I Would Kill For You

8. Fire Melts Ice

Maybe he wasn't even on the second floor. He could have been anywhere.

I headed to the bathroom, wiped the smudges of mascara underneath my bottom lids and sprayed my face with cold water. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My hair wasn't as curly as it had been when I first entered the house, but it still looked good. I was slightly run-down and my eyelids felt really heavy. Maybe it was because of the difference in the intensity of light between rooms. Or because of the amount of alcohol I had ingested. The thought set the effect in motion.

The world around me started to spin like I was on a ship carried by the waves of the ocean, far, far away. I rubbed my forehead in hope of staunching the dizziness and got out of the bathroom. If I could just find an empty room with a bed and lie down...It wasn't like I could face Damian in this state anyway.

I inspected the large hall and the six closed doors. I wondered if Avery and her gang were in one of them. If they were, I really hoped I wouldn't run into them. I should've let Devon come with me. Now I was tipsy, disoriented and really, really sleepy.

"Did he finally step on your foot?"

The sardonic, familiar voice made me jump like a scared cat, a glacial frisson running down my spine. I exhaled loudly, turning to my interlocutor with an irritated look.

"Good Lord, Damian! You almost gave me a heart attack!" I hissed indignantly, placing a palm on my chest to calm down. I didn't even hear him creep up on me.

"I tend to have that effect on people." he affirmed seriously, inspecting my face. I couldn't read him. His expression didn't betray any emotion, any thought. He was sedate, bland, untouchable. Like an ice sculpture that never melted, no matter how powerful the sunrays were.

I glared at him, but I could feel my cheeks flushing under his intense scrutiny. It was hard to keep up my fierce facade when he looked at me that way. Like I was nothing and at the same time, everything. I started to feel self-conscious as a tensed silence floated between us. Why was he looking at me like that? Did he think I was pretty? Was he judging me behind that beautiful, but unsentimental mask? His lower lip was slightly swollen, where Devon had hit him three days ago. I suddenly remembered that he cut his hand recently with the glass shards. His left hand was tightened into a fist.

I approached him and noticed that with every step I took towards him, his body tensed up. I avoided his eyes and reached for his injured hand. He didn't move at all. I took his fist into my hand gently.

For the first time, his skin was warmer than mine. I turned his fist so his palm would be upwards, and I unclenched his fingers. He let me. I could feel his sight on me, delving deep into my innermost, but I didn't let that intimidate me. The cut on his hand wasn't deep, but it was more than just a scratch. It extended obliquely on his hand, almost parallel with the head line on his palm.

"You need to have this cleaned up. Come on." I said professionally, although I had no idea where I was going. He didn't protest or say anything. Perhaps it was my firm and adamant tone, but he followed me without a word.

I almost tripped once, but I quickly regained my balance. I chose a random door and opened it hesitantly. The light was off, and apparently, there wasn't anyone inside. I groped the wall for a light switch, but I couldn't find it. I heard Damian clear his throat as if to disguise a chuckle, and he leant forward, turning the light on right away.

The room was actually a spacious bedroom. Based on the double bed, practical wooden furniture and the solemn atmosphere of it, I presumed it belonged to Devon's parents. It was cosy and tidy. Damian closed the door behind us. I looked around and located another door that lead to a small bathroom.