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“I know that, Masked Lover,” I groan and point to the ceiling. “Why are you hanging from the ceiling?”
“That’s your fault.”
“Huh?” I stare at him, then at the ceiling, looking at the black rope that somehow is strong enough to suspend this 200 lbs. man of slim muscle. “What did I do?”
“The signal in your room went off,” he announces. “Cameras went off, and sound speakers that listen to you sleep were interrupted. Figured the stalker was here.”
“Are you guys really going to conclude I have a stalker?”
“He’s a stalker,” he affirms. “Stalking you.”
“You, Ares, and Warren stalk me all the time. You don’t see me calling you guys stalkers,” I point out the obvious.
“That’s different,” he argues. I can only imagine him pouting for some odd reason. It makes me shake my head.
“So, what exactly caused everything to shut down?”
He doesn’t answer.
Had to be the switch…
Instead of acting as if I know where it’s located in the room, I sigh and relax back into the pillows, closing my eyes.
“I’m alive and tired but not sleepy, so rest assured, I’m fine.”
“Can I stay?”
Opening one eye, I acknowledge he’s still hanging there.
“I never said you couldn’t,” I mutter and close my eyes again. “Just not hanging above me like that.”
“Scared I’d fall on you?”
“Not really. Just anything with ropes and being suspended in the air bothers me.”
“Because?” His intrigue is enough to let me answer him.
“A boy pushed me off a cliff once,” I confess.
“Domino?” The eerie way it’s spoken, without that robotic tone, encourages me to open my eyes and confirm the mask is half off, revealing those pair of stunning green eyes.
God, if only he knew just how much I like those green eyes instead of his usual red contacts.
“No. One of his besties. Forgot his name.” I close my eyes once more. “Long time ago. The drop wasn’t too bad, but I don’t like things hovering above me for too long. It’s weird, but whatever. You can’t really help what your body labels as traumatic. I’ll just get therapy for it once I’m done with this contract.”
“Why can’t you get therapy for it now?”
“Because…” I don’t have a strong enough argument. “I don’t know. Do you go to therapy?”
“Sometimes,” he admits, though his voice comes from my left now.
Turning my head, I realize he’s lying next to me, his face centimeters from mine. He studies me silently, all while I can see in the depths of his eyes that he’s thinking of something.
“Scares me to keep going.”
“Why?” I whisper. “Scared to heal?”
“Yeah…” His hand reaches out to grip my face, his thumb trailing along my bottom lip. “Healing won’t get me what I want right now.”
