The Pretty Psycho (St. Vasili’s Academy #2)

11. Vega

11

VEGA

I was tired.

Shattered.

Completely destroyed.

I had a feeling that the adrenaline riding me wouldn't last too much longer. I was surprised it even lasted this far. The moment I stopped crying, Adrian stood up with me in his arms and started putting that goddamn shampoo on my hair, then rinsing it and then doing the same process again with the conditioner. With every touch, every kiss, it felt as if those scattered pieces of my soul started drawing back together, remolding, held by the force that was Adrian Zylla.

I could feel his hardness every time he brushed against me, and every time I wanted to do something about it. But we both knew I wasn't ready and he didn't push. His eyes sought permission with every touch he gave me, with every stroke of his fingers over my skin, and I didn't fail to notice that he hadn't gone anywhere near the initials on my hip.

He didn't ask questions I wasn't ready to answer, giving me time to come to terms with everything on my own. But he was there, he was holding me up when all I wanted was to drown in the memories haunting my mind.

The plush towel he wrapped me in was still around me even after he deposited me on the bed. He quickly dried himself off and changed his pants, before coming back to me. He then dried my hair at a slow pace, avoiding the cut on the back of my neck.

The brush he mentioned was now in his hand, gliding slowly through my hair, while we sat in silence, mulling over the things that had happened.

My chest was exploding with old and new emotions, with things I wanted to tell him, but I knew I had to start at the beginning.

"I was just a child when The Schatten took me in," I whispered. He suddenly stopped brushing my hair, taking a deep breath. I had to do this now or I would never get another chance. "My mom was taken to prison when I was just five years old. She killed a man. Turns out he was not her first or second, but the last of dozens. I had no idea why, and I would never know. Well, I know why she killed that last one, but the others," I shrugged, "I have no idea. That's why it was so easy for me to accept The Schatten. That's why it was so easy for them to brainwash me into the mindless monster I was, willing to do everything they ever wanted me to." He placed the brush down next to my hip and wrapped his arms around my middle, avoiding my ribs as he pulled me to him.

His chest pressed against my back, giving me the strength to continue.

"I was twelve years old when Tyler came to the organization. He was larger than life, so sure of himself and older than me. He was the brother I never had and I looked up to him, wanting to be him one day. He left for the Academy when I was thirteen and he never came back." I closed my eyes, remembering the cracks appearing all over my heart when I figured out he would never return.

I mourned that motherfucker only for him to do this to me.

"Tyler," I stammered, realizing this was harder than I thought it would be. "Tyler is the one who kidnapped me, Adrian." His entire body froze, his arms tightening, banding around me. I placed my injured right hand on top of his, needing more than just his arms around me to continue. "Tyler raped me."

Adrian grunted, burying his face in my hair. "He was deranged, completely unhinged. H-He…" My voice broke. "He killed those girls on campus. I have no idea why, but he has something against you. I don't understand, because I know he's older than you."

"I can assure you, Vega, I have never met him. I mean, I don't know what he looks like, obviously, but I don't remember anyone named Tyler. Was he at the Academy while I was here?"

"No." I shook my head. "I doubt you ever even crossed paths. But as per The Schatten, your brother was here at the same time. That’s all I know."

“I wish I knew more, baby,” he mumbled. “I wish I could tell you what happened to Dain and if the two of them ever knew each other, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

I turned around and wrapped my arms around his neck, chuckling at the frown on his face. "I'm not done brushing your hair."

"It can wait."

"But—"

"I'm tired, Adrian," I said, pressing my cheek against his bare chest. He had sweatpants on now, straining against his thick thighs. I didn't want to talk about Tyler or anything at all. It hurt, not because he destroyed me, but because the trust I had in him had vanished the moment I realized he was the one who took me.

"I know, baby," Adrian murmured, cradling my head. "I know. But I still need to check those wounds and we need to talk."

"Do we have to?"

He laughed. "We do. You need your hand, and I bet it's hurting something fierce." It did, but I didn't want to say it out loud, because the pain in my hand kept getting overpowered by the pain in my heart. "Come on," he moved away, taking with him the warmth I was craving. "This will be quick."

He jumped off the bed and disappeared into the kitchen area, coming back a few minutes later with a small box that had the first aid symbol on it. His lean body pressed against mine as he sat down and I scooted closer, craving his nearness like an addict craving their next fix.

