Knowing that he’ll undoubtedly come looking for me if I take too long, I don’t linger and just clean up, padding over to the basin.
Not finding any soap, I open the mirrored cupboard in front of me in search of some—only there’s a different bottle that catches my eye.
I wash up and then grab the smaller bottle, reading the label of the sleeping pills that have been prescribed to Nikolas Deimos.
I guess it makes sense that anyone with a soul that dark, after all the things he’s done, has trouble sleeping at night.
Before I think better of it, I untwist the top and tip four of the small white pills into my hand.
The label says take no more than one, but fuck it. The guy fucking drugged me in his car after shooting my boyf— No. Ant was never my boyfriend. But he could have been. If it weren’t for our blood, our families. We could have been everything. Had everything.
Another sob threatens to erupt, but I swallow it down. The time for my inevitable breakdown is coming. But first, I need to get the hell out of here and away from that… that monster.
Dropping the pills into the pocket of his shirt, I finger brush my hair and splash some water on my face.
His eyes are barely open when I step back into the bedroom.
“Angel,” he murmurs, holding his arm out for me to rejoin him.
“I’m just going to get a drink. Would you like anything?” I ask, hoping like hell his sweet side won’t come out and offer to go and get it for me.
“There’s a bottle of Fanta in the fridge. The glasses are to the right of the sink.”
Perfect.
With a nod, I spin on the balls of my feet and rush out of the room and set about my mission.
Thankful that he’s a good cook, I locate his rolling pin quickly and I’m able to crush the pills on the counter before dropping them into one of the drinks. I stir it, careful not to make too much noise. Once I’m confident that it’s dissolved enough in the bubbles, I pick them both up and head back to his room.
“Here,” I say, crawling onto the bed and passing him the drink I’ve laced with his crushed sleeping pills.
My heart thunders in my chest as I wait for him to take his first sip.
He lifts the glass to his mouth, and I swear I actually stop breathing.
But right before the glass hits his lips, he pulls it back again.
My entire body trembles with nerves.
If this hasn’t worked, if he suspects anything, I am so fucked.
Totally fucked.
I realise in that moment as he stares into my eyes that letting him take my V-card probably wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
Thisis.
Because even if it works, when he wakes up, he’s going to be gunning for me.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers before lifting the glass once more and downing the lot in one.
If I weren’t on the verge of a panic attack then I might even be impressed at his ability to neck a fizzy drink quite so fast.
When he’s downed all but the last couple of millimetres, he looks into the glass with his brows pulled tight as I sip at mine.
“That tastes funky. It was a new bottle, right?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile onto my lips before taking another, bigger sip. “Yeah, I see what you mean,” I lie, screwing up my nose and placing my glass on the bedside table.