im convinced being a writer can turn you into a villain 

i know exactly what im doing 

and it brings me joy

enjoy this one (if u can)

Chapter Twenty-two

The only peace I get is when we return back to Virtus's home, and I'm alone in bed, while he quietly reads whatever fucking book he's reading. 

I'm traumatized by my realization. I'm scared of everything. Nothing makes sense. 

Sure, I've always thought Virtus was attractive. Every girl finds him attractive. 

I never thought I'd care about him, though.

Love? I don't think I've ever actually been in love. It's terrifying. I hate it.

The worst part was knowing it wasn't just a ridiculous sort of love that one could hope would turn into something more. It was a love that could never be returned. Virtus was the Bone Cutter. And I was just another girl from D.C. 

I squirm under the blankets, humiliated, and horrified by my own thoughts. I dig my face into my pillow, wanting to scream.

"Uri?" Virtus says my name, breaking the carefully strewn silence I had created between us since we were in the dressing room. I haven't said a word to him since, and I had hoped he wouldn't say anything to me either.

I peek my head up from the pillow, "Hmm?"

He's staring right at me. I want to kick his gaze away. "You seem bothered."

"I'm not bothered."

"You haven't said a word to me since noon. That's unusual for you."

"That's your imagination."

He doesn't look amused, "Uri."

I sit up suddenly, and turn to him. I don't know why I'm angry, but I am. "You're the one getting married tomorrow, why are you asking if I'm okay? Are you okay?"

His eyes narrow, as if he is genuinely trying to figure me out. I don't break eye-contact with him. If I do that'd feel like I lost at something.

My body is still sore, I can feel the pounding of the large bruise on my chest, but I force myself to focus on the pain, it was a lot less uncomfortable than assessing my feelings for a man who kills for a living.

Virtus doesn't say anything, and I hunch over, covering my face with my hands. "I'm going to be sick." I say it more to myself than to him, in fact, I didn't register than I had said it out loud at all until he responds by shutting the book he was reading, and pushing himself off his bed.

"Let's go."

I glance at him, "What? Now?"

"Yes. Now. I need a fucking drink."

I don't bother arguing. Though I make a mental promise to myself that I can't touch alcohol again, at least not when I'm with him. I can't be trusted while intoxicated.

We move down to the kitchen, where Virtus picks out two bottles of wine, and unfortunately, two glasses. 

I say nothing, and keep eyeing the second glass as he carries them back up to the bedroom.

I watch him set both glasses on the nightstand, and pop the cork off one of the bottles, filling both glasses up with a beautiful red liquid that looked way too inviting.

"Here." He sits on his bed, pushing the glass towards me on the little nightstand, the only piece of furniture separating my bed from his.

"I can't." I tell him, but it came out weak. I am weak.

He stares at me, his eyes piercing through my terribly fabricated barrier. "Drink."

I watch him take a large drink from his own glass, as if he was desperate for it. I eye the glass, and force a very unamusing laugh to calm my nerves, "You act like you want to get me drunk."

He doesn't even show the barest bit of shame, "What would you do if I said I did?"

He's staring at me again. My chest hurts. I focus on it. I keep my thoughts on the pain alone. My response was taking the lonely glass, and downing it whole. I can't even keep a promise to myself I made five minutes ago. 

If my mother saw me now, she'd be so disappointed. I hate that about me. I hate how easy I am to do the stupidest of things.

Virtus reaches out, taking hold of the bottle, and fills my cup again, and then, he fills his.

"So, I take it you aren't okay about tomorrow." I say, trying to conquer the silence.

He leans back against the headboard of his bed, his eyes were trained on the wall in front of us. His voice is breathy, almost quiet, "Let's not talk about it."

But I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to talk. "I'm so sick not talking about it. I'm so sick of your secrets." I take another drink, "Chelsea is beautiful. She's probably one of the most attractive women I've ever seen. You are miserable, and yet you're marrying Chelsea Scott." I take a steadying breath, "No sane man would be miserable tonight, he'd be ecstatic."

His head spins to me, his voice isn't soft like before, it's heavy, accusing, "So you do like her then?"

No, I don't, but of course I have to lie, because I was right. Any man would want her. "Of course. If I were you, I'd be happy. Why wouldn't I be?"

