Dust Bones [Harry Styles]

054

I almost dropped the anxious attitude of mine when we came to rural regions. Having successfully escaped from my father (hopefully not temporarily), I knew we were back to some old habits. Yet, this time, I knew the truth. Again, hopefully.

"Relax," Harry advises with that monotone of his, which as a result does absolutely nothing to comfort me. Only agitates me further.

Regardless of his weak attempt, I turn my head and face the window. An hour flew by in the car and our current position was tranquil, more than usual.

Harry drives fully focused on the road. I depart my reckless thoughts and continue to stare out the car window.

"Cata," he speaks again. "I know that look on your face."

"This isn't a particular look," I respond without any hesitation. A sigh blows from my lips.

He heavily sighs, squeezing the steering wheel briefly. "Don't," he warns. It's all he says for a while, though. Neither of us speak due to the lack of energy. It's obvious he knows, I know, we both know we're just going to get into an argument of some sort with whatever topic comes up. I need none of that and neither does he.

Despite our lack of conversation, which I hoped wasn't permanent, he reaches for my hand and gives it a light squeeze. His attention remains on the road while his free hand entwines its fingers with mine.

I glance at him briefly, my eyes trailing down the seemingly doubtless side profile of his.

If I was going to survive, I had to realize this man is no longer just a guard, he is the man I'm in love with, and I don't plan on his death nor do I plan on mine.

The rural grounds were vast; fact that was made pretty evident throughout the four hour trip. By now, they should know we're gone.

Between impressively long grasses and tall trees, we hid the car pretty well in an attempt to remain isolated and completely unreachable.

Further down was a neglected brick house. The size was small, and it relieved me for once. Not other huge chamber of secret hallways and deception.

Grey chipped at the bricks, vines spiraled up the sides and the front. Harry walked before me, bag strapped on his right shoulder while the other gave the door knob a tight nudge.

When it didn't, he forced his foot against it, the latch falling apart instantly.

Inside, there are simple details. Old, dusted furniture. A faded floral couch and a coffee table. An old tea cup settled in pieces on the table.

Harry throws the bag onto the couch, pulling a pistol from his back pocket and unloading it, setting it carefully onto the coffee table.

"How long are we going to be here?" I ask lowly, shutting the door behind me. The lock was useless and in two pieces now.

"Five, six hours," he responds, unzipping the bag to reveal guns after guns. Weaponry sure was abundant. "The flight is in six hours. I got it exactly six hours from now, considering there's still much we need to find out before we even think of leaving Italy. We've got six hours. Possibly eight before they find us."

I nod slowly, crossing over my chests before I let my eyes roam the dull setting. "How'd you know about this place?"

He continues to sift through the guns. "It was three days before I got assigned to your father. I was eight at the time, and I was still in training. My first knife wound happened here."

My eyebrows furrow, frown intact. "Harry...you were eight years old," I say softly, something along the lines of heartache was surging inside of me. "Eight year olds don't get knife wounds...they fall from slides and trip over their own feet."