Silva

Chapter Ten

• Silva •

—

I stayed the night. I don't know what overcame me, but I wasn't going to leave her alone.

Those bruises irk me, ridicules my inability to protect her, and rouses livid retaliation to quash the cretin who harmed her.

It's only a matter of time before I find whoever hurt Irisa.

The city has cameras everywhere, the man has nowhere to hide. Even if the police have a copy of the video feed, it's not a difficult hurdle for a hacker to break into.

I don't trust the police, and I have legitimate reasons not to. Their file on me can implement the death penalty or life imprisonment. I hope they don't underestimate my preference for freedom.

I can't keep an eye out for Irisa if I'm rotting behind rusted bars.

When did I become her protector?

"Good morning," Irisa mumbles, blinking away the sleep haze.

She looks lost, and that strings together a protective instinct I didn't know I was capable of having.

My eyes linger on her creamy bare thighs as I curl my hand around the mug of disgusting coffee to stop the desire to touch.

It's flavorless, but it's all I could find in her bare minimum apartment. Privacy is not a concern for me to breach; I want to know things about her that not even her closest friends know.

Does she have them?

I didn't see a single picture. Not of friends, family, or even herself.

The walls are bare, a shelf storing books on the psychology of humans, and one set of necessities in the kitchen. If I thought my home was minimalistic, then her apartment must be an interior catalog.

"Breakfast?" she asks while scratching the dull redness on her jaw.

I set the mug down and stand from the chair. The book on how to find the journey of happiness abandons beside the steaming mug.

My spine cracks as my tense muscles stretch lethargically. The sofa was uncomfortable, but it's not the worst I've managed.

I tower over her, shielding the sun from her eyes as she squints tiredly. The littering bruises call for me to trace the slight quiver and find a way to touch those pretty lips.

A moment of weakness swallows me as my knuckle grazes the thin skin, nudging her face to the side to examine the discoloration better.

"Still hurts?" I question.

She doesn't answer right away. That silent moment is short but also painstakingly long with too many rapid changes on her face. It starts with a blank canvas, a second of remembrance, a swift rise of complicated expressions, and then her face relaxes with a sweet smile.

That harrowing moment confuses me.

Everything was normal, but my gut refuses to accept it.

"Not so much," she says softly. "The ice helped last night."

The bruises on her arm are gone while the one on her delicate jawline is beginning to fade. Whoever hit her didn't have adequate force to give it the severity that mine did.

I almost feel proud. Almost.

I'm not that much of a sadist.

"Was I snoring last night?" she asks abruptly.