Page 146 of The Wicked

For a woman with a sharp mouth and a bold personality, her hand was small against mine, warm and soft, addicting to touch.

You would think her palm, which I was certain had held a gun one too many times, would be calloused, but it felt the same as the first time I’d held it—soft, warm, and delicate. I wanted to sever my hand; I wanted to sever that small connection, but I did the complete opposite; my grip tightened, and I led us towards my room without pause.

What was I doing? Why was I doing this? What was the purpose of taking her with me? My mind could not fathom an answer; all I knew was that she had to undo whatever mutilation she had summoned into my mind.

“Will you fucking slow down?” she gasped, practically running after me. I didn’t care.

An infinitesimal part of my senses was actively trying very hard not to acknowledge the fact that she was in a dress that hugged her body like a second skin; curves I had once noticed were now accentuated to drive home my attraction towards her.

I pulled her past the passageway, down to the last room on the left.

I’d never brought anyone here.

Casmiro never came here; if he ever was in the house, his destination was my lounge area and study, never my room. Angelo, though, my ever-loving shadow, dropped by my room once in a while to check if I was still breathing.

Letting Zahra cross into this space when I still knew nothingabout her was by far the most careless thing I’d ever done. But then again, my reasoning barely functioned when it came to her.

I was either too blinded by anger to see reason, too taken by curiosity to see what lay behind her eyes, too irked by irritation to see past her behavior, or too driven to comprehend the other things I had just mentioned.

She caused this. She would solve it.

I pushed open the door to the room, locked it behind me, and then let go of her hand before finally looking at her.

Wide eyes shone with annoyance and somehow looked brighter than usual. I could tell it had something to do with the dark straight line across her eye—makeup, she was wearing makeup.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked, looking from me to peer around the space.

“Stay here, and don’t move,” I told her, making my way to the bathroom while I shrugged off my suit jacket, hanging it carefully before I entered, closed the door behind me, and headed straight for the sink.

My hands still shook when I opened the mirror compartment and picked up the small bronze bottle filled with pills. I uncapped it, filtered four atop my palm, and threw them into my mouth, swallowing dry.

They were tasteless—or maybe I was just used to it.

I covered the case, putting it back and closing the hidden cabinet, coming face-to-face with my reflection.

I held both sides of the sink tight, eyes on my reflection as I began inhaling and exhaling—

Sofia’s scream pierced my head suddenly. I winced and pressed my eyelids together before opening them, trying to blink my thoughts back in order as I shook my head sharply.

I let her live.

I shouldn’t have.

It was unfinished business, and I hated it. It made me feelincomplete. I knew I would suffer for it; I knew the voices would triple in number.

In my dictionary, there was no such thing as right or wrong. There had been once, but my life hadn’t been fair, so why should I be fair? Why should I understand something no one had cared to understand when it came to me? Why should I do the right thing?

What exactlywasthe right thing?

Letting her suffer for the rest of her life, raising a baby alone without a father? Or ending her suffering before it even began?

Why does it seem like I have just made a colossal mistake?

My breathing wasn’t calming. I was getting angrier by the second, my mind was getting sharper, and the pills were doing absolutely nothing.

Had Zahra’s voice not entered my mind at that very moment—I would have moved on with my day. Had Zahra not entered my lifeat all,I wouldn’t remember what it felt like to be guilty; all these unwanted, weak emotions and thoughts wouldn’t be singing a fucking elegy in my head.

I wouldn’t be a torment to myself. My skin wouldn’t feel like that of a stranger’s. I wouldn’t want to peel it off or get out of myself or my body. I wouldn’t—