Page 21

I haven’t gotten a wink of sleep all night. Every bone aches with persistent pain, and tingles blossom between my legs. Hours have passed since what we did, yet I still feel the aftershocks coursing through me. It must be psychosomatic, or whatever they call it—feeling sensations that aren’t really there. There’s no way I can still feel this good after all this time.

But I do, and I hate myself for it. I despise my body for the way I rubbed against him, begging for him to fuck me like I was an animal, not a human being. The moment he pinned me to the bed and hovered above me, I lost all the dignity and pride I once held. All of it vanished because, at that moment, I felt safe.

Safe. With West.

I think I might be losing my mind. He wanted to intimidate me, to punish me for slapping him, but sprawled beneath him, it felt like I was shielded by a thick wall. His presence was a suffocating embrace—as always—yet I felt more secure than ever. At that moment, nothing and no one could reach me—not my father, not my responsibilities, not the persistent weight of my depression. The hateful thoughts and venomous anger froze, and I was free. I was the center of his attention, and he was the center of mine. Nothing else mattered.

A spike of fear jolts through the haze of my confused thoughts as I feel him moving beside me. The rustling of the sheets sends a wave of unease across my body, and I instinctively press my knees to my chest, burying my face in the pillow.

It’s early morning—the sun hides behind pockets of orange clouds, its rays barely piercing through. Fresh air drifts in from the slightly opened window, the breeze awakening goosebumps on my arms. I was too scared to move after what happened, and the blanket was tossed somewhere between me and West.

Throughout the night, a storm of emotions kept me distracted, but now I feel cold. The mattress sinks slightly as he sits up, and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, hoping he won’t notice I’m awake.

I don’t want to get up yet. I’m terrified of facing him.

A shiver snakes down my spine as he gets up off the bed, sending a blast of frigid air toward me.

Please, God, don’t let him see that I’m awake.

Shock floods my senses as I hear the sheets rustle again, and in an instant, my body is covered. The gentle fabric feels wonderfully soft against my exposed skin.

He just draped a blanket over me.

For a moment, West doesn’t move, and I can feel his eyes on my back. Mentally, I brace myself for his demands. I expect to feel his hands on my body, shaking me awake and screaming at me like my father often does.

But he does neither. He hesitates briefly before getting up and leaving. The door clicks shut, and I slowly open my eyes, hearing the faint trickle of water in the background.

Good. He went to the bathroom, giving me a brief moment to gather my thoughts and formulate a plan. I’ll have to face him eventually, and I need to know how to act after what happened. Slowly, I sit up on the bed, the tingles between my legs a mocking reminder of my fear. I tilt my head to the side, savoring the crack of my neck.

I’ve never felt so exhausted in my life.

I scrub a hand over my face, trying to clear my mind and think of a better way to start our upcoming conversation, but nothing comes to me. I keep staring blankly at the wall before me as time drags on. One minute, five—still nothing.

Then, the door creaks open, and I flinch as a fresh wave of goosebumps rises on my skin. He yawns as he walks out of the bathroom, and when our eyes meet, I’m momentarily paralyzed, memories of the night surging back and overwhelming my rational thoughts.

I can still feel the way his fingers moved inside me, the words he whispered, and that sound— that fucking sound —that I coaxed from him. My cheeks flush with heat, and I feel a lump forming in my throat. I may not have seen anything last night, but my imagination fills in the gaps with vivid clarity. Bits and pieces of the night replay in my mind as I look at him, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

I can only imagine how it would feel to face him directly, to see every emotion etched on his face—the way pleasure twists his perfect features into undeniable bliss.

Why does he have such an effect on me? I’ve never envisioned anything like this with another man, and never wanted to. My entire life, I’ve struggled to find anyone who could satisfy me, always taking matters into my own hands.

Yet this asshole managed not only to make me come multiple times in just a few days, but he also left a lingering sensation that persists for hours. It’s as if his tainted soul has seeped into mine, leaving a dangerous aftertaste that feels anything but natural.

