Monster in His Eyes(57)

My voice is weak when I whisper, "You don't love me."

"Oh, but I do," he says. "Because if I didn't? You'd be dead already."

I let out an involuntary whimper at the sound of his voice, so matter of  fact, with no sign of regret in his words. He would've killed me …  he so  easily could have, so many times. If it's love that kept me alive, what  does it mean for now? What does it mean for my future?

"Nothing's changed," he says, as if he can read my mind. "I'm still the  man I was two hours ago, the same man I was two weeks ago, two months  ago …  two years ago. I'm the same man you gave yourself to, the same man  you fell in love with. Nothing's changed."

He says it like he means it, like he really believes it, but looking at  him, I don't see that man anymore. I see a man who not only could end my  life, but a man who I think someday might.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says quietly, and I close my eyes,  unable to take the expression on his face, the look that wants me to  believe it, that almost makes me believe it.

I sit still, my breath hitching when I feel him touch my face, caressing  my cheek, fingertips grazing my lips as I exhale shakily. I can tell he  leans closer, his cologne stronger, his body heat wafting across my  skin, warming me on the outside, but I'm so, so cold inside. He's turned  my blood to ice, stopped my heart from pumping it from fear that if it  does, it might still beat for him.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he says, his lips near mine. He kisses the corner of my mouth. "Say something."

His lips meet mine softly. I don't kiss him back, instead whispering a lone word. "Red."

Red.

His lips leave mine in the next breath, his hand dropping from my face. I  open my eyes in enough time to see him stand up. He stares down at me  for a moment in silence. He has the audacity to look upset, like I've  wounded him, like the word hurt him more than he could ever possibly  hurt me. It feels like an eternity passes around me as I stare up at him  with watery eyes, trying to keep my tears from falling, before he looks  away, turning his back to walk out of the room.

I sit there for a while, not having the energy to move, before forcing  myself to my feet. My knees are weak, wanting to give out as I leave the  kitchen. My gaze darts to the front door, and for a brief second I  think about running out of it, but where can I go? Who can I turn to?

Who will believe me?

What would he do?

Instead, I head upstairs.

I climb into bed with my clothes on, not even bothering to take off my  shoes. I'm on the verge of tears, but the shock of it all is keeping  them at bay.

The city is dangerous, my mother repeatedly told me. There are people  who will prey upon me, who will corrupt me, who will use me and abuse  me. I have to be on guard, alert, always keeping my eyes open to the  dangers of the world, because they're real, and they'll destroy me.

I heard it over and over.

So many times.

Who would've expected I'd fall in blindly with the biggest threat of all?





The world keeps turning.

I keep moving.

Life around me continues to go on.

Naz acts like nothing changed. He meant it when he said it, truly  believed it, but it's different for me now. It's all different. The  truth seeped into my bones, infused in my muscles, as much a part of me  now as the blood in my veins.

Blood that still feels too heavy in my chest, making each beat of my heart painful.

The den is quiet. The television is on, but muted, reruns of Real  Housewives playing on the screen. Naz isn't watching it, instead sitting  at his desk with a book. He's reading. Reading. I don't think anything  Raymond Angelo pays him to do requires him to look in a book.
                       
       
           



       
I stand just outside the doorway, looking in. I know the TV is on for  me. He does it every day, turns on something he's seen me watch before,  like he's trying to coax me into the room with him.

I haven't gone in yet.

It's been a week.

He hasn't left the house. Every day the same thing, the same routine. He  lies beside me at night, but I don't think either of us gets any sleep,  staring into the darkness, lost in the bitter silence. He hasn't  touched me …  hasn't tried to touch me …  since I spoke the safe word in the  kitchen. Not so much as a brush of his arm against mine in seven days.

I'm grateful. I'm relieved.

But I ache.

I mourn the loss of his touch.

What's wrong with me?

He tore me in two-half of me still clinging to who I thought he was,  while the other half is shattered by the man he turned out to be. I love  him. I hate him.

If I never saw his face again, I would be better off.

But yet I stand in the doorway, not looking at the silent television,  instead looking at him. I wonder what he's thinking, what he's reading,  what he'd say to me if I talked to him. I wonder if he knows how I feel  about him right now, if this is how he's felt about me all along.

He set out to destroy me, but he fell in love with me instead.

I fell in love with him, and that's what destroyed me in the end.

He says he would never hurt me, but he doesn't realize he already has.

He hurt me by loving me.

By being who he is.

Because I am who I am.

I stare at him like I used to stare at my philosophy book, like maybe  all the answers will magically transfer into my brain so I know what I'm  supposed to know, so I understand what so far has evaded me. My stomach  knots, constricting the flight of the butterflies he gives me, until  his gaze shifts my way. He doesn't move anything except his eyes as he  regards me carefully. I feel like a child being watched, but he still  looks at me like I'm a woman.

He looks at me like he needs me more than the air he breathes.

My lungs can't seem to work when he looks at me that way.

My chest burns, my stomach churns, my vision goes hazy and my knees go  weak, all the while the two halves of me scream at the top of their  lungs. I love him. I hate him. He's everything that's good. He's the  worst of everything. He gives my life meaning. He'll take my life away  someday.

My Prince Charming turned out to be the villain of my fairy tale, and  part of me thinks that's okay, because eventually, it'll all disappear,  anyway.

Nothing lasts forever.

Happily ever after, I think, doesn't exist.

Naz curves an eyebrow in question but remains silent. I hesitate for a moment before turning around and walking away.

There's nothing to do.

I mindlessly walk laps around the house, sitting in one room for a bit  before moving on to the next, never going into the den. I consider  calling the number my mother gave me, but it feels like a betrayal to  Naz, and I'm not sure what to say to her, either. The fact that she  hasn't called me sticks out like a sore thumb.

I text Melody and act like nothing is wrong.

I flick little birdies across the screen and annihilate pigs to occupy my time.

I even go outside and walk around the back yard. There's nothing out  here, except for trees and grass, a lawnmower that desperately needs  used and some rose bushes that seem like they've died a long time ago. I  find the outside entrance to what I assume is the basement, and I  consider going down there out of boredom, until I catch Naz watching me  from the window in the den.

His gaze burns through me, so I go back inside, just to escape it, going  upstairs and falling into bed, succumbing to exhaustion and taking a  nap. When I awaken, the room is dark. It's well after nightfall.

My throat is dry.

My stomach growls ferociously.

Rubbing it, I head downstairs again. The light in the den is the only  one that's on. I head into the kitchen, my footsteps faltering when I  find a carton of Chinese food sitting on the counter beside the fridge.  It's still warm when I pick it up, and I pop the top open, seeing it's  beef Lo Mein with no vegetables.

He ordered it for me.

It's what I ask for when he orders Chinese.

I grab a fork and start eating, curiosity fueling me as I stroll toward  the den. Once again, I pause near the doorway and look in.

The television is still on, the channel changed to some cooking  competition. Naz is sitting at his desk, his feet kicked up now. He's  changed, wearing a pair of sweat pants, which means he came upstairs  while I was asleep.

His eyes drift my way. I haven't made any noise, but he seems to always  know when I'm there. He stares at me, his gaze shifting to the food in  my hand, before he turns back to his book.

It feels like an hour passes.

It might've been only a minute.

The silence is getting to me.

I haven't used my voice all week, so I'm surprised it still works when I open my mouth. "What are you reading?"                       
       
           



       

He doesn't react. He doesn't seem surprised that I've spoken. His eyes  stay glued to the book until he flips the page. "The Prince."