It was easier fighting through the mud in my mind with him nearby. I breathed easier. I wanted to overcome this because I knew he would be here with me.

He took my hand in his, glaring at the angry red slash on top of it, breathing heavily. "I hate him," he suddenly said, closing his eyes. "I hate him for doing this to you."

"It's nothing I'm not used to," I lied, which we both knew. I was used to cuts, scrapes, and bruises. I was used to getting beaten and beating others, but I wasn't used to this hollowness in my soul. I wasn't used to this kind of pain.

I’d tried so hard over the course of my life to be careful, to never get myself into a situation that would have this kind of an outcome.

He exhaled slowly and popped open the first aid box, pulling out a cream tube and opening it. He placed my hand on his knee, positioning the tube on top of the cut and pushing out the contents on my skin. I winced when the cold cream touched my burning skin. "The doctor said you were lucky," Adrian murmured, spreading the cream over the cut. "Tyler, or whatever the fuck his name is, missed the bones when he stabbed you." But I didn't feel lucky.

I didn't feel lucky at all.

My hand hurt. I could barely move it right now, especially after that stint in the hospital. I didn’t want to show it, I didn’t want him to know, but it hurt more than anything else on my body right now.

"It almost looks as if they didn’t stitch it," I said, mesmerized by the way his fingers spread the cream over my skin.

"No," he rumbled. "Well, not entirely. They stitched it loosely, because they had no idea how long ago you sustained this injury, and they couldn’t risk an infection."

"Tyler poured alcohol on it," I said, remembering the burn, the shame, the need to disappear. "He thought he was doing me a favor."

"That might be the only good thing he did," Adrian bit out, and I didn't miss the way his hand shook as he rubbed the cream into my skin. "You'll have to take it slow." He looked up at me. "This needs to heal."

"Hmm," I mumbled, not exactly agreeing but also not disagreeing.

"Vega," he warned. "Promise me you'll take it slow."

"You know I can't promise that. From what I saw, you need me. You need everyone."

"I do, but I need you to be okay more than anything else. I need you to stay safe, to heal. I won't be able to focus on anything else if I have to continuously think about you and worry." My eyes narrowed at him, hating the way his words were making me feel.

"I'm not a child, Adrian," I grumbled, trying to pull my hand away from him, but he wasn't having it.

His long fingers wrapped around my wrist, stopping me from leaving. He didn't let me hide earlier, so it was no surprise that he wouldn't let me run. Not now, probably not ever.

"You don't have to worry about me," I sassed, trying to hide from the feelings he was creating. I never had anyone to care about me.

This was alien to me, having someone to worry, to care enough to ask me to be safe. My first reaction would always be to run and hide from the feelings I couldn't control, because more than anything, I needed that control. Maybe because it was the only thing I could actually control, these feelings of mine. Maybe because for so long I kept pushing everything I didn't want to feel into that neat little box, hiding it from myself.

And then he came, opening that box, spilling all the contents, and I didn't know how to put them back inside.

He pushed himself closer to me, placing his hand at the nape of my neck, just above the cut there, tangling his fingers in my hair. "What did I say about running, huh?" he asked, pressing his forehead to mine. "I worry about you. I will always worry about you because that's what you do for people you care about. I was out of my mind, Bambi, while you were missing, and I. Didn't. Like. It." Our breaths mingled, our eyes telling the story the words could not convey. "You consume me, woman. You consume every waking thought, every dream, every nightmare, and I could never forgive myself if something were to happen to you. I know you're strong on your own, but did you maybe think that I wasn't strong enough without you?" My heart thundered, bruising my ribs. "I need you like I need the air to breathe. You're in every song, every lyric, every thought of mine, and I won't apologize for asking you to stay safe. To heal. To become stronger, because I. Need. You. I need my Bambi. I need my girl to be okay, because I'm not okay when she's hurting.

"Now let me dress these wounds so that I can feed you. I'm tired, baby girl. Tired of fighting, of arguing, of worrying, and all I want is a quiet night in with my girl. Can we have that? Just a few hours where it's going to be only the two of us without anyone else trying to interfere?"

"Uh, yeah. We can have that."

"Good." He smirked. Had I not been sitting already, I would've been on the floor right now. "Give me your hand." He looked up at me, smiling wickedly. "Please." He was going to give me a heart attack.

