I was torn from my light sleep by a barely audible rustling, that of the front door hesitantly opening a little. My heart began to beat faster, because I realized that Isaac had come home. He who had vanished in the night, after dropping me off here, without saying a word about his destination.
Awkwardly, I climbed out of the sheets, letting the coolness of the night caress my skin. My bare feet brushed the cold ground, sending a shiver down my spine.
I moved forward, guided by the corridor to the large living room. The person.
But the cool breeze told me that the bay window was open, and as I moved forward, I discovered his back on the terrace, where he seemed to be contemplating the view.
There, under the starry sky, he stood, a cigarette in his hand, as if absorbed in his thoughts. The glowing glow of the incandescent tip betrayed his deep inspirations. Even in the dim light, I could make out the frustration that tightened his profile features.
I stood back against the bay window door for a moment, torn between the desire to break this heavy silence and the fear of disturbing him in his thoughts.
Finally, driven by an impulse that I cannot explain, I approached him, my cold feet brushing the floor of the terrace.
Arriving at his height, I placed myself gently against the railing, at his side, respecting this silence which seemed to be his only refuge.
Our shoulders barely brushed, but he didn't move, as if he already knew I'd been there for a while.
I noticed that our interactions and discussions took place most of the time at night.
Probably because at night we are more vulnerable, our hearts open, our deepest secrets find the courage to reveal themselves. Yeah, the night had a way of stripping us of our armor.
I watched his face, looking for clues, signs that would give me permission to speak, but nothing came. His expression remained impenetrable.
Yet I had this question on the tip of my tongue that had been itching since this chase. But it's nighttime, so maybe he'll answer me?
"Is Caleb-"
"Stop it," he cut me off coldly.
It was not the moment. He was still in his positions.
"You can confide in me, you know," I whispered after a moment, watching the city unfold in all its splendor before my eyes.
But he didn't answer me, and instead continued to smoke.
After a while, my feet no longer felt sore from the cold ground, and my face seemed to be frozen too, my cheeks probably already pink.
"My parents told me that if I didn't want to express myself with words I just had to express myself through music," I said.
I didn't know why I was talking about this now, maybe because he had confided in me a little too.
"I wasn't very talkative and I had trouble opening up to people, even to them. So they enrolled me in piano from a very young age. My father was already a professor, he naturally became mine. And then it became a passion."
He didn't answer me, but seemed to be paying attention to what I was saying, so I continued:
"I loved my parents, they always supported me. My father did everything to ensure that I became the most talented in the entire class, I think that deep down he even wanted me to become a renowned pianist. I didn't really know why, I guess it was an obsession of his own."
My heart sank a little.
"He was very perfectionist, and very picky," I added.
The memories slowly began to overwhelm me.
"In the evenings before bedtime, my mother used to stroke my hair, my shoulders, my back, and I would fall asleep like that."
I sighed, nostalgic, but my voice was trembling.
The mercenary still didn't answer me, and I didn't know why.
"I hate your silent side, you know," I said afterwards. "I always hated it."
"I already told you that you didn't have to cling to me," he finally replied.
"I never know what you think, or even what you feel," I said, ignoring his response.
We didn't look at each other, we each observed the view from our side.
"That's just the way I am," he said nonchalantly.
"You really don't give a damn, right?" I said in a louder tone.
He annoyed me.
"I never forced you to talk to me, even less now."
"You really don't understand anything," I spat, turning towards him this time.
He didn't respond for a few seconds which seemed interminable to me.
"We're just too different, Isabella."
He also finally turned towards me, and fixed his black gaze on mine. He probed me deeply, with that damn breeze that made his hair move rhythmically.
"It's you who doesn't want to understand it," he added.
And it hurt me that he said that to me. Yeah, I don'tI don't want him to say that kind of thing to me. I wanted him to continue to tell me beautiful things, to tell me everything I wanted to hear, everything that helped repair my heart.
