This isn’t mere love or obsession or possession. It’s all of those wrapped in a consuming sense of being.
She makes me feel alive and I’ll do anything to breathe that life back in her dying spirt.
I hold her until her crying turns into hiccoughs and her breathing evens out.
Mist has disappeared. No surprise there. She’s rubbish at the comforting thing — we all are. She can watch me drown in my blood with no problems, though.
Once Zoe’s lids flutter closed, I try to place her head on the pillow so she can rest. She tightens her clutch on my T-shirt. I brush my lips on her forehead and she snuggles into me.
Although I want to keep her here and be the one to take care of her, she needs more.
No idea if it’s because of what she’s gone through or I’m that brilliant at driving, but Zoe doesn’t wake up during the entire ride. There isn’t even a stir when I take her in my arms and carry her inside Le Salon.
Now that I think about it, she really gained some weight. She does look healthy, but I hope it’s not because some disorder shit due to the stress she’s been going through.
“Zoe?”
I turn around at Natalie’s voice. She stands near the entrance of the safe house, her petite frame almost unnoticeable. Her eyes widen in shock. “She’s… she’s alive?”
“Got a problem with it?” No idea if she’s glad or disappointed.
“Of course not! I just never thought I’d see her again.”
“Now you do.” I leave her and walk inside the safe house and into my room. The same room where I used to fantasise about Zoe’s illusion during those months from hell.
I keep the curtains drawn, allowing a sliver of the afternoon light inside and place her on the bed. I find a perfect position and sit by her head. For what seems like forever, I watch those delicate features as she sleeps. I’m hoping against hope that she found the peace she secretly yearned for, but even if she didn’t, I’ll be beside her all the same.
First, I need to take care of the fucker Ink. The thought of being away from Zoe guts my soul, but if I want to be realistic, I’ll have to put that into consideration.
One thing for certain, I’m never letting her fucking go.
After an hour — or two — of watching her like a creep, she cracks her eyes open. I send a quick text.
Zoe’s shoulders stiffen as she takes in her surroundings. Right. I never brought her here before. When her gaze falls on me, the green softens and she sighs.
“Where is this place?”
“My room in Le Salon’s safe house.”
She brings the sheet to her chin like she’s hiding. “Why did you bring me here?”
“She should be here any time now.” I check the text I just sent.
As if on cue, there’s a fast knock on the door before it swings open. Elle appears on the threshold dressed in black shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt. Her hair is gathered in a ponytail, but a few strands stick to the side of her face with sweat. She must’ve been boxing.
“Zoe!” She runs towards her friend, and I stand to make a room. Zoe hugs Elle, and then she’s crying again.
Elle is her best friend, and I’m sure she’s better than me at comforting. I can try, but it isn’t enough. I don’t even know what the fuck the word ‘comforting’ means.
I turn to leave. Zoe clutches my hand and mouths over Elle’s shoulder, ‘Thank you.’
My fingers brush against her knuckles, then I let her go.
Ghost is waiting outside the room. He’s only in shorts with a towel hanging over his shoulder. With the sweat coating his torso, the samurai warrior tattoo appears menacing. He must’ve been working out with Elle.
He raises a mocking eyebrow. “Here I thought I’d never see you around here again.”
“You.” I stab his chest with a finger. “We need to talk.”
We end up in the empty bar after Ghost changed into one of his regular, sloppy suits.
It’s hours before opening time so it’s only me, Ghost, and good old scotch.
I pour him and myself a drink then go for the attack. “Does Elle know you plan to play superhero and offer yourself to Hades’ hell on a fucking platter?”
Ghost’s hold tightens on his glass. “No. And you won’t tell her.”
“Oh, I fucking will. I’ll publish it in the Daily Mail for her to