His finger lightly touches the bottom of my chin, and he pushes my face upwards so that I'm looking into his eyes. Eyes that are solely on my lips.
I can't help it. I bite them.
"Oh, Delta," he whispers, quietly giggling under his breath. His laugh...
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XAVIER
Hands cuffed to a table, I can't really do anything besides slap myself. Now that I think about it, that's certainly something I deserve.
Between punching my dad in the face, going missing for over a week, and calling out Delta, I could really use a good beating.
I've been in this fucking room for so long that I'm probably bathing in my own skin cells. The air smells sour and musky, claustrophobia wraps its fingers around my throat, making it harder to breathe.
I fist a hand through my hair, but I'm not able to do much because my wrists are currently tied to a table with chains.
Wanting to swear and wanting to scream are the exact same things if you think about it: screaming too loud can hurt you, and swearing too much can hurt someone else.
Eyeing the camera in the corner of the room, I flash my middle finger to whoever is on the other side of it, barely satisfied with myself for acting out on anger.
Wait. I hear something on the other side of the door. Voices? If I wasn't cuffed up, I would pummel the shit out of whoever put me in this place.
My head jerks upwards when I hear the creaking sound of a metal door opening, revealing a short old man dressed in a suit. A suitcase is hooked to his arm, and he comes into the room with a flustered look on his face, his hair tasselled and unclean.
Not what I expect from a man like him.
"First human I've seen in a while," I half-joke, half-spit. My eyes lurk to his.
He laughs, and I think it's genuine. "Very funny young man. You've got quite the humour."
"Fuck off."
He palms his chest as if hurt, but I know he couldn't care less about my words, and that makes me angry.
"Wow," he says. "Tough crowd."
"Why am I here?" I grumble, angrily placing a finger to the table. "I don't know what I did to get stuck in this place. The policestation? Really?"
He tosses his suitcase towards me, watching it slide to the other end of the table.
"You went missing for ten days. Your father has been calling the department for over half of them, swearing and screaming at us to find you. Don't you think you might deserve a little of what you're getting?" he states, his tone 100% serious.
My growls of protest can be heard, echoing through the small room like a canyon. The only reason I ever thought I'd get cuffed to a table was if someone ever found out I box — or rather, I'm allegedly involved in a boxing circuit.