Once he finished his cigarette, he let out one last wisp of smoke before turning away. I stood still for a moment, watching his figure move inwards, torn by a mixture of reluctance and the desire to follow him.
I knew I wasn't finished with him, that I still had things to say to him.
I then went inside after him, while he was already climbing the stairs that led upstairs.
"Isaac," I called out in the hope that he would stop.
But he did not do so, and did not even deign to turn around. So I began to follow him, my hesitant steps contrasting with his confident gait.
The door to his room opened silently under his hand, revealing a space that reflected his character: sober and orderly, but without personal objects it would seem.
He didn't retort when I crossed the threshold of the room after him, rather he did his ritual as if I wasn't there and began to undress in complete silence. The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight that filtered through its long, dark gray curtains.
Standing in the doorway, I watched him do so, when he turned his head in my direction to look at me. The atmosphere had changed, but I wasn't here for that, I wanted to tell him things and I wanted him to also confide to me things to which I had no answer.
But despite ourselves, the atmosphere had become electric, further accentuated when he walked slowly in my direction.
He had noticed this change, he too, I could see it.
However, I did not step back until he came to my level to tower over me with all his grandeur and all his power. He no longer had any pants on, but his white t-shirt was still on, giving me room to breathe a little.
"You should get out of here," he told me as I craned my neck to look him in the eyes.
It was a warning, and he seemed to be very serious in his words, yet I didn't move a bit, as if paralyzed, or pushed by my strong inner self which wanted me to stay here.
"I'm going to count to five, Isabella," he added in a threatening undertone and I loved the way he said my name.
"Isaac I just want-"
"One," he began.
"Give me time to-"
"Two, three."
"Stop it," I said under the influence of growing tension.
"Four."
I stopped justifying myself, and for this last figure which was about to leave his lips in a breath, I said nothing more, and looked at him even more intensely as a sign of approval.
This last number was never pronounced, no. It was replaced by a kiss that he placed savagely on my lips before lifting me to carry me to his bed, onto which I was almost thrown.
Everything had happened so quickly, I was lying helplessly, him above me resting on his knees, contemplating me with his whole being like the day before on the sofa, but in a much wilder way this time. Yes, there was nothing tender in his eyes anymore. All that had disappeared.
He then leaned down to my neck, where his hot breath crashed against my skin, before placing kisses there that gave goosebumps. My hands timidly came to cling to his hair to have an anchor, while I let myself be consumed by the desire growing in my lower abdomen.
Now nothing could stop him, I felt it in his sudden movements.
He then wanted to take off my t-shirt, but I had to raise my arms. After a short moment of looking at us, I slowly lifted them, under his devastating gaze.
"Good girl," he whispered to me before snatching it from me.
When I found myself in a bra, he didn't wait any longer to remove it with ease using just one of his large hands.
He continued his kisses, going a little lower each time, my heart beating faster and faster with each new patch of skin touched. After taking over my shoulder, it was the turn of my right breast to be embraced as well, but quickly, before continuing to my stomach, my navel, then stopping at my lower abdomen. My heart was going to explode.
He got up and pulled down my pants to throw them further, before taking off his t-shirt in turn revealing his impressive muscle mass. My heart was beating fast, a little anxious about what was going to happen next, but his didn't seem to be that excited.
I was now so slight, so small under his imposing frame, that he could crush me to pulp if he didn't lean on his arms. Every detail of his body wasit was firm and powerful, and at the time, I told myself that it was all for me.
His tattoos seemed to be alive with his every movement, and it was a little scary at times.
He removed the last fabric I had left, my panties, and the movement was so quick that it took me by surprise. The next second she was on the floor with the rest of my clothes.
When he moved back up to place kisses on the neck again, I could feel his thick, hard member throbbing against my womanhood, and all I could think about was the moment that was going to follow. I no longer thought about the present moment, I was apprehensive.
He took off his boxers as well, and there we were now both naked, my chest against his firm chest, my arms wrapped around his neck, my hands buried in his silky hair, and my gaze in his. So black, so deep, so intense. If he.
