Velvet Poison

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jonathan’s POV

The hospital air tastes like disinfectant and boredom. I’ve been stuck in that room so long, the damn walls are starting to feel like they’re closing in. The second my phone buzzes in my pocket, I take the excuse. I get up, stretch my legs, and step out into the hallway, running a hand through my hair.

The call is nothing. It was just my father barking about work, responsibility and how she was doing. I tell him I’m still at the hospital, keeping an eye on Seraphina as he asked, and I can hear the sharp breath on the other end like he is happy with my statement. Then he goes ahead to tell me that I should take good care of her, that she will be my sister soon and that he'll be here with her mother tomorrow.

I end the call, annoyed as to why he is reminding me of the fact that I would soon be siblings with her. I didn't want to be siblings of any sort with her. I sigh and slip the phone back into my pocket, needing to take a breather. I don't know what is wrong with me. When I stared into her eyes, the way she always looked at me as if she had more to give and to say than being that meek, silent little lamb she always was.

I sigh and turn to leave when I catch a flash of something familiar.

Whitney. She’s wearing a tight little dress with her lips painted in crimson red, a flask in her hand. She struts down the hallway like she owns it, walking towards me.

I don’t bother hiding the irritation in my voice when she approaches me, ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

She pauses, cocking her head to the side, a smile spreading across her face like I’ve just asked the dumbest question in the world. ‘Looking for you, obviously.’

I raise a brow.

She lifts the little silver flask, giving it a shake like it’s some kind of answer. ‘Went to your place first, but the maids said you were here so I thought I’d check in. Thought you might need company. And, you know...’ her voice drops, mock-sweet, ‘I heard what happened and felt bad for Seraphina. Poor thing little wretched thing.’

I don’t buy it for a second. Whitney doesn’t ‘feel bad’ for anyone unless it serves her. But I don’t have the energy for this right now.

‘You found me. Now go home.’ I step past her, but her fingers close around my arm before I can get far.

‘Jonathan,’ she purrs, pouting at me, blinking repeatedly. ‘I know you. I know this is killing you, having to sit by and play big brother to that... wretch. Pretending to care. Must be exhausting.’

Her nails press into my sleeve as she moves in closer, and I can smell the vodka clinging to her breath before she even speaks again.

‘Let me make it easier for you,’ she whispers. Her hand slides low, fingers creeping toward the waistband of my jeans, slow and deliberate. ‘I can make you forget her. I can help you ease the stress,’ she bites her lips.

Once, maybe, I’d have let her. Let her crawl into my bed and play her little games. Fuck her until But not tonight.

I grab her wrist and shove her back, gentle but firm. ‘Take your food, Whitney,’ I say, voice flat. ‘I’m not hungry.’

Her mouth twists like she can’t decide whether to pout or curse me out, but I don’t wait to see which she picks. I leave. I don’t even look back.

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Whitney’s POV

I watch him walk away, fists clenching tight around the flask until the cheap metal bites into my palm.

Seraphina. It’s always her. Little Miss Tragic. Little Miss Helpless. Playing the part so well, even Jonathan is falling for it. I’ve known him longer, I’ve given him more. And yet all it takes is her lying in a hospital bed for him to start acting like a knight.

And the way he stares at her most of the time when he thinks nobody is watching?

Hmph, pathetic.

I take a slow, deep breath and turn on my heel, stalking down the hallway like I belong there. No one stops me. The nurses barely even glance up. I know this place well enough. The third door to the right is Room 209. Hers.

I made sure to give her a little visit. A tiny harmless warning earlier, though, it was a nurse I had told to plant a note in her room.

I open the door slowly and quietly and she’s there, lying on her side. Probably asleep. The IV tubes are tangled at her side, her face is pale, and she rests on the pillow like she's some saint. God, even unconscious, she looks like she’s begging for pity. My stomach twists.

I step inside, closing the door soft enough not to wake her. I stand at the foot of her bed, crossing my arms as I watch her chest rise and fall.

‘You should’ve died, you know,’ I whisper, barely more than air. ‘It would’ve saved everyone a lot of trouble.’

Her face doesn’t even twitch. Fast asleep. Vulnerable. She always looks like a kicked dog. No wonder Jonathan’s eating it up. He always did love broken things.

I tilt my head, studying her like she’s some piece of art that never deserved to exist.

‘What do you have,’ I mutter, ‘that I don’t?’

There’s no answer, of course. Just the beep of her heart monitor, steady and calm. Like she’s mocking me even in her sleep.

I step closer, standing by her side now, so close I can hear her shallow breathing. My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms.

‘You don’t deserve any of this. Not the attention, not the sympathy. Not him.’

The words feel bitter on my tongue. I hate her. I hate her for existing, for getting under his skin, for making him look at her like she’s worth anything.

My gaze drops to the pillow. I reach for it without thinking, my fingers curling around the soft cotton.

‘You should just die,’ I whisper, voice trembling with rage I don’t even bother hiding, ‘fucking die!’

I iand ft the pillow, hover it over her face, pressing it down just an inch. My heart thuds wild in my chest as my hands tremble from the adrenaline.

‘It’d be easy,’ I hiss through clenched teeth. ‘Just a few minutes and you'll be gone.’

I press the pillow down harder, my breath catching in my throat as I imagine her life slipping away under my hands.

But then, I hear steady footsteps and it's coming closer.

I freeze, ripping the pillow away from her face so fast it almost slips from my fingers. I stand there, chest heaving, staring at the door like it might swing open any second.

The handle twitches.

I back away from the bed, sliding the pillow back into place, trying to smooth the sheets like nothing happened. My hands are shaking, sweat prickling at the back of my neck.

The door opens.