painful, not comforting.
My thoughts if not being in Hell was confirmed when I felt a hand grab mine, it was hesitant and the grip so delicate like he was terrified he'd break me. The hand which engulfed mine was much bigger and rougher, skin calloused. The chill of cold titanium rings shocked my skin, the bite of them familiar.
It took me out of my head, and the cold had faded slightly. I didn't die.
I felt the hand bring mine to their lips, and I sighed slightly as I felt his hot and fragmented breath on my skin which seemed to warm me like fire. "I am so sorry sparrow." The voice echoed and I knew instantly who it belonged to. The sorry from the mouth of the man who seemed to have sworn to he'd never be sorry was a feat that made my heat jump in my chest.
