Page 31 of Sinful Lord

They’re shaking. My skin feels cold.

Clamping my hands together, I place them between my thighs and squeeze. It provides a little bit of relief, but the lingering fear doesn’t dissolve. Especially not when I look toward the window. The curtains are closed, but a small opening has appeared in the middle of them.

Outside, the city is dark.

A gulp slides down my throat.

I want to get up and close that opening, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed. Flashes of what I went through spray through my mind as I clench my thighs tighter and tighter.

The only reason I’m not plagued with nightmares must be because of the medication I’m taking. It occasionally numbs my worried mind and helps me sleep.

But when I’m awake, even the slightest slice of darkness will make me freeze. It’s why I haven't turned off the lights since I got back.

“Fuck,” I sigh. “Maybe I should email Rian…”

But not even the thought of my brother coming to my rescue is enough to comfort me. I just feel lost. And so alone.

A ping comes from my phone, and the sound is just barely enough to snap me out of my sad, terrified daze.

Another email.

I open it on my laptop.

Paint. Please.

There’s a vulnerability in the pleading message that somehow melts away some of my fear. Only some, but any little bit helps right now.

… I don’t know if I still can, I type in response, but I don’t hit send. Not yet. The reply is honest to a fault, and I’m not even sure who I’m talking to.

Though, part of me knows who it must be.

Tytus Ryzdon.

It has to be. No one has ever been so invested in my art.

But it’s not just that.

I never saw the man who saved me from the freezing Spree river. The man who drove me to the hospital and carried me inside. I tried asking the nurses and the doctors, but they all said they were too preoccupied with me to take note of anybody else.

Someone else might have believed their excuses, but I saw the fear in the back of their eyes. They were scared. I don’t blame them. Tytus is terrifying.

So why don’t I feel scared when I think about him? When I imagine being in his arms, all I can feel is the same comforting heat that saved my life.

He saved my life.

If it was even him…

No. There’s no other option. If it had been someone from my family, I wouldn’t still be in Berlin. I’d be back in New York, under intense supervision. Instead, I’m still free—well, in a way.

… I don’t know if I still can.

My index finger falls onto the laptop’s “return” button.

The email sends.

Part of me hopes that it is Tytus on the other end. That those silver-blue eyes are watching me in some way. Protecting me.

My thighs clench again, but this time, it’s not in an attempt to warm myself up. There’s already a warmth spreading through me. It’s growing at the memory of the man who started this complicated journey of mine.