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Zayn has his hand on my shoulder, and I feel the light squeeze, and I swallow. “Yeah—uh—I’d be okay with that.”
They look relieved, and when they leave, I lean back against Zayn, staring at the door, dry-eyed.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask him.
“Why would I be mad at you?” I feel his lips on my temple.
“Because a part of me is so happy that I have my parents back, that I want to forgive them.”
“They’re your parents, Eve. Family bonds are complicated that way.” His voice is rumble near my ear, a comforting sound.
“A part of me wants them to suffer,” I confess. “Like I did.”
Zayn takes my hands in his. “But you’re not going to make them suffer.”
It is a statement, as if he already knows my mind.
My laugh is sad. “No. I’ll have a different relationship with them now. But I won’t hurt them.”
I felt his lips in my hair which hadn’t been washed for days on end.
How long have I been in this hospital? More than a week.
“You have too big of a heart, Eve,” Zayn chastises, no harshness in his tone, just wonder, and awe.
“Does that make me weak?” I muse, lightly.
“No,” he says after some thought. “It makes me want to hoard you.”
“I’m not a CD-collection,” I mutter crossly. “You can’t hoard people.”
Delighted laughter ruffled my hair, “Can’t I? I could lock you up in my tower and keep watch over you.”
“I’d get bored,” I inform him succinctly.
“I can provide ample entertainment,” he insists, his lips ghosting over my neck now.
How can he make me feel so desirable when I am sure I stink?
“No, thanks,” I say, dryly. “Cosmopolitan isn’t my idea of entertainment. You’re the one who likes to read it in the bathroom, you weirdo.”
He laughed again. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”
“I don’t need to know which shoe my personality is, Wolfe.”
“Mine’s a stiletto,” Zayn informs me with a grin, and I roll my eyes.
And just like that, he drove away my demons, distracting me with himself.
“Stop sniffing me,” I protest. “I smell really bad.”
“Yes, you do,” he tells me as he buries his nose in my neck. “I’d still do you, though.”
Torn between laughter and insult, I try to scowl. “You have such a way with words.”
“I know,” he smirks at me.
Two weeks later.
