Strings and Schemes

Chapter 17

Zayn.

Me: Come over?

It takes less than a minute for him to reply.

Zayn: On my way xx

I smile to myself, setting my phone down. Before a knowing dread spreads into the depths of my soul. I feel entirely too seen and too visible right now.

Maybe I'll never escape who I am. But, I want to be the master of my own destiny, to choose for myself what feels right - who feels right - even if it goes against everything I was ever trained to be. Ironically, Z is everything my parents would respect, if he was raised in the diplomatic corps, of course. I shake my head, how is it that I can choose someone who would so perfectly fit into the world I was raised in, yet he would be treated as if he were wearing a scarlet letter? None of it makes sense to me.

So, when Zayn shows up approximately 20 minutes later, I have the internal battle of numbing my emotions or choosing to feel them. I could talk this out, I could do literally anything, but all I want to do is numb it. He smiles warmly at me, something I'm so undeserving of in this moment as all I really want to do, is fuck away the feelings. I should be thanking him, should be telling him how thoughtful and wonderful he is, and how his gift warmed my heart.

Zayn barely steps inside before I pull him in, crashing my lips against his with a force that's more desperation than desire. He makes a surprised noise against my mouth but doesn't resist—his hands grip my waist, steadying me as I press my body against him.

I don't want to talk. I don't want to acknowledge the warmth in his eyes when he looked at me just moments ago, the same warmth that makes my chest tighten with something dangerous. I just want to drown in him, in the feel of his hands, his mouth, his body.

I yank at his hoodie, dragging it over his head. He barely has time to toss it aside before I'm working at the waistband of his sweats, slipping my hand beneath to grip him. His breath hitches, muscles tensing as I stroke him, slow and purposeful.

"Raina—"

"Don't talk," I murmur, biting his neck hard enough that he exhales sharply.

I press against him, guiding him backward toward the couch, my lips trailing down his throat, my hands working him over with a steady, calculated rhythm. But something is off. His hands aren't roaming like they usually do, aren't exploring me the way I know he wants to.

And when I sink to my knees in front of him. Entirely different than any interaction we've ever had before. I place myself in front of him, ready to service him and lick away the resounding sadness in my soul from being cleaved apart. When I lean in, parting my lips, he stops me.

Zayn's fingers curl under my chin, tilting my face up to meet his. His eyes, dark and searching, pin me in place.

"Is this what you want?" he asks, voice low, careful.

I should nod. I should roll my eyes and laugh it off, tease him for needing things to mean something. But I don't. Because I can't lie to him—not when he's looking at me like this.

I sit back on my heels, exhaling sharply. "Does it matter?"

Wrong answer, Raina. I can see the frustration in his eyes, the sadness, and the anger as he responds.

His jaw tightens, his knuckles flex where they rest on his thighs. "Yeah. It does."

Something in his tone makes my stomach twist, like he's seeing something I don't want him to see. A part of me that I thought reminded hidden, now out in the wide open for him to see, analyze, digest...hate.