Deviant King (Royal Elite #1) by Rina Kent

Nope, not going there.

I trudge to the bathroom and quietly close the door.

A gasp leaves my lips when I look at my face in the mirror. A mess is the understatement of the freaking century.

My eyes are bloodshot and puffy, it’s a miracle they’re still open. Strands of my blonde hair poke out of my head like antennas and tears have left streaks down my cheeks.

How did Aiden even look at me, let alone hold me to sleep? It’s my own face and I’m disgusted with it.

I open the faucet and splash water on my face. Weird. I don’t have that urge to scrub my hands clean. It’s usually the first thing I do after a nightmare.

After brushing my teeth and pulling my hair into a messy bun, I turn to leave the bathroom.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

Since it’s almost seven in the morning, I don’t have to guess who’d be checking in on me this early.

Aunt B: Morning, hon. It’s the weekend so you sleep in, okay? We’re still caught up so we might come back later tonight. I’ll be checking the boxes so don’t skip meals.

I stare at her text and contemplate what to reply.

Except that I don’t want to reply right now. It’s Saturday, so I’ll pretend to sleep in like she told me to.

Don’t you think you’re living your aunt and uncle’s lives, not yours?

I wish Kim never said those words because I can’t stop replaying them.

Yesterday’s nightmare reminded me of something I’ve always put on the backburner.

Like Aunt and Uncle’s reactions to my nightmares.

Why would Aunt Blair ask questions? Why did Uncle Jaxon kick her out?

It’s like they know more than they’re letting on.

The nightmares aren’t normal and they always follow the same pattern. In a basement. In water. In the dark.

They’ve been the same since I was seven.

Since my parents’ death.

I grip the counter as tendrils of fear shoot through my spine.

For ten years, I always thought that the past should stay where it belonged.

Aunt and Uncle offered me a new life, and the only way to embrace it was to erase any life I had prior to that.

But then again, ignoring it doesn’t mean it disappears.

With shaky fingers, I pull up google and type.

Fire in Birmingham ten years ago.

The first articles that come out are about a grand fire that happened in a copper factory.

Fifty people died on the spot, twenty in the hospital, and a dozen others followed after a few weeks.

It was a massive fire that shook the country and the government. The cause has been ruled as a negligent smoker and the case closed too soon.

I fall into a rabbit hole and study all the articles, comments, and even the interviews. A few workers said that Reggie, the one accused to have smoked inside the facility, never smoked inside. Not that Reggie can defend himself considering that he died on the spot.

I go back to the main search. It takes a few pages to find an article about a domestic fire.

My home.

No. My house. It feels weird to call it home.

The fire happened a week after the grand Birmingham fire.

My back leans against the counter as I read all the information I already know.

‘Stove Malfunction takes the life of a family. The only survivor is the daughter who had been outside by the lake.’

The lake.

‘The fire burned the house inside out and straight to the basement. The detectives found it hard to gather evidence.’

Basement.

‘The remains of Mr and Mrs Steel have been retrieved and identified.’

Remains.

I don’t know why I only keep seeing the technical details.

They say being burnt alive is the most painful death. I should feel something about the reminder that my parents died in so much pain.

However, I’m… disconnected. Probably because I don’t really remember them. But is that an excuse?

‘The only witness is Ms Steel — a seven year-old girl. She has been under attentive mental and physical care. The doctor said that Ms Steel lost all recollection of what happened. After further investigation, the police closed the case as a gas malfunction.’

I exit the article not wanting to read more. I don’t remember having a lake near our house or even a basement. But Aunt and Uncle made it clear that they were never taking me back to Birmingham.

Not that I wanted to. At least in the past. Now, I don’t know.

Am I ready to bury my head on the expense of having more nightmares?

I release a breath through my nose. I probably need to see Dr Khan again.

Once I exit the bathroom, I’m transfixed by Aiden’s frame on my bed. He’s still in the same position I left him in. His arm with the tattoo rests on the pillow as if I were still sleeping on it and his other arm is slumped on the bed as I left it.

Seems like he’s a heavy sleeper.

At this time on Saturday, I usually do some yoga.

Not today.

I tiptoe, lift Aiden’s arm and snuggle in the crook of his warm body. My head rests on his bicep. I’m becoming too addicted too fast to how it feels to be in his embrace.

I wrap my arm around his hard, defined midsection and push into him.

An unmistakable bulge stabs the bottom of my stomach.

I freeze.

This must be what’s called morning wood.

I wonder if it can get harder while he sleeps. I run a hand in front of his face, but there’s no response.