“I’m going for a smoke, and then I’ll get us breakfast,” he says casually, glancing away from me. A heavy sense of disappointment settles in my chest, and I instinctively lower my gaze. “There’s a nice Italian restaurant down the hotel. We should eat outside, in case any paparazzi are lurking around.”

His words deepen my dismay, transforming it into something more profound. I struggle to grasp the source of this feeling. It’s just... odd how he sidesteps any mention of what happened between us and so nonchalantly returns to our usual, irritating routine—like an engaged, polished, fake couple.

“Sure,” I manage to choke out, failing to mask the bitterness in my tone. It seeps out, and for a second, it feels like he notices.

But no matter what it is, he pretends to ignore it. Without sparing me a glance, West walks toward the corridor, bending down to put on his shoes.

Why does he avoid eye contact? Is he embarrassed by what we did?

“Have you taken any painkillers with you?” he asks, catching me off guard with the abrupt change of subject. “My head is about to fucking explode.”

The muscle under my eye twitches as I realize the real reason for his discomfort—his craving for cocaine, that’s what it is. A sharp retort wells up on the tip of my tongue, and for a moment, I just stare at him, weighing whether to unleash it or not. He seems carefree, almost unbothered, while I’m hurt by his avoidance. I want to make him feel as I do, or even worse.

But instead, I swallow my anger and nod. “Yes. I have Tylenol,” I mumble, rising from the bed and walking over to my suitcase. I grab my medical kit and unzip it, shielding it from his view so he won’t see the Xanax I’ve stashed away. “But there’s no point in taking it now. Save it.”

His expression turns perplexed as I approach him, handing over the pills. “What is that supposed to mean?” he barks, tension radiating from his body.

I roll my eyes, trying to figure out if he’s fucking with me or genuinely clueless about how to take painkillers. “It means—” I trail off, sensing something strange stirring inside me. This isn’t like me—explaining something so basic to West. “You have to eat and wait at least seven minutes before taking it. No painkiller works on an empty stomach.”

He takes the pills from my hand, and his fingertips brush against mine—whether accidentally or intentionally, I can’t tell. The touch lingers for a moment, and suddenly, I’m back under him, pushing against those very fingers, chasing my high.

Well, fuck .

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know this basic rule,” I blurt out, desperate to push those inappropriate memories aside. Now is not the time for this.

“I didn’t,” he replies, his tone noticeably lighter than it was a moment ago. He sounds so different that my eyes snap back to his, confusion flaring within me.

An ache grips my chest as I remember that he grew up without a mother—someone who usually teaches their child these basic things. My mother was a piece of work, but at least she prepared me and taught me the basics.

“Oh. Well?—”

I’m cut off when he turns and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. It takes me a moment to register that he just left without a word, the door closing inches from my face. A spark of irritation flares inside me—a familiar emotion that burns away the confusion and other strange feelings he stirred up.

Fuck him. He’s always been an asshole, and today is no different. I helped him when I could have easily said no, and now he dares to storm out like this without a word.

I head to the bathroom, ready to follow my usual routine. I need to push these thoughts aside quickly, and nothing helps me do that better than getting myself ready for the day.

I bring my palm to the heated hair curler, checking twice to make sure it’s hot enough. Feeling the warmth radiating from it, I sit down in the chair, ready to complete the final stage of my look.

West should be back any minute, and I need to be ready to head out for breakfast. If it were up to me, I’d order room service, but I don’t want to argue with him—not now, anyway. I’m too confused and exhausted after last night to start fighting again.

Slowly, I begin the familiar process of curling my hair, taking one strand after another. But after the fifth attempt, I narrow my eyes at my reflection and realize my hair looks the same as it did before. I glance at the temperature on the screen, convincing myself it’s fine. Maybe I’m just pulling back too quickly.

I wait a moment before grabbing one of the still-warm strands and repeating the process, holding the curler for a few seconds longer this time. My arms ache from the strain, and I hunch over, weariness crashing over me like an avalanche. An unintentional whimper escapes my lips, and my stomach growls, slicing through the silence in the room. I didn’t realize how hungry I actually am until now.

Letting go of the strand, I raise my eyes to assess my work, only to see that my hair not only remains the same but some strands are tangled, and the ends look worse than before. I accidentally curled some of them in the wrong way, which means I have to start the process all over again.

