Arya: His Softest Sin

Chapter 2

Arya

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I’ve saved lives I shouldn’t have been able to save.

Hell, I’ve done the impossible more times than I can count.

But right now? I wasn’t brave. Not really.

I had no proper medical supplies. Just an emergency first-aid kit and a bottle of my father’s strongest whisky.

No anesthetic, no surgical tools, just me, the man on my bed, and his blood slowly soaking through the sheets.

I’d already attended to his smaller injuries, but now that I opened his shirt, doubt clawed at me.

A bullet. Stuck. High in the abdomen. Under the ribcage.

Part of me screamed that I had to remove it. Another part screamed that I’d kill him if I tried.

If I left it, he might not survive the night. If I tried to take it out with nothing but whisky and shaky hands… well.

I swallowed hard. Scared, conflicted.

“Arya!” Allison’s voice snapped me back.

“Okay!” I called, trying to sound composed.

The next few hours were a blur of fear and focus.

The man groaned as I worked, digging carefully into his flesh. The whisky numbed some of the pain, slowed the bleeding.

Later, Allison and I rolled him to change the sheets, swap in fresh ones. Exhaustion set in, my hands trembling.

“So?” Allison asked, standing beside me at the sink, washing our hands.

“What?”

“Are you going to tell Dad? He’s gonna freak the f**k out!”

She really didn’t need to remind me.

“I know. That’s why…we’re not telling him,” I decided.

“What? You plan on hiding a full-grown Italian man in your room all weekend?”

I shrugged. “I have to try. Last thing I need is Dad telling me exactly how irresponsible, I am.”

Then I tilted my head as a thought striked. "How do you even know he’s Italian?”

“Maybe because he yelled ‘cazzo’ a bunch of times? You do know cazzo is Italian for f**k?” She said, judgement in her eyes.

I shrug carelessly. I have mustered a few languages and Italian is definitely not one of them.

Her jaw dropped. “And here I thought you are the smart one.”

I rolled my eyes and headed for the door. She followed, still wide-eyed.

The man was unconscious, but better. The painkillers were working.

Allison rudely bumps against my shoulder and head toward the bed, she plops down on the chair, her eyes fixated upon the sleeping man.

All throughout the whole thing, she couldn't stop commenting on the man's looks and it's clear she has officially developed a crush on him.

“Arya! Allison!” Father’s voice echoed through the cabin. My chest tightened. Reality hit like ice water.

“Girl, you look like you're about to faint. Breathe, geez." Allison muttered.

I ignored her glare and grabbed my jacket. “Let’s go.”

“Oh, I’ll stay right here,” she said, looking at the man with dreamy-eyes.

“No, you're not! Let's go." I say, authoritively.

She sighed, like I was already breaking her little heart.

"Allison!" I grumble when she reaches out and casually, lovingly stroke a dark curl from the man's forehead.

That's f*****g creepy.

We reached the living area.

"Arya," Mom jeers. enveloping me in a hug. Warm, suffocating, familiar.

“Hey, Mom.” I hug her back, welcoming her warmness. She plants a kiss against my temple, before holding me in an arm's length to have a proper look at me.

She always does this. Like I would miraculously grow eight pairs of arms and two heads.

“You look… healthy,” she said.

I blink. Is that supposed to be a compliment or an accusation?

Father’s voice followed, sharp. “I expected you much sooner. You know I hate your intentional tardiness.”

I feel annoyed. He always finds fault with every damn thing.

“Hello, Father,” I muttered, leaning in for one of those familiar, awkward side-hugs. "I had a last minute meeting."

He pats my back, like he was telling me _time-out_. I let go and took a step back.

My father and I were poles apart, always bumping heads, always silently hating each other's presence and the funny part about all of it is, I look everything like him.

Brown hair. Brown eyes? That's all him.

"Dr. Arya!"

My mood sunk. No way. No damn way!

I look pass my father and I feel so much frustration.

Kaden Vance.

I don't like Kaden Vance.

And yet, there he was, slim and smirking, standing as if the world owed him a greeting.

“Am I not getting a hug or what?” he asked.

Last time I ignored him around Father, it ended very badly for me. So I stepped forward, smiling, bracing for a hug.

“Aryaaa!”

Ryan launched himself toward me, flipping over the couch like some overconfident acrobat. I caught him, laughing.

"Hey, kiddo.”

“Did you buy the sneakers?” he asked, grinning.

We all laughed. My 13-year-old brother saw me as his rich older sister, and apparently, I wasn’t even allowed to forget it.

"Yeah, I will give it to you later." I said, messing up his hair and he doesn't complain like usual, probably too scared he won't get the gift if he does.

I noticed Kaden and realised I didn't give him that hug. And I was definitely not going to.

The rest of the evening passed in our usual routine: warmth by the fireplace, soft laughter, light banter.

But my heart didn’t rest. Not while knowing there's a stranger upstairs, injured and hidden. Allison and I exchanged glances like we knew a state secret that could start wars.

Even during the light dinner, I wasn’t at ease.

“Girls,” Mom said, “Kaden and Ryan will share one room, so Allison, you need to sleep in Arya’s room.”

“Oh. Sure, dear mother.” Allison smiled meaningfully, pinching her eyes shut, biting softly on her index finger.

I rolled my eyes. This girl was going to ruin everything.

After dinner, Allison and I wash up the dishes while the rest went off to bed. Father already made it clear that we are going hunting early so everyone needs to get in proper rest.

Allison is the first one to run up the stairs, giggling all the way to the bedroom.

Once in the room, we find that the man has moved positions. His arm is covering his eyes, the comforter has slipped, exposing his naked upperbody.

“Ugh, I love me a man with tattoos,” Allison chirped, practically drooling.

Not gonna lie, the artwork was impressive. Ink stretched from his neck across his chest and forming a sleeve on his right arm.

“You can take the couch. I’ll sleep on the bed… with him,” she suggested.

And that little suggestion stinks.

“No, you are sleeping on the couch, Allison.”

Her eyes went wide. “What? Wow, I didn’t expect you to be that type, big sister.”

I shrank under her stare. “What? No. We're both sleeping on the couch."

She rolled her eyes, scoffing. “So damn boring.”

I ignored her, grabbing pillows and a comforter out of the cupboard and setting them up on the couch by the window.

“Allison, what are you doing?!” I hissed.

She's nestled against him, phone in hand and clicking a considerable number of photos that could prove problematic for the both of us.

"I'm just taking a few selfies," She propers her position, making a kissy face toward the man's cheek.

“My friends won’t believe me if I say I met the most handsome and most…fuckable man without proof!” she almost sounded disappointed that I failed to grasp that little fact.

"I don't care what your friends will believe, get the hell away from the man. What do you even mean with most fuckable? You are way too young for such words." I say.

And when she aims to click yet another photo, I shot her a glare that immediately makes her jump off the bed.

"Man, you can be so mom-coded sometimes. FYI, I'm 19, definitely not that young."