He stopped for a moment to take a condom out of his bedside drawer, tore it with his teeth, and unrolled it all the way down his member. Once done, he positioned himself above me again, and I could see in his expression that he didn't intend to take it easy.
He sank into me in a first movement which confirmed my thoughts. It was strong, intense, and I was in pain. But there was no barrier anymore, and with my legs wrapped around him, we became one.
He withdrew slowly, and from there began the thrusts faster and faster, harder and harder. From his cheek against mine, I heard him growl with pleasure against my ear. I was in pain during the first thrusts, then the ones that followed hurt less, and I think it went so deep that from an instant I felt a pleasure that I had never felt until now. It was something different.
From there, sighs of pleasure escaped from my mouth, and I heard him growl even louder against my skin.
His thrusts never stopped, he went again and again as if each time was stronger and deeper than the last. He abandoned himself in me.
I could tell he was still frustrated from our previous chase. That he seemed to be somewhere else. But I didn't mind being his consolation prize, so I let him.
The more his cock came into me, the more his abs and muscles contracted, and this vision made me want to let go more.
At one point, he firmly grabbed one of my breasts, and I noticed that he was no longer aware of his strength since his grip was quite strong, but not unpleasant. His hand was so big that it covered my entire chest.
The next moment, he got up to continue, grabbing me by the hips this time. His body moved roughly against me and the sound of his body against mine echoed throughout the room.
His red tattoo on the right side of his chest seemed to taunt me at times, more conspicuous than the others and drawing my gaze to him.
Without me being able to understand what was happening to me, a flash of heat enveloped me, an electrifying sensation which escaped from my private part and which discharged throughout my body. It was an evacuation, a liberation. I had enjoyed.
The next second, it was the killer above me who gave in to his desire with a deep, hoarse moan.
"Fuck..." he breathed, slowing down his thrusts and before dropping down beside me.
There we were, lying side by side, with the only sound breaking the silence our heavy breathing. Mess.
I pulled the small blanket at the end of the bed over me to cover myself, now less sure and less confident in myself.
A silence settled.
"When are you going to stop lying to me about your parents?" he asked me suddenly.
We both had our faces turned towards the ceiling. My heart skipped a beat at that moment, and after just a few seconds, my eyes filled with tears. How could I have believed that such a thing could escape him?
It was as if his question had unlocked something within me, releasing a torrent of long-suppressed emotions. I felt exposed, vulnerable.
And then I started crying loudly and loudly and my hands came up to hide my face. I was ashamed, I still blamed myself.
"I didn't want to kill them," I said, crying harder.
The tears that had started gently suddenly turned into a flood of sorrow. Violent sobs shook my body, and muffled cries escaped my lips. It was as if all the suppressed emotions, all the unsaid things and the sorrows accumulated over time were finally coming to light.
Seeming to choke on my own tears, I stood up and sat on this bed which seemed too big now. From men bare back, he had to see my scars again, carrying a story that no longer needed to be told.
Isaac didn't say anything, he didn't try to calm me down with empty words.
I cried screaming, releasing my pain, my frustration, my confusion, everything that had been bottled up inside of me for so long.
It's true, my father was a perfectionist and each of my failures at the piano, each bad note, bad rhythm was synonymous with punishment, and yet I was so young. My mother, no more affectionate than him, did not know how to express herself other than through gestures. It was true, it wasn't with caresses that I fell asleep. No.
However, I always wanted to make them proud. Again and again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
And even.
And always more.
Because I loved them despite everything. Today it sounded so stupid.
It would be a lie if I said that I hadn't locked their bedroom door during the fire that accidentally started at night in our house. I don't really know why I did that, but I think that when it came time to warn them, my resentment took over me mercilessly. My hatred was out in the open.
Finally, hearing their screams through the damn door didn't hurt me that much. And when the firefighters took their bodies out into the garden either, I didn't feel anything at the sight of their charred bodies, or even the smell of burnt meat.