I focus on my reflection in the mirror, pausing with the curler still in hand to check my makeup. The concealer has creased under my eyes, the blush looks too dark, and the corner of the false lash on my right eye has come unglued, sticking up awkwardly.

Deciding to tackle my face first, I set the curler aside, grab my beauty blender, and try to fix the concealer. But when I pull it away and see that I’ve made it worse, I fucking snap.

Slapping my hands onto my face, I smear the makeup, feeling its smooth, creamy texture as I drag it across my skin. I rub my eyes hard, ripping off the lashes, which sends sharp stings across my face and only intensifies my urge to wipe it all away.

I want to rip my fucking skin off.

Hot tears seep through my lashes, blending with the glue and a thick layer of mascara, blurring my vision and turning my surroundings into an indistinguishable mess as I keep scratching, smearing, and clawing at my skin that I hate so fucking much. I can barely feel my hands when I’m finished—even wiping off the makeup feels like too much effort.

A sob wracks my throat, which already feels sore, and I cover my eyes, letting my tears wash over my swollen face. My skin burns, and I can feel the deep red staining me—a testament to the hysterical mess I’ve become.

I don’t react when the door clicks open, nor when I hear footsteps approaching. All I want is to crawl back into bed and sleep for the rest of the day.

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened?” West asks, his voice laced with confusion and concern. “Why are you crying?”

I shake my head, my hands still covering my face. “I can’t do my hair,” I mumble, sensing the impending blackout from lack of oxygen. Finally, I pull my hands back, exposing my sensitive skin to the biting air. “It doesn’t curl the way it should.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel his stare boring into the side of my face as he tries to understand why I’m causing yet another scene. It seems like I’m always the one who ruins everything, as if I have a knack for fucking things up.

“Then let’s go without curling it,” he suggests hesitantly. “It looks perfect the way it is.”

I shake my head, that single thought adding to my frustration. Stepping outside with my hair unstyled terrifies me. My mom always did my hair before I left the house. It had become part of my routine, especially after her death—bringing a piece of her with me, even when she wasn’t there. She was the only one who knew exactly what I should do and how to do it. I can’t bring myself to go out like this. I won’t look the same.

At this point, I’d rather stay in the room.

“It needs to be styled,” I cry out, hating how desperate I sound. I can feel my stubbornness aggravating him more with every second, but I can’t stop myself. Grabbing the hairbrush from the table, I start attacking the mess I’ve made, scratching at my scalp with rough, painful strokes to even the hair before I try again. “I won’t go out like this. I won’t?—”

“Sweet Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, closing the distance between us in a few quick strides. He tries to snatch the hairbrush from my hands, but I tighten my grip until I feel my bones crack, never stopping my frantic clawing at my scalp.

It feels like I’m stuck in a trance, unable to stop what I’ve begun. I’ve already messed up my face, so my hair has to match.

“Stop, stop, stop it.” West squeezes my hand, gently prying my grip loose. Despite my resistance, his strength easily overpowers mine. With a shaky breath, I release the hairbrush, a cold relief settling on my scalp. I clasp my fingers in one hand and lower my head, ready to distract myself by picking at the skin around my nails.

Because I know what’s coming next.

He gathers a few strands from my chest, gently sweeping them behind me. As his fingers glide through, untangling the knots, he lifts the hairbrush to the top of my head. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the pain. A vivid memory crashes into my thoughts—each failure met with Mom’s fierce grip yanking my hair, the brush tearing through with such brutal force that I often wondered how I stayed intact.

I can still hear the snap, feel the harsh thud of the hairbrush striking my skull, and experience the dull ache that followed. The memory lingers so strongly that I can taste the bitterness of my punishment and hear her acid-laced words echoing in my ears.

Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.

But as his slow, careful strokes begin, the memory dissolves into nothing. He untangles the chaos I’ve created, each movement soft and intentional. A chill sweeps over me, and for a fleeting moment, I forget to breathe.

