PRISONERS

Chapter 6

• Chapter 6 •

I am stunned at the sight in front of me. This man, who has one of the darkest, creepiest laughs I've ever heard, has such a gorgeous, breath-taking features and glowing forest green eyes that had my mouth water. My heart picked up its pace as I took in his sharp jaw, his heart-shaped lips, small pointy nose and chestnut long curly hair that reached his shoulders.  There was something about the way his electric green eyes flashed at me that had my stomach rolling.

“Hi,” I mumbled, slightly out of self-control. How is it possible for someone to look this good? I thought the hottest guy I've seen lately was that man back at the cafeteria, but this one...he is something else. He has a different type of beauty, the type I'm attracted to.

“Hey.” his deep voice called out as he slowly pushed the curtain further away, revealing his full body.

He was tall and muscular, his shoulders wide, his legs toned, his arms strong. He was definitely the type of guy you wouldn't want to fight with. Tattoos traveled up his neck, a few on his hands. There was also a small cross tattoo on his right cheekbone — which I loved. We looked so similar, we were both inked from head to toe.

There was an un denying tension as we just stood silent, taking each other in fully, our eyes speaking instead of our mouths. There is something about him that doesn't feel right. Something is so off, so dangerous and odd, but I like it. It's confusing even in my own brain.

“What's your name?” I asked slowly, fighting the urge to clear my dry throat in the moment so I wouldn't look awkward. I don't know why I feel so self conscious right now.

“Harry.”

His tone was too dry and flat, as if he was barely interested in talking to me. I softly frowned; I don't want him to be bored of me. I moved closer to the bars, pushing my blanket to the side to make space for me on the bed. He watched my every move carefully and there was a sparkle in his green eyes.

“I'm—,“

“Rosalia.” he finished for me, making me cock a brow. “I know who you are.”

I chuckled lightly, “How?” I was curious.

“Everyone has been talking about you, quite difficult not to know about you these days.” his accent betrayed his birth place and a small smile appeared on my lips at his reply.

“Not everything they say about me is true, though.” I claimed, bringing a pillow on my lap.

“I'm certain.” his pupils dilated as his dark eyes zoomed in on me. There was something so bright about his gaze, it made me feel hazy.

I wish I knew what was going on in his head.

“I believe you're the maniac.” he chuckled at my words, dimples dipping into his cheek. “Or that's just what they call you.”

He shook his head, his curls moving around his shoulders. “Typical journalist shit.” he said amused, a low laugh erupting from his throat. My stomach churned at the sound.

“Is it that bad being called a maniac?” I asked monotonously. I don't understand why some people get offended when they are called ‘different’, ‘crazy’ or ‘weird’. It's not like their opinion has to matter, either way.