Secrets That Bind | Book I

20 // walking a dangerous line

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❝Secrecy flows through you, a different kind of blood.❞ - Margaret Atwood

p.s. the header pic is def sandro in his mind lmfaaaaao, he just won't say it to anaya *sigh*🙄

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𝘈𝘯𝘢𝘺𝘢

His expression remains neutral, giving nothing away, but his eyes widen for a fraction of a second. Something I'm surprised I even noticed given my current mental state.

Inhaling deeply, he sits up and clasps his fingers together. "Is that so?"

I nod my head, turning to look at the painting again so that I won't have to look him in the eye. Truth be told, I have no idea how I'm going to lead this conversation, but that's not what bothers me. The sheer awkwardness of this situation is hard to ignore, and my mind is getting a kick out of reminding me of this fact every other second.

You're in Alessandro's penthouse. You're not in a hospital. How did he know where to find you? And who changed your clothes?

That last question did get me. Who changed me?

Sneaking a glance at the curly haired man beside me, I chew on my bottom lip. Hopefully, it was Liv or my Mom. Hopefully.

"What's going on inside that head of yours?" Alessandro asks, his voice dropping in volume.

Startled, I look at him, my thoughts sliding out of my mind. He raises a brow, waiting for an answer and I shake my head. "Nothing."

This is the second time he's saved you.

His eyes drop to my lips, "You're not going to have any lips at the rate you're chewing them." He mutters, his thumb pulling at my bottom lip.

I close my mouth, letting my bottom lip go as his hand drops from my face. I don't know why I'm feeling this way. Feeling so flustered—so out of my element, so shy. I'm not usually one to let things get ahold of me—life is short and there are bigger things to worry about--but I happen to be sitting in the bed of an attractive man...who I said some mean things to. Some things that I'm not happy with now that I'm sure he isn't the one who wants me dead.

Case in point: my current situation.

"Um, I uh – I want to apologize," I blurt out, my grip on the comforter tightening by the second. I don't look at him, though. Mainly because I can feel his gaze burning a hole in the side of my skull – and I don't blame him. If I were in his shoes, I wouldn't be my biggest fan either – especially after the things I've accused him of. "I want to apologize for um..." I sneak a look at him, only to get nothing from his blank expression. With a sigh, I turn to look back at the painting, "I accused you of killing Dom and then—"

"—It's okay," he cuts me off.

I turn to look at him, my eyes slightly wide. I didn't expect him to say anything. I thought he would make me go through the pain of articulating my thoughts into a poorly worded apology – at least, that's what I would've done if I were him.

But he's not me. Clearly.

He gets up from his seat and walks over to the wall of full-length windows, pressing a button on the wall to bring the blinds down. He turns to look at me, one hand in his pocket while the other rests on the wall, "You don't have to apologize."

"But—"

"—No." He shakes his head, making his way around the bed to sit on the chair again. "I'm doing both of us a favor by putting you out of your misery. That's one of the most awkward apologies I've heard in my life if I'm being honest."