When I open my eyes, I meet his focused expression in the mirror. His hand, far larger than the brush, moves methodically, massaging my damaged hair with a tenderness that leaves me motionless. Pulling my hands apart, I place them on the table, defeatedly reaching back to my foundation.

I feel a strange kind of warmth—not just from his action, but from the care behind it.

“How do you do it?” he asks, and my body instinctively flinches at the rough edge of his tone. He’s still the West I hate, but now he feels out of sync with his persona.

“Do what?” I whisper, barely able to find my voice.

He sets the brush down on the table, and I nearly whimper, yearning for him to continue. “How do you curl your hair? Is there any… I don’t know, fucking instruction, at least?”

I pause, my eyes welling up with fresh tears. I’d forgotten how much more I had to do. While I might manage to fix my face, my hair is a different story. My arms ache too much, and the process feels like it would take forever. “No—” I hesitate, unsure how to respond. “I don’t know.”

I really don’t. It’s a routine my mother always performed for me, and I never understood how I memorized all those steps.

He sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. In silence, he types something, his expression shifting into one of focus until a sound starts playing from the screen. It takes a moment to realize what he’s turned on.

A video tutorial.

My lips part in shock, but no words come out. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs, leaving me gaping at his reflection in the mirror, disbelief running through my bloodstream. I fidget in my seat as he sets the phone on the table, grabs the curler, and watches the video with intense focus. His crystal eyes flicker between the screen and my hair before he carefully separates a strand and wraps it around the tool.

A strange sensation stirs in my stomach, climbing up to my chest and exploding beneath my ribcage. It grows at least thirty times stronger when I catch the small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Easier than I thought,” he says proudly, showing me the perfectly curled strand in the mirror.

A smile of my own forms, and as our eyes meet, the world seems to disappear. All the overwhelming emotions I felt just moments ago fade, replaced by an unexpected sense of peace that settles deep within me.

He clears his throat, breaking the moment, then refocuses on curling my hair while I, with trembling hands, try to salvage the mess on my face. My skin is red and swollen, and I can’t help but wonder why he isn’t laughing at me. He doesn’t seem to even notice.

Strand by strand, he curls my hair, his fingers dangerously close to the hot tool. A flicker of worry passes through me, but he grows more absorbed in the process with each second, oblivious to the risk of burning himself. It feels surreal—like I’m watching a side of him that no one else has ever seen, something hidden deep beneath his usual tough exterior.

“You can take it higher,” I suggest, trying to distract myself from my thoughts. “Wrap it all the way to the roots.”

“And burn your scalp?” he replies, raising an eyebrow. “No thanks.”

I chuckle. “You’re not following the tutorial correctly. She’s curling it from the top.”

“Well, guess what? I’m doing a pretty good job without it. She talks too fast, and it’s overcomplicated here.” He pauses. “Or maybe you don’t trust me?”

I sniff, and, to my surprise, manage to form a response. “I do.” Our eyes meet again, and I can see that the weight of my words affects him as well.

Trust . Something that doesn’t fit in the same box with us.

“I just… I want it to be perfect.” A lie. I couldn’t care less how it turns out. The fact that he’s doing this willingly means more than anything. But I can’t let my guard down entirely. I need to stay in character, to push his buttons just like always, because that’s what we do.

“It already is,” he says, ignoring my attempt to provoke him. “It looked perfect even without the styling. I don’t get why you put so much effort into it.”

“I look better with waves. They draw attention away from my flaws.”

He laughs, the sound low and rumbling. “You’re so nervous that you’re just making things up now, aren’t you?”

I blink in confusion. “What?”

“What flaws, Venetia?” His voice sharpens with a stern edge. “Do I really need to spell it out? You’re flawless.”

An unexpected surge of energy floods through me, my heart bound by something invisible. My breath quickens, warmth spreading across my cheeks, leaving me feeling like a blushing tomato.

It’s as if my mother’s voice takes over, echoing through me every time I talk about my appearance. These thoughts, these insecurities—they’re hers. But West sweeps them all away effortlessly, as if they’re nothing, reducing the beliefs I’ve clung to for years to dust. He doesn’t need to say much—just a few words, and I’m undone.

And it terrifies me.

It terrifies me because it makes me feel safe.