Page 170 of The Wicked
Whenever Manuel looked at me, all I saw was controlled obsession, lust, care, and anger.
There was also lust in Elio’s stare, but that wasn’t really what was shown. It was something else.
He looked at me like I was something shiny and new, something worth looking at. The awe in his eyes didn’t exactly spell care, but it gave the definition of wonder and curiosity. Like he wanted to know me, sink into my head, and decipher my thoughts gradually.
He looked at me like I was the only thing in this room that could keep his attention.
Those eyes, intense and beautiful, looked so soft right now. It made me want to confide in him, tell him every secret I’d kept hidden since I could make sense of this world. I knew he wouldn’t judge; I knew he would listen.
But I still held back. I was willing to give him my body and nothing else.
“I’m listening, Sport; ask your question.”
The space was warm between us, and I could hear him breathing, just as I was sure he heard me.
“I couldn’t help but notice your tattoos. Are those your family?”
“Yes.” He answered with no subtle blink to show he was lying, no hesitation, no hiding; he just blurted it like he was prepared for my questions.
“Your mom—I thought you stabbed her to death; why was she in the fire?”
“Because she was.”
I frowned. “I don’t understand, didn’t you—kill her?”
He didn’t respond; he just stared.
I bit my bottom lip, rephrasing my statement and testing a theory I had about him. He never responded to assumptions. Only questions.
“Did you stab your mother to death?” I asked.
“No.”
I pressed more with another question. “Did she burn in that fire?”
“Yes.”
I nodded. “Why did you set them on fire?”
No response.
I realized I had assumed while asking the question—this man.
“Did you do it? Did you kill your family?”
He swallowed, eyes searching mine as the silence after I’d asked that question lengthened. I knew he wasn’t taking his time because he was thinking of a lie. The look in those tormented eyes told me he wouldn’t like to continue this topic of conversation. I was about to tell him it was okay until he spoke.
“No. I didn’t kill my family.” His voice sounded gruffer, deeper, rough.
It sent a pang straight to my chest.
“Then why don’t you tell people the truth?”
“No one has ever asked.”
I had the strongest urge to shift even closer to him. “So… why do you tell people that you did.”
His jaw clenched and unclenched. “I have never told anyone I killed my family, Zahra.”
