Chapter Twelve

Virtus's POV 

"And what's strange, what would be marvelous, is not that God should really exist; the marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God, could enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast of a man. So holy it is, so touching, so wise and so great a credit it does man."

The Brothers Karamazov. Fyodor Dostoyevsky. He was and is entirely right. 

I am vicious, I am savage, I wholly need the supernatural to feel better about it.

Did man create God? Did God create man? Does it even matter?

I glance over to Uri, my intern, and hired shadow. He slept soundlessly on the couch as I read in bed. Several times, every fucking night, he twists and turns uncomfortably. The sound of his movement drags me out of my contemplations, and yet I am entirely dependent on the irritating sounds. I wish being alone wasn't so loud, because I'd choose that, but I can't, and I don't.

Sometimes, he's too quiet.

Returning to my book, I read further. I try to engross myself in the sentences; the words Dostoyevsky wrote. It doesn't work because instead I think about anything else.

Anything, in particular, meant anything involving my intern.

Annoyed, I slam the book shut. The hardcover makes a loud thump as it's closed, and Uri winces, and glances over at me. I didn't realize he was awake.

I see the question in his eyes, the question he often seems to have. "What are you thinking about?" 

I ignore his expression, his underlining concern. I don't need him to know anything, not one fucking thing. 

He will never know anything, I prefer nobody does.

When he establishes that I won't say anything, he lays his head back down, and turns over. I see him grimace and grab his shoulder, and I know he's been in pain the last several days. I just pretend it doesn't matter, because in all aspects of my own personal agenda, it really doesn't.

I never fail to witness his wincing, though, or the way he grips his shoulder like it is on fire.

I see the pain he has been in so evidently on his face. I sometimes see it so strongly, I almost feel it too.

I refuse to acknowledge it. I refuse to help him. He is not worth anything to me. His pain is nothing to me, and he knows it. He won't say anything about it, at first, I expected him to do so. He doesn't, I don't either. We are on mutual perspectives. He says nothing about his own personal issues, and in return, I say nothing about mine.

As long as he can stand, as long as he has enough stamina to follow me around, that is all that matters to me.

I flick off the light, and lay down as well. My mind is entirely on my disdain for the man in my bedroom, I hate him, and I fear him gone all at once.

Several times throughout the night, I open my eyes just to make sure he is there.

The next day, Chelsea and I are scheduled for a photoshoot. We need something tangible for the papers, official photographs as a newly announced couple. A soon to be married couple.

Uri and I waste no time getting to photoshoot. Not because I'm eager to do it, but because I'm eager to get it done.

Chelsea is already here, and I see the look of hatred she has for me as she looks away from the photographer. Her hatred makes the most sense out of all of this, and it is my excuse to hate her back.

I feel someone bump into me, and I turn around to see my intern, "Sorry." He apologizes, and I'm so overwhelmed with my own disliking for everything happening, that I do the only thing that makes sense, and I take out my frustrations on him.

"Must I hold your hand? Are you not even able to watch where you're going?"

He doesn't even look phased by my scolding, in fact his face doesn't look nearly as horrified as it used to when I'd yell at him. "I said sorry." He says, but his attention isn't even wholly on me. I notice him keep glancing at Chelsea, and that only infuriates me more. Doesn't he know he shouldn't gawk at another man's fiancé? 

It's no surprise, every man in the country seems to want Chelsea for their own, but it entirely irks me knowing Uri does too. I can't seem to conclude why it irks me. Could it be because he's a twenty-two year old college student. What right does he have to lust over one of the most powerful young women in the country? 

No, that really wasn't it.

He should know better than to lust over someone who belongs to The Bone Cutter. Does he not even fear me? 

No, that wasn't it either.

I consider my own thought process, trying to map out the direction my emotions were stemming from, but I couldn't seem to travel down the path without being interrupted by the photographer, or the stylists, or anyone else who was just trying to do their job.

My thoughts lately have been so uncomfortably redundant. I suddenly have the distinct urge to run away. Not just out of this building, but out of this life. To travel the world with a new name, a new life, a new purpose.

Or, if anything, I would at least run back to my apartment, and continue reading my books.