There is some truth when I said I didn't want to kill them. Yet I did it and there was no going back. The year I turned ten marked my descent into hell.
The case was quickly classified as accidental, and I was placed in foster care. They were nice, but didn't give a damn about me either, so when I was 17 I took my things and ran away from this cursed town to settle here with the few pennies I had saved. next to. No one tried to contact me, and that was a good thing.
It's strange, to have wanted to continue growing up and living with this perfect illusion that I had of my parents, this false image that I imagined of them to lull myself into a clear conscience. To make me believe that I had been loved, chosen.
But no one had ever chosen me.
Staying in denial had been my solution, but nothing escaped Isaac Turner, the man who could fathom you with a glance. Nothing escaped him.
Obviously, a killer knew how to recognize a killer when he was one. But I still hoped to be a good actress, and that my lies would lull those around me too, just like me. I should have thought about it sooner, Isaac didn't like to talk. Reading and discerning others through body language alone was natural to him.
He knew how to recognize liars, and I was a bad liar according to him. At this thought, I began to wonder if this remark he had made to me the day before was implied in my lie? So I guessed yes.
I don't think I would have ever calmed down if I hadn't felt his hand on the top of my head. He had lit a new cigarette, because even though I couldn't see him, I could smell the smell which reached my nostrils. My head was down, and my eyes were fixed on my fiddling fingers.
This gesture, which was intended to be comforting in its own way, reminded me of that evening when he had saved me in the little alley of Vinegar Hill. I really liked this gesture, it reflected his image.
I calmed down after several minutes, and only sniffed. I then looked up in his direction.
He was smoking with his free hand, and his face was turned toward the moonlight to his right, where he was watching the view through the bay window. He was calm.
In the end, I believe that my truth mattered little to him, since he knew from the beginning what I more or less hid. My way of being so insensitive to death must have been an additional confirmation to him in the face of his doubts about me I suppose.
I think I needed a person like him, a person who wouldn't say anything to me about this forbidden confession. He hadn't asked me to justify myself, or to say more, he had simply remained silent, here, by my side.
In that moment, I wanted him to tell me that he would choose me, even if no one had done so until now. But he didn't say a single word.
He finally turned towards me, and I guessed that his gaze was attracted by this small reddish stain on his white sheets behind me.
He huffed, and ran his hand over his face, annoyed.
Was he annoyed at having turned me away, or was he annoyed at having turned away a woman more candid than him?
"Come on," he said to me, getting up after putting his underwear back on.
I wiped away the remaining tears that were trickling down my cheeks and took the hand he held out to me.drunk all the way to his bathroom.
There, he let go, and began to fill his bathtub with hot, foaming water while I watched him do so from the doorway.
From behind, I observed his back covered by Hannya's face, which I saw for the second time, but who still impressed me just as much. It was the second colored tattoo he had.
Once the bath was full, he mimed me getting in with a gesture of his head, and I obeyed him and let myself do so, still shaken by the intensity of my emotions.
I let the blanket that hid me fall to the ground and slipped into the hot water.
Isaac, still out of the bath, took a shower flower and began to wash my back, without commenting on my footsteps.
'We're just too different, Isabella.'
Basically, no. We are the same. I'm no less of a killer than you, I'm no less broken than you seem to be. Our past haunts us both.
A silence reigned, and in that moment, I realized that he had not kissed me once during our sex. Through an inner voice that whispered things to me that I didn't want to hear, I began to cry silently, and he continued to wash me.
-
At the moment I'm doing a lot of chapters longer than normal, I hope you liked this one, don't hesitate to tell me what you thought of it :)
Besides, I was wondering if you listened to the music that I put in certain chapters? The ones I put for you are the ones I listen to on repeat when I write the chapter in question, I thought that it could put you in the same mood as the one I am in when I write.
Thank you for reading me,
On this note, dear readers,
See you soon ♡