Chapter 4

Eli

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I couldn’t think. All I knew was I had to get out of here. I jumped into my briefs, and then my trousers. 

My hands shook. My thoughts blurred, fragments of memory of that night flashing in: The red and blue light, the siren wailing, the smile he shot at me as the police drove off with him.

He’s out. He’s going to kill me.

I swallowed, but my heartbeat echoed in my ears.

I snatched the closest shirt. Yanked it on. Tottered towards the door.

The door swung open, and I bumped into Zane. The glass of water fell, water splashing, glass shattering.

“Oh shit,” I hissed, dashing past him. “I-I’m so sorry. I just… I have to go.”

I continued, my legs slamming the floor as I hurried out of his apartment, out of the building. 

I was breathing fast, yet it didn’t fill my lungs.

As if on cue, a cab appeared. Hopping in, I flashed my last cash at the driver.

“Malcolm hostel.”

The drive felt like it stretched eternity, and by the time I arrived at the hostel, my body was already trembling.

Louis was outside, typical omega, soft eyes, long lashes. A cigarette caught between his lips.

“Where’s the letter?” I asked, before even reaching him.

Snorting, Louis flicked ash from his cigarette. “John…he…he” He raked his hand through his hair, breath trembling with anger. “You know, just go and see what that bastard has done.”

My chest squeezed. I didn’t need to pause for an explanation. Whatever he did I was about to find out.

I bolted up the flight of stairs, two steps at a time. My room came into view, and I burst through the doors.

“Where’s the letter?” I asked, breathless.

Then I saw the letter. Or at least what remained of it.  

My stomach dropped. How could something so important be gone?

It wasn’t just torn—it was ruined. Shredded into jagged pieces, scattered across the narrow strip of floor between both beds.

Almost like he was trying to erase the words in it.

“Why?” My voice thinned.

“It was for your own good. We’re in our finals, we don’t need any drama.” He wouldn’t look at me. He just stood, planted between the two beds, scratching his thumb with his index finger, too hard, too manic.

That alone told me something was more than wrong.

“John.” My voice lowered. “You read it.”

“I didn’t.” He snapped his gaze up.

My chest ached. After six years of knowing John, he was completely unreadable. But when he was nervous, his cracks showed. And I could see those cracks now. He had read the letter. And whatever was in it was enough to rattle him.

“Please,” I said, desperation choking me. “Just…tell me what’s in it. He’s out right? And he’s coming for me?”

John let out a low growl, dragging his hands down his face. “How many times do I have to say this?” He snapped. “He knows you didn’t call the cops.”

My stomach twisted. It was never about the cops. I’d already crossed the line hours before John came, before the police arrived.

Years later, I couldn’t bring myself to tell John what had happened that day. The real reason why my father was going to kill me. What I’d done. He'd hate me too.

I whispered, voice trembling. “You don’t understand—”

John flew his hand up, palm up, his scar catching the light from the overhead bulb. “Do you remember how I got this?” 

I flinched. I could never forget.

“I got it protecting you that night. I lost my art for you. I haven’t been able to paint anything since that night. I threw my family’s legacy for you that night, and you’d think I’d make a decision that hurts you.”

My body folded onto itself. I forced myself to breathe. If John were making a choice, it’s one that kept me safe. I repeated it, but my heart refused to be calm.

John kept staring at me. Too long. Too heavy. Then he said, “This isn’t the shirt you wore there.”

I looked down. It's Zane’s shirt. “Oh…I was rushing, when I got—”

“One night,” John cut in, “and you’re wearing his shirt now?”

The bitterness in his tone, made a tiny warmth flicker in my chest. Yes, I knew it was stupid. But it was hopeful. He was jealous. And jealousy meant something.

Then he said, “You’re acting like a whore now?”

The warmth died instantly. I froze at how his tone sounded like he was disgusted.

He asked me to do this.

The air shifted. 

“Your lips. They’re swollen.” His jaw clenched, his frown deepening. “Did you kiss him?”

The air snapped. 

The anger in his eyes, the way his breath seethed out. Never have I seen John this angry. And it felt too familiar.

When he stepped towards me, when his shadows tilted over mine, images warped. The boy in front of me shifted into my father.

There was barely a meter between me and the study table. Nowhere to retreat even when my mind screamed to.

Although the room still glowed bright, somehow it felt darker, like the light wasn’t reaching me. Just like it never reached me at home.

My heart thundered, and my throat itched.

My ragged breath almost dropped me to my knees. Almost made me beg as I used to when my father’s belt lashed through the air, when his punches came too fast, too painful for my body to brace for.

But I reminded myself—this was John. Not him.  John wouldn’t hurt me.

But then his hand shot towards, my breath locked in my lungs so hard it hurt.

His face crashed into mine, his lips locking with mine.

My eyes bulged, almost popping out of my socket. 

John was kissing me. Six years and he finally kissed me.

My heart exploded, and heat rushed through my veins, scorching.

Panic turning into something cruelly beautiful, fire and ache.

I shut my eyes, and kissed him helplessly, hungrily, trying to fill six years of longing.

Love was a bastard, I learnt that today. I didn't care why he was kissing me now—jealous of Zane? Trying to distract me from my father’s letter?

Whatever the reason I wanted it. Needed it. Like a starving dog snapping at the crumbs from its master’s table.

I kissed him, tasting the crumbs his lips had to offer, forgetting for a moment my father might already be out there, waiting for me.