CHAPTER….SIX
634 Words
CHAPTER SIX
(Adrian’s POV)
I should not have brought her into my room.
That was the first thought I had when the door closed behind us.
The second was worse.
She looked too small for the space.
She stood near the bed with her hands folded in front of her, dark hair falling loose over her shoulders, eyes lowered as if the shadows might swallow her. The silk of her dress caught the low light, clinging to her in a way that made her look soft and breakable instead of bold.
Nothing about her belonged in my world.
Her mouth was too gentle.
Her lashes too long.
Her expression too honest.
Girls who survived men like me learned to sharpen themselves.
I knew there was something suspicious about her but i just couldn’t understand. So I’ve decided to keep my distance until i find out.
I told her I would not touch her.
I meant it.
I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of her breathing. It was too light. Too quiet. Like she was afraid to disturb the room.
“Why do you keep me?” she asked.
I turned my head.
Her face was half-lit by the lamp, skin pale against the dark sheets. Her eyes searched mine like she was waiting to be hurt and hoping not to be.
Because you look like something I will ruin.
I did not say it.
Instead, I said, “Because you don’t look at me like the others.”
They look at me like I am a storm.
She looked at me like I was still a man.
Minutes passed.
She shifted slightly, pulling the blanket closer to her chest. The movement revealed the line of her collarbone, delicate and clean, like she had never known violence.
“You shouldn’t get close to me,” I said.
It was not a warning.
It was a truth.
“I don’t know how not to,” she whispered.
Then she turned.
Slowly.
Her face was inches from mine. I could see the faint tremble of her lip, the careful way she held herself as if she expected me to break her if I moved too suddenly.
I knew what she was going to do.
I did nothing.
Her fingers brushed my chest.
Warm.
Small.
Unarmed.
“Don’t,” I said.
Not because I did not want her.
Because I did.
She leaned in.
Her lips touched mine like something fragile testing fire.
Soft.
Uncertain.
Not demanding.
Not skilled.
Just… sincere.
My hand rose to her jaw without permission, holding her face as if she might vanish if I let go. Her skin was warm under my palm. Too warm. Too alive.
This was not a desire.
This was temptation.
I broke away.
“This is a mistake,” I said.
Her forehead rested against mine.
“I make those a lot.”
The words should have annoyed me.
Instead, they made my chest ache.
“Sleep,” I said hoarsely. “Before I forget who I am.”
She turned back to her side of the bed.
Small again.
Quiet again.
I did not touch her.
I did not sleep.
I watched the dark until dawn pressed gray against the curtains.
I replayed the way she looked at me.
Not the kiss.
The way she trusted me.
The way she did not see blood on my hands.
She did not want power.
She did not want protection.
She wanted closeness.
And that was far more dangerous.
I kept her because I thought she was innocent.
Now I kept her because I wanted to believe she could stay that way.
And men like me do not get to keep soft things.
We only learn what it costs when they are gone.
- Writer
