Deven's POV:
Looking into the mirror, I can see the handprint of that disgusting man on my neck. My lips are slightly bruised and swollen. I have bruises and scars all over me— my ankle, my back, and at the back of my head. It makes me hate my body even more than I did.
Each time I look at myself in the mirror to find some certainty, I end up feeling repulsed.
According to Mr. Mysterious sir, I may have random spurs of migraines this week. He's kind to let me stay here, even though I don't know him.
But I wonder how he found me that day. Regular people would not have taken me in easily. Sure, someone may have saved me, but they would probably have just taken me back to the club or the hospital and left me there. Something doesn't add up. I'll have to ask him later.
I walk out of the bathroom, and see a pair of jeans and a t-shirt waiting for me on the bed.
I'm guessing those are the clothes he promised me.
***
"We're going shopping to get you some necessities," he says as soon as I get off the last step.
"Oh ok." I tuck my hair behind my ear.
He finally turns to me as he gets up from the black couch and shoves his phone into his side pocket.
I notice a crease between his eyebrows.
"Is everything okay?" I ask, wondering if he was texting the owner of the house and they found out I'm here.
"Yes," he responds, causing me to stop tapping my hand against my thigh in fear.
I nod once. I glance around the room while fiddling with my fingers.
It's quiet. And awkward.
"You ready?" He appears.
"Yea. Just waiting for you," I say, walking slowly toward him.
"Let's go then," he smiles.
***
"So who owns the house were living in?" I wriggle my hands together, breaking the silence.
He scoffs and glances at me. "Who do you think?"
It couldn't be him.
"You?" I say in a more judgy tone than I wanted.
"Is that so hard to believe?"
I guess he noticed the judginess in my tone.
"No. It's just you don't look like you could own such a house."
He lifts up an eyebrow, then I realize the statement I made sounded all sorts of wrong.
"So I look poor?"
I shift in my seat. "No. You just don't look, like, nice."
That didn't help.
He lifts both eyebrows.
"So I look ugly?" he mutters to himself more than to me.
He sounds more amused than offended.
"No. Quite the opposite, you look handsome. You just don't dress like rich people do," I say rather quickly, recalling the outfits of rich men who came to the club.
He shrugs his lips and nods, turning his head away from me.
I bury my face in my hands and drag my hands down my face, glancing at him from the corner of my eyes.
I catch him smirking.
"What?" I say, wondering if what I'd said made him realize he should kick me out of his house.
"You said I'm handsome."
Did I really say that?
I turn my head away from him and lean against the window.
"No. I just think you're not ugly."
A rumble stems from his chest. It sounds like the voice of a tenor singer. I like it.
I take a peek at him to find him laughing.
I fold my lips to keep from laughing.
"It's not funny," I say, biting my lower lip as I watch him laugh and turn the steering wheel to the right.
His laugh makes me want to laugh.
I turn my head away from him with a smile on my face.
A moment of silence rests between us as we pass restaurants and stores. The only sounds in the atmosphere are the AC and the sound of our heavy breathing, and I sigh.
It's been a while I've felt this comfortable
"Mea?" he breaks the silence.
"Hmm." I turn my face to him, refusing to lift my head from the window.
"Do you like it?"
"Yea. The Jeep's great and the co—
"No. The house," he interjects, "do you like it?"
"Yea. Why?" Fiddling with my, well his, shirt.
He sighs. "I'm going to move out of your house so you can feel more comfortable."
What? My house?
"But—" I pause.
"But I'm a stranger. You shouldn't move out of your house for a stranger. If I'm being a hassle, I can go back to the clu—
"You're not going back there." His tone leaves no room for argument.
I sink into my chair.
He glances at me and within that fraction of a second that he glances at me, I see his pupils constrict.
My chest tightens.
"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable living with a man you just met."
Does he know me? That's been my whole life.
"Story of my life." I look out the window.
"The story of your life is being uncomfortable living with a man you just met?"
That too.
"No. I've been with men I've just met all my life and you're no different. You're still a man," I retort.
He goes silent, then I realize what I'd said.
"I'm sorry—
"You're right, mea."
"I'm no different. I am still a man," he emphasizes the 'am."
He turns the steering wheel to the left and stops the engine.
I look out through the window and find that we're in a parking lot of a mall.
"That's why I have to move out," he finishes, drawing my attention back to him.
He leans beside the gear and his emerald eyes bore into my brown eyes.
"You will not be pried on the way you're used to anymore." His words sift out of his mouth like velvet but carry much audacity that my lips can't help but to clamp shut.
"You're not a toy." He takes my right hand, "You've been treated like one by other men, so let me be the first man to show you you're not a toy, you're a gem."
I inhale deeply and my lungs feel as if they'd just gotten their first breath.
I'm speechless.
His eyes soften. "Please…"
"Let me move out." It sounds like his asking for my approval, and I don't get why.
"Please mea."
I bite the inside of my cheek and nod once.
"Deven," I say, realizing I haven't told him my name since we met.
"My name's Deven."