Was it possible to die of heart failure at the age of twenty with no prior heart conditions? Because the way mine kept beating wasn't normal. And the butterflies. Don't fucking get me started on the butterflies.

I always thought them to be a myth created by authors all over the world, because people used romance books to escape from their real lives, to just live a different life for those couple of hours while they read. But the way he looked at me, the way he talked to me now, the way he touched me… It didn't give me butterflies. It was like a stampede of elephants were in my stomach, knocking my organs around.

He worked in silence, bandaging my hand, before shifting behind me, moving my hair over my shoulder and putting the same cream on the cut on my neck. "This one should heal quickly," he murmured, his hot breath washing over my skin. "Does it hurt?"

"No." Yes . It hurt more because it seemed to hurt him as well. He was telling me everything I needed to hear, but the distrustful part of me couldn't quite believe it. Not yet. But I would need to try.

This was the man I wanted by my side, and I had to stop letting the darkness dictate how I lived my life.

His fingers skimmed over my shoulders, digging into the aching muscles, pulling out a deep groan from me. "Fuuuuck."

He grunted, continuing to massage while his lips traced a path over my shoulders. "Relax, Bambi," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."

And I did. I closed my eyes, letting him have his wicked way with me. I pushed away the fears and doubts and just let myself be. Feel. Be cherished.

God knew I had nowhere near enough of that throughout my life.

"That feels so good," I mewled as he dug into a particularly painful spot on my back. The bastard chuckled while my entire body turned liquid, and I couldn't even be mad at him for laughing at me. He couldn't really blame me—his hands were fucking dangerous.

One second I was in front of him, enjoying my massage, and the next he was jumping off of the bed and heading toward the kitchen. My eyes flew open, confused, while I tried figuring out what happened.

He grumbled something unintelligible as he went into the kitchen, moving the pots and pans from the dishwasher.

"W-What… Come back here!" I complained because I was nowhere near ready for that massage to end. "Adrian!"

"Fuck!" he cursed out loud as something crashed, making me jump. I leaned toward the end of the bed, having a better view of the kitchen. "Sorry, Bambi," he started apologizing, looking down at the plate that crashed. My eyes drank him in, shocking myself when the deep ache in the pit of my stomach had nothing to do with the pain in my body, but the need for him.

I wanted him to erase the memories Tyler left behind. I wanted him to erase his touch, his filthiness, because even after the shower we took, I still felt filthy. As if my skin wasn't my own anymore.

Adrian glared at the broken shards on the floor, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"I'll help."

I started moving off of the bed at a snail's pace, when he barked, "No!" I looked up to see him now glaring at me. "You're barefoot and I don't want you cutting yourself."

"But—"

"No, Vega. Stay put. I got this." Oh, he got it all right.

He moved, giving me the side view of his body, and I suddenly realized why he jumped off the bed as if the hounds of hell were chasing him.

Adrian wanted me something fierce, and he respected me enough not to do anything about it. Not yet.

But I wasn't gonna wait too long. I wasn't gonna let Tyler steal this from me too.

So I pulled my feet up and wrapped my arms around my legs, placing my chin on top of my knees as I watched him work in the kitchen. "So," I started. "You play piano, you cook, you're able to fight," I sighed. "Is there anything you're not able to do?"

He looked at me over his shoulder, ignoring the broken shards of the plate he had in front of him. "I'm not your Prince Charming, Vega," he grumbled, as if he wasn't happy by that fact. "I'm not perfect."

"Oh, I know. Trust me. You punched me the first time you saw me."

"The second time," he said.

"What?"

"I punched you the second time I saw you. The first time I saw you I wanted to take you from that train and run far, far away."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because you looked like you would chop off my balls if I even tried." He smiled, making me laugh.

"I probably would've."

"But yeah, I'm not a good guy, babe. I'm more of a villain, but I'm fine with it. I'm fine being the villain as long as I have you." Something tightened around my heart because this man who'd tended to my wounds and held me as I cried truly thought he was the villain.

He had no idea that I would rather have him the way he was, even as angry as I was, than some Prince Charming, some so-called good guy, because those types would never lift me up over their shoulder and carry me to their cabin because I refused to go with them in the first place.

A prince would never destroy the world for me, and something told me Adrian had no problem destroying everything just to have me.