Chapter 12: Cold Shoulder
The rain had stopped by the time Roya and Emris reached her mansion, both drenched and dripping water onto the polished wooden floors. Roya, unbothered by the mess, tugged her jacket off and tossed it onto a chair, her strawberry blonde hair plastered against her face.
Emris followed her with the energy of a storm cloud personified. His dark hair was plastered against his forehead, and his striking blue eyes seemed even more piercing in his current foul mood. His arms were crossed as he sulked, glaring at the puddle forming beneath his boots.
"This is your fault," he declared dramatically, shaking out his wet hair like an irritated cat. "We were supposed to go to the arcade. I had plans, Roya."
"Plans to humiliate children at air hockey?" Roya shot back, unfazed. She wrung out her hair over the sink, ignoring his theatrics.
"Yes! Exactly that. And now I'm drenched, and my boots are ruined."
"You don't even pay for anything, Emris. Stop whining."
He let out a long, exaggerated sigh and leaned heavily against the counter, clearly not done complaining. "Do you know what water does to leather? Do you know how long it takes for my hair to dry? Hours, Roya. Hours. You've ruined my day."
Roya snorted. "You sound like a child."
"And you sound like a heartless monster," he grumbled. "You don't care about anyone's feelings."
"That's because I don't have feelings, remember?" she shot him a smirk before walking away, leaving him to stew.
But Emris wasn't one to let things go so easily. The sulking didn't last long before it transformed into an idea—one fueled by pettiness and the desire to make her pay for disrupting his plans.
He found himself wandering into her study, where the shelves were lined with neatly stacked books, notebooks, and trinkets she'd collected over the years. A dark smirk spread across his face as he snapped his fingers, a small flame igniting in the palm of his hand.
"Let's see how you feel about losing something important, Roya," he muttered to himself. But even as he prepared to cause mayhem, a flicker of guilt—foreign and unwelcome—crossed his mind.
With a flick of his wrist, the items Roya truly valued disappeared into his personal dimension, safe from harm. She'd never know.
The rest? Fair game.
Flames licked the edges of her desk, quickly spreading to the bookshelves. Emris stood back, admiring his work with a sense of smug satisfaction, the warmth of the fire drying his damp clothes.
Moments later, Roya burst into the room, her green eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. "What the hell did you do?"
"Made it cozy," he said with a shrug, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Don't worry. You needed a fresh start anyway."
Roya stared at the blaze devouring her study, her green eyes widening for a fraction of a second before narrowing into an icy glare. The flames reflected in her pupils, painting her expression with a fiery intensity she rarely allowed herself to feel. She hated this. She hated feeling anything—especially this prickling sense of loss, this twinge of something as foolish as sadness.
For a sociopath, emotions were supposed to be distant, abstract concepts. And yet, standing in the doorway of her now-charred sanctuary, something akin to grief clawed at the edges of her mind.
Her study wasn't just a room; it was her refuge. It was where she worked tirelessly, pouring hours into the stories she wrote. It held pieces of her—pieces she never wanted anyone else to see. Now, the walls were blackened, the bookshelves reduced to smoldering ruins.
"You're such a child." She said flatly, grabbing the fire extinguisher.
"You're welcome." He smirked, folding his arms over his chest.
"You're paying for the damages," she said flatly.
"I don't even have a wallet," he replied, amused.
Her jaw tightened. She couldn't let him see that this affected her. She turned on her heel, leaving Emris behind as she strode out into the hallway, fire extinguisher in hand.
"Next time it will be your pretty red hair burning!" Emris called after her, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction.
Roya didn't respond. She didn't even glance back.
For the rest of the day, Roya gave Emris the cold shoulder. She didn't yell or snap at him. Instead, she acted as though he didn't exist, walking past him as if he were air. She didn't react when he tried to get her attention with sarcastic remarks or even when he "accidentally" tripped over her foot at the kitchen door.
"You can't ignore me forever, Roya," he drawled lazily, sprawled out on her living room couch like he owned the place.
She didn't answer. Instead, she poured herself a glass of water and sipped it in deliberate silence.
"You're sulking," Emris said with a grin, propping his chin on his hand. "It's cute."
Still, she refused to acknowledge him.
"Fine," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "I'll just entertain myself then."
And with that, he started flipping through her bookshelves in the living room, purposefully pulling out novels and reading their titles aloud in exaggerated tones. Roya didn't care. She had perfected the art of shutting people out, and she wasn't going to let him worm his way back in—not today.
She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, needing background noise to drown out his voice.
The familiar jingle of the evening news filled the room, and Roya sank into the armchair, her focus firmly on the screen. She tuned out Emris's ongoing antics, staring blankly at the anchor as they spoke.
"Earlier today, police discovered the body of a teenage girl at a local bookstore. The victim, identified as 17-year-old Emily Foster, was found dead in the back room of the establishment. Investigators have ruled the death as suspicious. Witnesses reported seeing a strange man leaving the area just before the discovery of the body."
Roya's glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the floor.
Her mind flashed back to the bookstore. The teenage girl. Her excitement, her bright smile, her shy, starstruck rambling. The signed book Roya had handed her with a faint smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
She didn't feel grief or guilt, not in the traditional sense. But she felt… something. A weight, pressing down on her chest.
Emris froze, his casual grin fading as the severity of the news sank in. His sharp blue eyes flickered toward Roya, who was staring at the screen with an expression he couldn't quite place.
"That girl," he said softly. "She was the one from earlier."
Roya didn't respond. Her mind was racing, connecting dots she wasn't sure she wanted to connect.
"You don't think—" Emris started, but he cut himself off.
Both of them felt it. A shift in the air, an unshakable sense of unease.
Roya straightened, her hands clenching into fists. "We need to figure out what's going on."
Emris nodded, for once not making a sarcastic remark. The playful tension between them faded into something heavier, darker.
Neither of them said it aloud, but the truth hung unspoken between them: someone—or something—was playing a far more dangerous game than either of them had anticipated.