𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 [𝟏𝟖+] ✔

46

Sitting on the veranda that overlooks the grass-less garden with Ains, we watch as all the men train on an assault course that Eric set up at the back of the manor. He's standing on the side with Gareth, strapping him tightly into a harness, so he can hold him up while he tries to take steps.

I remember when I first met Gareth. The young, chatty guy with the blinding smile. He had to escort me to the manor from work and did not shut the hell up the entire way. I remember his cocky attitude, the attempts to get a rise from Eric by flirting with me.

Gareth used to be pretty forward, didn't care that he was getting threats left, right, and centre from his boss.

The irritating sexual jokes and innuendoes stopped when we became friends and he met Ains, which, funnily enough, was around the same time he started to take care of the house. Dishes were done, clothes weren't strewn across his unbrushed bedroom floor, as if he'd wanted the place to be tidy for when he snuck her in without my knowledge.

Which I still don't get. Why sneak around behind my back? I wouldn't have been mad at Ainsley. I didn't have a leg to stand on if I had been. I guess I kept things from her too, and it did take me a while to tell her about me and Eric fooling around, even though he basically already told her.

Eric...

He killed Gareth's dad, and made sure some of the children of his targets got a place here in the dome, because he felt... bad? Regretful? I don't know.

Wait. Gareth can't be Mark, can he?

He called him a cripple and said he would move on to Ainsley. So it surely can't be him, right? This means that Mark is most likely one of the kids that had been saved.

And now he wants revenge for what was done to his murderous, monstrous father. Oh, and having some strange fantasies of fucking me just adds to the mix.

I shiver at the thought as an ice-cold bolt shoots up my spine.

Ever since the Christmas dance four days ago, my mind has been reeling, in complete overdrive as I try to figure out what to do next. The music had cut off before we could speak more, before I could tell him I loved him too. I couldn't ask who Mark was or that he'd been sending me threatening messages.

When we left the dancefloor, Eric's hand ghosting the small of my back, my dad had given us a quizzical look. I'm certain he was trying to figure out why we were so comfortable with each other. He'd given me a once over with confused eyes, taking in my blush that heated my face and the silence that overtook the main table. He'd dragged Eric into the bathroom while we tidied up, before saying goodbye to us all.

Dad hasn't spoken a word to me since. I've still not had a chance away from cameras and bands to ask what the hell was said.

Not being able to talk is crap. I have so much to say to Eric, so much to tell him. My attempts have all failed so far.

I mean, it's not like we haven't been sneaking the stroke of our fingers when we pass each other. And when Eric trains me, I feel how hard it makes him, so I intentionally squirm up against his hardening bulge while pretending to try to get free. I even allowed him to deck me numerous times so I could feel his body on mine, to feel his weight pressing me into the mats. Once, when we were breathless and me beneath him, he pressed his lips to my neck and bit into my skin, sucked so hard he left a red circle of bruised flesh I could hide with my top.

Yesterday, while Eric was in the shower, I played music loud enough to mess with my band and received a message from Mark almost instantly, telling me he knows what I'm doing, and for that, he'd go extra slow with me, that he'd make love to me until I fell for him.