.Perfect Fantasy. |H.S.|

Chapter 29. Scars & Souvenirs.

.Natalia.

"Let's just, not assume... look at you, you're already upset." Harry mumbled, an unsettling tone matching his voice and the soft glow of his eyes, the subtle light of the room enhancing his features as his tongue made a tiny move to lick his lips. I sat there in silence while every beat of my heart counted my time processing this whole conversation.

Something inside me needed to know exactly what was being said, I felt I was about to turn into a shaky, frightened-out-of-my-mind ball of anxiety. So with a mind full of questions and a heart filled with fright, I turned in my seat, surprising him as I stayed awfully close to his side of the couch, not wanting to miss a thing.

"And the letters?" I asked him suddenly. He encased my wrist in his long, slim fingers and moved his head slightly in negation, like not wanting to go there. "I really want to know about those."

He sighed, as his fingers played then with mine, they looked even longer without his rings, the soft warm skin playing a small comfort on my nerves.

"Mum freaked out on those so bad," He smiled as he said it, but there was a gleam of cold steel behind his thin smile. "I figured out at some point that the person wanted to just ramble on about some weird... obsession..." He spoke at once, sternly and briefly, before I had time to open my mouth once again.

"There must be a motive, though." My voice shivered as I felt like interrupting that part. "Well yeah, I'm obsessed with medicine, but that doesn't mean I'm going to be cutting people with scalpels to satisfy some insane and deep desire, this feels like something way darker... like some serious serial killer material."

"If her purpose was to kill me, she would've done it, that day."

"It's still twisted, Harry, she probably has a mental illness..." The tips of my fingers were now tracing his own; his hands were gentle and I was silently using it as a diversion for him to carry on with this midnight talk. I had a really bad habit of writing on things when I was upset, sometimes I used a pen to write on my arms or hands and sometimes I used my fingers to trace words everywhere. Now distractedly I began to trace words on Harry's fingers, and I couldn't think of anything else but the warmth that seeped from his skin to mine. "The one in my suitcase, what was the message?"

His expression said it all, "You will regret it."

Oh wow, what the fuck.

I took a deep, meditative inhale—the kind I used just before going into the O.R. or when I was about to handle a difficult patient—and let it out slowly, almost shakily. "But if she... if it was... that was meant for me."

He stared at me, his eyes finding focus as he licked his lips slowly again, deliberately trying to diverse the message intended, "Don't take it so literal, it could be only for me."

"No, no, Harry." My mind began to race once again. I was for sure touching some fibers, and just the thought alone scared the shit out of me. "You don't understand... I am not helping the situation, what if she is raging mad about me being here? What if she wants to get back at me for this?"

"I don't think..."

"She knows I'm here." Worry washed all over me, and my voice, the bitterness rising. "I've heard her talk, she has this delusion of people taking you away from her."

He simply nodded and with a last gentle squeeze, released my hand. "You see? This is why I wanted to keep this all for myself." After that, he stayed quiet a couple more minutes, until I had no choice but to lift my head so I could study his expression, and what I saw in his eyes wasn't horror or outrage, but genuine concern.