Chapter twelve
Lyla
Sheretreatedintothe bedroom after her short tour, locking the door behind her, and went to bed to sleep. She was still groggy, tired, her body drained and her mind at capacity to deal with all the rapid changes. She had never been good with changes, always questioning things, questioning herself and her self-worth, whatever little of it she had.
And she needed space away from... everything. She needed the space to process her new state of being, process what she’d tried to do, process all the emotions seeing him again had roused within her. She needed... she didn’t know what she needed. Tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at the view through the window, at both the fact that he had given her this and the fact that she still didn’t matter beyond whatever her usefulness to him was.
She was vulnerable in every way to him, and it burned in her chest to realize it.
She looked out at the mountains, wondering if she had the courage to actually jump off the cliff to escape. Stealing the drugs and drinking that mix had been the lowest of her depression, a void she couldn’t have seen the end of as alone as she had been. And he’d brought her back from the jaws of death. She didn’t doubt he’d do it again if need be. Clearly, she was important to whatever his plans were, though she couldn’t imagine them.
But even as she hated him for it, she was secretly glad for his presence. With him, even with everything that he brought, she didn’t feel alone. It was odd how she had spent her life sharing her space with people and felt loneliest, but there she was alone and somehow not feeling as dejected. Knowing he was somewhere in the house made her feel... just feel. And it felt fucking good to feel again after going catatonic for so long.
She didn’t realize when she drifted to sleep, but when her eyes opened next, a lamp was on by her side and it was dark outside. A cool breeze drifted in from the open deck doors, and Lyla sat up on the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, watching the dark silhouette of the man leaning on the railing in the cold.
Keeping the softest, thinnest blanket wrapped around herself, she padded out to him, drawn like moth to flame, a moth that knew it would burn but unable to resist the pull deep inside.
It was very, very dark outside. The moon was a thin crescent in the sky, barely lighting anything. The mountains looked a little blacker than the sky and the waves barely glimmered, but their sound was loud, a soothing whoosh of water lapping against the shore. The wind was soft and cold on her face, and Lyla felt herself take in a deep breath, allowing herself to experience being outside like this for the first time. She still had an escort—she doubted he would let her be alone on the deck so close after she had tried to kill herself—but his presence wasn’t that of a normal escort. She liked sharing this with him, and whatever his motives, he had given something precious to her.
“Thank you,” she murmured quietly, her words low so as not to break the moment.
He didn’t say anything, simply looked out into the dark, his elbows on the railing, hands hanging loosely from the wrist. She looked at what he was wearing—jeans and sweatshirt—and realized she’d never really seen him so dressed down.
He looked the most relaxed that she’d seen in her memory.
Questions bubbled inside her. “How long have you lived here?”
“A few months.”
She took a step closer. “And how long have you had it?”
“About five years. It took a year to build.”
That was a long time. Stepping closer to the railing, heart racing at the nothingness beyond, she gripped the blanket. “Why not live here before?”
He turned his neck to look at her. “You weren’t here.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She didn’t know how to respond when he said things like that, like they were facts instead of lies that he fed her. Her heart, desperate for affection from him, wanted nothing more than to believe them, to believe the narrative he was spinning for her. But she had dealt with him for too long, she knew he was a master of manipulation and he knew which strings to pull for her, since she was an easy puppet.
Turning her face away, she didn’t say anything. They simply stood in the dark for long, long minutes before he broke the silence.
“I don’t understand emotions,” he began, interlinking his fingers. “I never have. I don’t find them particularly useful for myself, so I have never been attached to anyone either. People have been either useless or useful to me.” He turned fully to sear her with a look again. “While you do fit my plans quite nicely, it's incidental. You’d be here even if you didn’t.”
Lyla felt her lips purse. “You’re a liar.”
“I am,” he agreed without a pause. “But I don’t lie to you.”
A dark sound left her as hope, hope she'd thought dead and buried, resurfaced.
She saw his jaw clench at the sound.
A tense silence followed before he moved to the door. “I’ll sleep in the other room until you invite me back. This bedroom is yours. This whole house is yours. There’s food in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
With that, he headed to the glass doors. “Oh, and don’t try to kill yourself again. You’re very close to getting a lot of answers you’ve been waiting so long for. You don’t want to miss them, not this close.”
Asshole.
Always dangling the carrot of truth in front of her. But he’d never explicitly told her that he would tell her soon, always pushing it to ‘someday’. She didn’t know if it was a line to hook her in or if he actually meant it. That was the thing with him—she never knew what he meant. But she was hooked, and the lure of answers was more than the lure of death, at least for the moment.