Cult

27: Droplets Ω

I stare at Harry as though he is a figment of my imagination, my nightmare, my dream. I don’t know if I want to kiss him or punch him or both.

I grab his face with my hands, gripping his hard jaw and the feeling the crease of his grin line. But he isn’t grinning now. He is staring into my eyes, searching for some semblance of sanity, of a proper reply to his bold confession of his feelings for me.

“Do you enjoy teasing me?” I hiss.

Harry blinks a few times. His eyes have softened, as though my accusation hurts him.

“Why would I tease you? I love you, Kat.”

“Shut up!” 

His four poisonous words burn in my gut and make my head feel heavy. I hate those words. I hate how vulnerable they make me feel. I hate that I feel exactly the same way for Harry, but I know for a fact that he doesn’t understand love. He enjoys watching women suffer— virgins suffer. He likes being rough. He doesn’t know the damned meaning of being romantic or sweet or loving.

And neither do I.

I let go of Harrys, face, but he gripped my wrists, forcing me to hold on.

“Katarina,” he begins slowly.

“Harry, you can’t say you l-love me, it’s not fair, it’s not true. Please spare me the embarrassment,” I say. My voice hitches at the end.

Harry leans closer to me, so close that his lips graze against mine.

“Katarina, I know you think I’m a sex-crazed maniac and that’s all I’ll ever want from you,” he says.

I look down at his lips.

“But you have to know that everything I’ve said to you is the God-honest truth. Whether or not you believe me is up to you, but I’m in love with you and that’s not going to change,” he tells me.

His voice is thick with confidence and a slight anger. I am offending him by denying how he felt toward me. I know it is rude of me to be so unwilling to accept his words, but I don’t understand why he feels the way he does. I’m not confident like Scarlette or blonde and sweet like his dead ex-girlfriend, Lizzie.  

“I’m scared,” I whisper. Harry cradles my face in his hands, rubbing my cheeks softly.

"Don't be scared of me, baby. I won't hurt you," he says.

I shake my head.

“I’m not scared of you, I’m scared to l-love you, to accept that you love me,” I explain, looking down at my toes in the water. I curl my legs up to my chest. Harry rests a hand at my back and keeps the other on my cheek. His hands are warm and large, rubbing small circles into my back.

A few drops of water drip from his black lashes and fall onto my cheek. Harry takes a deep breath.

“I’m a sadistic, controlling asshole. There’s so much about me that’s dangerous and yet the only thing you’re truly afraid of is falling in love with me?” he asks.

It sounds so simple and stupid when it says it like that. I don’t really understand my insecurities. All I know is that I’m afraid to love myself, let alone accept that someone else could possibly feel such a strong emotion for me.

I shake my head slowly. My dark red hair is draped over my shoulders, wet, clinging to my moist skin. Water creases over Harry’s chest, the definition of his torso and over his tattoos.

“Why do you love me?” I ask.

Harry grins. A dimple pops in his cheek. I suppress the urge to kiss it.