Chapter 13
Aaliyah
When the door opened, I raised my head, locking eyes with Tristan as he walked in with a proud look. Dressed in a black jacket and black trousers, with his hair neatly combed, he looked like a realistic painting himself.
I slowly returned my gaze to the food, my mind filled with thoughts of us last night. I vividly remember how he applied balm to my back last night. A cold chill ran down my spine, and I quickly shook the thoughts from my head.
I stared at the array of food before me: steaks, sausages, cheese, toasted bread, and more.
"Good morning," he greeted as he took the seat across from me.
"Morning," I replied without sparing him a glance.
"Coffee or tea?" he offered, extending his hand toward the small teapot.
"Coffee," I answered curtly. I watched as he poured the coffee and added cream to a cup. Then he started placing a little bit of everything on my plate.
It wasn't that the food was too much for me to consume, but why was he serving me? I could serve myself. Was he doing this to gain my trust? I wanted to giggle at the way he handled my food, but I suppressed it.
Once he was done serving me, he poured himself some whiskey before leaning back. Taking a sip from his drink, his gaze slowly lifted to me, but I quickly looked away.
"Those impaled on the wall," I said, breaking the silence between us. "What are you going to do about them?"
"Simple," he grinned. "Relax and watch them die."
"And their families?"
He frowned slightly. "Why is no one worried about the fact that they tried to kill me?"
I bit my bottom lip. "You don't show mercy, do you?"
"Mercy was never for me," he said.
"If you keep killing everyone who hurts you, your people will be terrified of you."
"That's exactly what I want," he said. "I want them to see me and feel fear. I want the sound of my footsteps and the mention of my name to bring terror."
I looked at him for a moment, wondering why the goddess had chosen for me to cross paths with him.
"But that doesn't apply to you, little mouse," he said.
The way he called me "little mouse" made me feel something I couldn't quite describe, whether I liked it or not.
As I took a bite of steak, I glanced around the dining room. This was my first time entering it. It was a large room, with more than six chairs, yet we were the only ones here. The walls were painted white and black, adding a cold feeling.
My eyes fell on a painting on the wall—of a young beautiful woman sitting on a couch.
"Is that your mom?" I asked.
He followed my gaze to the painting on the wall, and a tight smile appeared on his face.
"That was a few years ago when I painted her," he muttered.
"You can paint?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I have a room dedicated to painting."
I stared at the painting. The woman was beautiful, with tan skin and long red hair like Hayley's.
"Where is she?" I asked.
"Dead," he replied.
I turned my gaze back to him, and for a moment, I caught sight of sadness flashing through his eyes.
"It was a long time ago," he said, shaking his head as he chewed the piece of meat in his mouth.
I took a sip of coffee while continuing to stare at him.
"My father… he found out my mother had a secret affair outside their marriage, and in a rage, he killed her," he said.
I blinked, feeling something stir inside me. "I… I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he said.
"And your father?" I continued. "Where is he?"
"I killed him."
My eyes widened as I set the cup down. I quickly chewed the bread in my mouth, staring at Tristan in shock.
"You… you killed your father?" I asked, unsure of what to do. The fear I had for him increased, forming goosebumps on my skin. My body shuddered as I thought about what he said. Had he really killed his father, or was he saying this to scare me? Because I was truly scared now.
"Are you afraid?" he asked.
I blinked, opening my mouth to speak, but the words died in my throat. I suddenly felt uncomfortable around him. I wanted to get up and leave, but I was afraid of what he might do. I was afraid he would harm me if I did something that didn't please him.
He frowned deeply. "I don't like that look."
"What look?"
"The one that tells me you're scared of me," he said. "I don't want you to be scared of me. This is who I am, Aaliyah."
"But you killed your father."
"He killed my mother too," he snapped. "I couldn't just stand by and watch my little sister mourn the death of our mother. I killed him and made myself king."
I swallowed hard. "When did it happen?"
"Many years ago, when I was still a boy," he replied.
"Do you regret it?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "I never regret taking the lives of those bastards I've killed."
When I didn't respond, he grinned. "You should eat."
"I'm full."
He frowned deeply. "You barely touched your food."
I stood up, forcing a smile. "I'm full."
"Sit," he ordered.
"Aaliyah," his look grew intense, and I quickly sat down.
Then he smiled. "What do you want to know about me?"
"Have you thought about visiting a therapist?" I asked. Maybe it was the death of his parents that made him this way.
"Are you saying I'm sick in the head?" he asked.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. "That's not what I meant. It's just that…"
"Just what?"
"Nothing," I said with a tight smile, forcing myself to eat the cheese and bread. How would I ever escape from this man?