The way he was looking at me made me even more uncomfortable, but why should I back down now? I'm drunk, and being drunk reminds me I have nothing to lose but my life. When a man comes to that conclusion, there's nothing that can stop him from doing whatever he pleases. 

"She belongs to me." The way he says it is so odd. He has never showed any hint of possessiveness towards Chelsea before, in fact, I'm certain he hates her. So why did he say it in such a panicked way now?

Unless he wasn't talking about Chelsea. 

I mentally shake my head. There's no way. I'm drunk. I'm imagining things, and yet. . .

I push forward, because my heart is hammering, and I'm listening to it rather than my pleading common sense, begging me to shut up. "And yet, she did offer to sleep with me." I bring up the first time I had met her, when she complimented me, and mentioned how she'd enjoy playing with me.

Virtus was not having it. "Don't be so full of yourself. You've got the body of a boy, nobody, especially Chelsea, would be attracted to that."

"She did call me cute." I insist, "Perhaps she's attracted."

He laughs, but there is no merriment in it, "Your hope is pathetic. Any person would have to be desperate to want you."

I'd have to agree, right now I'm not looking my best. My hair is growing out a bit since I had cut it, only making it look even more sloppy than before, and I don't eat much due to attempting to look as non-feminine as possible, causing dark circles under my eyes. I was not in my prime right now. 

Still, his words hurt, because deep down, I think he might be right.

Or I'm just drunk, and I tend to pity myself when I'm drunk.

"You're an ass." I stand to reach the second bottle of wine, as we had already drank the first, but he's quicker and steals the bottle, not allowing me to have any more. "See, that right there." I say pointing to him, "Complete ass."

"Should I let you get even more drunk, so you can dote on my fiancé a little longer?"

"You should let me get more drunk, so you can tell me just how much I'm unwanted by anyone." I tell him, "And the alcohol would allow me to take it like a man."

"Alright." His eyes are challenging. "Then come get it." I didn't really want more. In fact, I wasn't nearly as drunk as I had expected I'd be. My mind was sound, but a bit more relaxed. If I could, I'd drink the night away, and maybe the next three nights too.

"That's not fair." I complain, definitely not backing down to his challenge, but wanting to nag nonetheless, "You're a lot stronger than me."

"Oh? I thought you were 'the man'." His eyes are bright. Like a fire blazing in the both of them, beckoning for me to fight him.

His taunting shouldn't work as much as it does, and yet, I'm on top of him in seconds. "Give it to me!" I shout, reaching for the bottle, that he now has hidden behind him. One hand is around the bottle, the other is battling me off of him, but I wasn't going to let him win so easily.

His body is underneath mine, and I do not fail to notice how comfortable it was to be in this exact position.

Focus, Uri, focus.

"You're fucking weak, Uri." He spits at me.

"Does it make you feel better about your position to insult me? Just because you have to marry Chelsea doesn't mean you have to take your rage out on me."

"Is that what you think this is?"

"What else would it be?"

"You fucking tell me." Suddenly, I'm not the one in control any longer, he twists us, until he is on top of me, pinning me to the bed. I've forgotten about the bottle of wine, which sat alone on his pillow. "Tell me what this is." He breathes, and I've never seen him so mad before.

I can't breathe, and I've lost all vocabulary. I don't think either of us are drunk enough to deal with this. "Virtus?"

He leans down, and immediately, his lips are on mine. My brain is on fire. My heart may just ignite along with it. My hands are in his hair like that is exactly where they always should have been, and one of his hands trails down to my leg. 

For a few moments I forget about everything, I forget about who I am, I forget about who he is. I forget who I'm supposed to be to him, and who he's supposed to be to me.

We are just two people, one boy, one girl.

A girl.

His hand moves into my shirt and I tense, and he does too. He senses my immediate discomfort and stops.

If his hand moves any closer to my chest he's going to know.

Panic seizes me, and I do the only think my half-drunk brain convinces me is the correct thing to do.

I shove him off me.

He quickly moves back, and we stay there, sitting on his bed staring at each other wide-eyed. Both of us are breathing heavy as if internally, we were both equally terrified.

Gathering my senses, I hop off his bed, reach for the light and shut it off, drowning us both in complete darkness. 

I hide myself in my own bed, under my own blankets, and hope that by the morning, my heart would stop racing, and the knowledge that he purposely got me drunk and bated me to make him angry enough to do what he just did, would completely be erased from my mind.