Obsessed to Hate Him Chapter 33: Trauma

KIAN

It ran longer than I anticipated. etings with my father have always drained and have always pushed to my edge. This is nothing new. But it doesn’t an the ntal pain he gives doesn’t feel physical every ti I see him. He just pulls into the strings that I always try to tuck away. He rips open my wounds and rubs salt so effectively that it lingers and seeps into my bones until it tornts my sleep away from .

"I told you not to involve yourself with such cases." His sharp blue eyes narrow on , clashing with mine. He is not a good-looking man. But he has a sharp appearance and an air of authority that I sohow managed to master.

"I did not involve myself with such a troubleso case, Father." I return calmy, the noose around my throat tightening, squeezing.

"Do not lie to , Kian." His voice drops to a dangerousdecibel, "You asked for my thoughts on the mission. I forbade you, so you took matters into your own hands. Now look at the ss you have created. The military parliant has beco restless. Norlen is offended."

I am wise enough not to answer to him.

"And aside from that, I thought you could accomplishthe matter smoothly, I did not expect...such an explosion from you." A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and my stomach does a flip thing. "How disappointing. I thought you could do better than this. It appears that keeping expectations from you only brings inevitable disappointnts.

"In any case, you have done what you have done." Heleans onto the backrest of the couch leisurely, the small smirk is an identifiable smile, "I just want to remind you that I brought you to power, and I also have the power to drag you down, son. So, I do hope that you will be more mindful of what you do from now on and who you keep by your side." His smile widens as he notices the slight paleness of my perfectly fine face.

He knows.

The noose tightens, and I can’t breathe; red fills my vision, and the thundering sound of my palpitating pulse fills my earbuds.

"Yes, Father." I sound robotic. I don’t care.

I am so grateful that Jennifer interrupted us after that. She knows just how badly my Father’s presence traumatizes . After every eting, I couldn’t sleep for days. I get addicted to coffee—which I already am. My system overloads with caffeine until my eyes are red and my temper as rotten as a corpse after it was left alone for days.

I bite the underside of my cheek until the taste of copper floods into my mouth. I clench my fist so tightly that I am pretty sure that the veins there will pop any mont now. My nails dig into my flesh over my dark gloves. I let out a disgusted grunt as I feel the damp fabric clings to my palm and blood trickles down.

I need release and I know where to look. I run my still-fine hand over my hair and knock firmly on Lain’s door. I had told him to go to his room in hopes that my father wouldn’t find out about him. But who was I kidding? He knows. He always knows.

Lain is my prey. I would be damned if anyone lied even a feather on him. The lone thought makes my blood boil, and anger floods my vision.

"Cherry," I call out. I am surprised by how calm I sound despite the storm within .

I hear footsteps approach, and there is a soft click, then the door swings open. Lain is standing on the other side of the door. Looking like his most adorable and flawless self ever. There is a hint of surprise in those green eyes.

Sothing floods through my mind and body. Relief? Maybe. But why? I don’t know. At the mont I feel so vulnerable that I almost ask him, ’Can I hold you?’.

Oh, Gods...I must be losing my mind.

Lain’s eyes flit to my bleeding hand, "What’s wrong with your hand?" He asks, morbid curiosity.

I let out a humorless chuckle and lift my hand, "I cut it. Accidentally." I add as his gaze snaps to , a frown creasing his perfect brown eyebrows.

"You should do sothing about the blood." He points at the big beads of blood dripping down from my black-gloved hand.

"Do it for ." My words are emotionless, and so is my face. I am sure that I resemble a lifeless, perfect statue of the greatest artist who made his greatest creation.

I don’t know what, but Lain sees sothing in my eyes and just acknowledges with a curt nod. He lets in, gestures to sit on his bed, and takes out a box full of dicines from under his bedfra.

"Show your hand." He takes a seat beside and I give him my hand.

He takes off my glove and cleans my rough, callous hand of blood. He applies a dicine and then starts to wrap gauze on my hand. The blood stains the white gauze, but it eventually stops. I observe him do the process. I don’t dare blink.

Funny how carefully he takes care of the wound of the person he eventually plans to kill at the end.

I fist and unfist my hand as I examine the blood-strained gauze wrapped around my hand neatly. It’s almost, no, I am certain that Lain trained to apply first aid in the worst situations.

"How did your eting with your father?" Lain speaks, breaking the thick silence between us.

My jaw ticks and I clench my wounded fist, snapping a few healing veins and starting the blood flow again.

"What are you doing?" Lain exclaims, alard, reaching for my hand. But I pull my hand away and grab his wrist with my perfectly fine one.

I squeeze his wrist as I pull him closer until there are barely a few inches left between our faces. He gasps.

"Pack your things. You are moving to my bedroom."