Chapter 21
Aaliyah
"What are you doing here?" I asked, walking past him towards the mirror. Taking the blow-dryer, I blow-dried my hair and added some oil to my scalp.
"I couldn't sleep," Tristan said, walking closer. He stood behind me, leaning in as he played with my braids. I held my breath, feeling goosebumps lining my skin. "I think I might need some of your help."
My eyes closed, realizing that I liked this closeness. I liked his touch on my skin.
"Little mouse?"
I also liked the way he called me that nickname. "Yes?"
His hands grasped my waist, turning me around. His fingers slid around my wrist, pulling me closer. I faced him, feeling my stomach churn with excitement.
My eyes fell on his full lips, the curve of his mouth, and how it moved as he spoke. The air around us shifted, heavy with tension.
"There's something I need you to do," he said.
I raised an eyebrow, wondering what he wanted from me.
"What?"
"Come with me."
Even before I could respond, his hand was on my wrist, dragging me out of my room. He led me down the hallway to his room, pushing the door open, and I stepped inside.
The room was enormous with dark floors that made it feel cozy. A beautiful four-poster bed sat in the center of the room. The bedspread was black and white.
My eyes fell on the table at the side of the room, and I swallowed hard. I knew too well the purpose of the table. It had special equipment for pleasure and pain: whips, chains, and cuffs. There were also other tables for sexual activities.
I looked around, staring at the erotic paintings hung on the wall.
"Why do you have this?" I asked.
He stood near the wall, his back leaning against the hard surface. His eyes darkened with a sly smile playing on his lips.
"Why not?" he responded. "This is who I am."
I swallowed hard, feeling a whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. I felt fear, and something else I wasn't ready to acknowledge. Taking a step forward, my eyes landed on the table.
"Tristan," I whispered. "Why do you want me here?"
"I can't sleep," he replied. "I need you to help me relieve this stress."
He walked towards the table, picking up a worn, leather-bound journal. Then he returned to me, handing me the journal.
"Read to me, Ali," he said. "Your voice will relieve me from this stress, and help me sleep."
I blinked, surprised by his words. Tristan, the King of Lycans, needed bedtime stories?
I reached out, taking the journal from him. He walked towards the bed, lying on it with his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I strolled to the couch, sitting down as I slowly opened the book. But I couldn't shake the feeling of being in this room.
"Go on."
"Okay," I said softly, leaning back into the couch. I flipped the pages, running my fingers over the old paper. My eyes skimmed over the first few lines before speaking.
'June 18th, 1991…'
I read through the first line, my brows furrowing in confusion as the words sank in. My breath caught in my throat as I looked up at Tristan before returning my gaze to the book.
'I killed a man tonight. He begged for his life as I dragged him away from his family into the woods. But I felt nothing for his pleas. Only satisfaction from killing him. Another enemy erased. Another man I'd killed for…'
I stopped mid-sentence, unable to continue. I lifted my head to look at Tristan, but his eyes were closed, as if he was enjoying it. As if it was nothing more than a bedtime story.
He'd killed someone many years ago and wrote it down. And he said he enjoyed the satisfaction. Did he have a mental illness he was struggling with?
He opened his eyes, raising a brow at me. He gave me a look, asking why I'd stopped reading.
"Tristan," I murmured, feeling fear coursing through my veins.
"What happened?" he asked. "Why did you stop?"
"What's the meaning of this nonsense?" I asked, gathering myself.
"It's my diary, mouse. Do you find any mistakes in the words I wrote?"
I flipped to another page, and it was still about taking a man's life. I looked at the diary, my eyes widening at how large it was.
"Does it only contain records of you killing men?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied.
I shook my head slowly. "This is a list of people you've killed. And you even wrote it down. How can you—" I stopped myself, unsure if he would take my words wrongly. What kind of disorder could Tristan be struggling with? Was it bipolar disorder? Schizophrenia? Or could he just be a psychopath?
What if he was experiencing an episode now? He could snap at any moment and take my life.
Tristan sat up on the bed, and for a moment I thought he was about to kill me. He sat next to me, his fingers brushing across my skin.
"I know you don't understand me, Ali. But I don't expect you to," he said. "Do you know the sound of your voice calms me more than anything?"
I stared into his piercing blue eyes. How could someone so beautiful and gentle, speaking to me with such tenderness, be a monster underneath? If I had heard it from someone else, I wouldn't have believed it.
He leaned closer, and I quickly stood up, pulling my hand away.
"You're scared of me," he frowned.
Knowing he didn't like it when I was scared, I quickly shook my head.
"No... No..."
"I know that look," he said, closing the distance between us.
"Yes," I admit, walking backward until my back was against the wall.
"Yes, what?"
"I fear you."
He clenched his hand into a fist, punching the wall.