Outside your window (18+)

Chapter twenty eight

I don't know when, but at one point in the middle of the night I wake up, cocooned between strong arms and protected by a strong and warm body against my back. Deep and calm breaths brush against the back of my neck, soft hair ticking my shoulder and back. I never want to leave. My eyes don't open, my body doesn't move, and I lay there continuous for only a moment more before sleep swipes my feet off the grip they had on reality, and my mind floats away like a cloud of cotton candy. For the first time I feel safe and cared for, and it scares me how much I enjoy it.

-

When I wake up the next morning that warmth is gone he is too. I let my eyes fall to the empty space next to me and I trace my fingers over it, disappointed to find it cold. I stay in bed a few minutes more, reflecting and feeling bad for the previous choice I made last night with him, and the soreness between my thighs serves as a painful reminder. I groan but force myself out of bed anyway, looking around in his room as I walk out of it and back down the stairs to see if he's there. The memories of what he did to me just makes me feel a mix of excitement and regret. I don't want think about how easily I let him have me. I basically gave myself up to him on a silver plate. And I start to wonder if that is all he wanted me for, just an easy fuck before he tosses me aside and goes out in search for the next best thing. My stomach churns. It can't be like that...right. He's not like that. Why am I defending him?

I rub my eyes tiredly as I walk down the stairs, my eyes widening as I catch my reflection in the mirror. My hair. Damnit. That's what happens when you shower with curly hair and let it dry without using the right products. I watch my uneven curls stand out everywhere, and I grab the hair tie around my wrist and set my hair up in a bun. It doesn't look good, but it looks less horrible than before. So far everything has just gone shit for me. Life has a funny way of kicking my ass every time some something goes well for me. All because of that damned case Henry gave me...

I mentally groan as I continue making my way down the stairs and into the living room, only to find it empty. I frown, continuing to the kitchen, ignoring the discomfort between my legs as I enter the kitchen to find it empty too, safe for a little note on the counter written in black cursive and proud letters. I grab it, my eyes narrowing.

I had business in town, there's breakfast for you on the table, eat it. More food is in the fridge incase I don't make it to dinner or lunch. I'll be back later tonight, don't wait up if it gets too late. I'll make it up to you.
-D.R

My cheeks heat slightly at that last sentence. I'll make it up to you. No. Stop it. I glance over at the table where the supposedly promised food should be and my mouth waters at the toast with scrambled eggs waiting for me. I've never really enjoyed eating breakfast in the morning, even if that looks delicious. Eat it. Damn that stupid letter.

-

The day goes by slowly, and I've taken the time to explore the place and look for potential escape routs only to realize that there are none. I don't even mind checking the door because he's probably locked that too, caging me in here like Rapunzel in her damn tower. Except Rapunzel's hair doesn't look like it has survived a bombing. I honestly feel like a lost puppy, waiting for my owner to come home. I hate it. I don't like feeling like this, I want to be in control of my life. I want to leave this place and him. Does anyone even know that I'm gone? Has Sasha even been looking for me? Is she worried about me? Fuck...

I lean my head back against the wall as I slide down and slump against the floor, hugging my knees to my chest in an attempt to get comfort. Sasha is probably the only one that has called. My mother never calls, and my father never does either. The phone goes both ways. Is what they alway tell me when I ask why they never call. Eventually I stopped calling too. Stopped bothering them. I wonder if Damien knows that, since he probably knows more about me than I'd like to admit. Isn't that what stalkers do? Search up information about you? Does he have that on me? Is it like the hundreds of files I read at work about him. Life has a funny way of making everything make sense in the end.