When the stylists were finished with me, my hair curled and woven in chains of gold, my ears draped in jeweled earrings and several diamond necklaces were clasped around my neck.

I felt like a prisoner more than an American god. 

The jewelry bound me. The diamonds were locked on my being and I am stuck. 

Chelsea and I stood on the set, in front of the cameras. The photographer was guiding us in different positions, and all required her to wrap her arms around me. Once it was around my arm, another around my neck, and now her thin, tan arms were coiled around my waist, her head rested on my chest. I could feel her heartbeat against my own. Her breasts against my body. The thin fabric of her dress left little to the imagination.

I can not stand it. I can not stand her and everything she comes from. Not because she is as powerful as she is beautiful, but because she is Chelsea Scott, and yet, she will still die because of me.

They always will, and she knows that. Her father's own narcissism refuses to accept it. The Scotts are so used to getting whatever they want, they don't realize consequences.

Despite his expectations, his daughter will die, and I will be the reason why. 

I feel her chest rise and fall as she breathes, her pulse quickening when I'm told to grasp her chin, and begin making the move to kiss her. I've never understood how someone could enjoy kissing, but then again, I've never had someone I've wanted to kiss.

Perhaps loving someone makes you different. It makes you like the most unlikable things, and that, even kissing, could become a desire.

I desire to push this woman off my being, and to grab my intern, and run.

I glance back at Uri, who is standing outside the set. He's staring at us, and I feel him continue staring, even as I grab the chin of my future wife, and kiss her as passionately as I can muster, which isn't entirely convincing.

The cameras flash, I pretend to look in love, Chelsea embraces me, her body attempting to mold into mine, but we are not a good fit. I feel every essence of her being screaming to get away from me. She is right to feel that way. She should be terrified of me, and she will realize that, very, very soon.

I have never hated someone as much as her, and it's not even her fault to begin with. Everything I do and stand for is unfair. I wonder how that isn't so obvious to everyone else.

As soon as the photoshoot was called to an end, we pulled away from each other as if we both were specific poison to the other. She began to make her way out of the room, saying not a word to anyone, and I returned to my intern who looked mesmerized by the production. 

His own innocence to the separate world elites would be amusing if it wasn't so ignorantly childish. He's so small, it's almost upsetting to see such a kid-like adult get eaten by wolves. Almost.

Were it not for me, his stupidity, would have gotten him devoured days ago.

We leave without saying a word. 

Sitting beside him in the car was overbearing. It always is. I see him often glance at me as I read, and I know he's forcing himself not to ask questions. I know he's full of them, and it unnerves me. I don't know how long I can go keeping everything to myself before he realizes just how ridiculous all of this really is. He's here for a reason, and he's beginning to speculate why. He can't find out. I can't let him find out.

I lift my eyes from The Brothers Karamazov, and see his large eyes staring back at me. His pale skin allures me. He is whiter than anyone I have ever seen, or maybe I just haven't bothered to ever look at anyone else. I see ghosts and spirits reside in his color. Or perhaps that is only what I want to see.

I take a steadying breath and say, "You may ask one question." Only one, because one question at a time keeps him satiated for a bit. Without any answers at all will only drive him away. I can't have him leave.

One question. I always fear what he will ask, and he always surprises me by asking things I would never imagine anyone in his position to ask.

I know he avoids the personal questions, I don't know why he does. I see him contemplate his list of questions, what is and isn't safe to ask me. Maybe, in his own way, he does still fear me.

At this point, I can't decide if I want him to fear me or not.

"I'm starving." He speaks at last, "Can I choose what we have for dinner tonight? Your choice in food is boring and healthy, and I miss fried food."

I know that's completely lenient of what he really wants to ask. He wants to know his purpose here. He wants to know what I'm hiding. I feel sick. I fear one day he will find out. One day he will know everything. I can not fathom it.

His avoidance bothers me above anything else.

I try to sound as casual as I feel uncomfortable and say, "You're disgusting." I pause and continue, "But fine, eat what you wish."

I see a grin on his face as he looks back out the window. That grin alone disarms everything in me, and I am left completely and utterly terrified.