Arlan nudges his chin towards the left of me, where a hair tie lays on the tub.

"Put your hair up," He orders in a raspy tone.

I frown in annoyance. Him and his stupid hatred of my hair getting wet. I start to secure my hair into a high ponytail. His irises are cold as steel, a certain rigidness marred his features.

"I'm hard as fuck, but I'll let you relax," He murmurs

"How gracious of you," I mumble, resisting the need to roll my eyes. I finish off the ponytail.

"A good, subservient girl," Arlan praises. He adjusts himself from the torso-up in the water, droplets dripping from his tattoos. "How do you feel?"

"The water feels good," I mumble, ignoring my anxiety itching at me. "How was your flight," I bite.

Arlan's muscular arms lift from the water and rest on the sides of the tub as he tips his head back. His Adams Apple flexes as he talks.

"Fucking long. You drink at first, you know? To try to pretend you don't have sixteen hours ahead of you," A ring-covered hand rubs at the front of his neck, "But after getting drunk one or two times, you're just pissed and wanna go home. Even with the private jet and our own beds, you're just itching to go home."

I'm suddenly fully reminded of my hangover once he mentions his own drinking. My migraine isn't going away anytime soon. My mouth is so dehydrated, I want cold water. The hot bathwater is, at least, soothing.

"I'm hungry," I grumble absentmindedly, forgetting what he had even said. My head leans against the glass shower wall.

He peers his head back up to glance at me amusedly and smirk, cackling under his breath.

"Whiney, are we?" Arlan taunts.

I hug my forearms around my knees, placing my cheek against them.

"No..."

"The Chefs are preparing our meals, rest assured. I told them I would be coming back today."

"Why are you back today?" I place my chin in my arms so I can look at him. "Did you lie when you said it would you'd be gone for two days?"

"No, Dove. The trip got cut short. Everything we wanted worked itself out within a day, so there was no reason to stick around."

There is, actually - it's called letting me spend more time away from you.

Arlan leans forward and takes my ankle, pulling my body towards him. When our sides touch, he presses his forehead to mine.

"Besides, I went crazy without you," He murmurs, peering down at me.

His heated lips just barely brush mine in a feathering kiss. I'm admittedly surprised he's being slow, gentle, and above all - soft - rather than abrasive and needy. There's something sleepy and fragile about it, it's not overwhelming and breath stealing but almost a soothing motion, like one caressing your hair or your back. And I've never experienced this from him.

Arlan's heated, warm lips place open mouth kisses to my collarbone, neck, jaw, and cheek.

"Pretty girl," He mumbles, doting all over me with kisses. "Pretty, pretty, pretty girl."

When I begin to slightly squirm, he chuckles and stops. I sigh beneath my lips, head on his chest. It's momentarily quiet and I can hear my hangover head ache in my ears. I try to concentrate on the soothing water temperature instead so I don't release a groan. I don't need him finding out the real reason I'm home instead of at university.

"I got you something from Russia," Arlan murmurs gently.

"I don't need anything," I murmur back, shaking my head.

"Yes, you do, your lamb is absolutely ruined. I got you a new thing to cuddle with, it's a snow sheep."

My lips form a frown. With how much I cling to my lamb, I barely registered how deteriorated it had become. Come to think of it, it was quite rough and worn out. But I did not want to get rid of it and replace it; Weird as it may seem, the lamb has become quite comforting to me, since I've had it since I got here. Even though it's proof of how much Arlan has absolutely tortured me, I only wanted the lamb, not some stupid stuffed sheep from Russia.

I wouldn't even need a new stuffed animal if it wasn't for everything he'd done to me - but I doubt he can admit that or even comprehend that.

"Please don't throw out the lamb, I don't want the new one. I only want the lamb," I urge quietly.

Arlan chuckled darkly, his broad framed chest rumbling beneath me as he pressed a kiss to my forehead.

"Clingy thing. You can have both, Dove. In fact, I'm amazed I even stopped to pick up a fucking stuffed animal souvenir for you on a crime ridden mafia expedition. But whatever, I know you like them so..." He trails off when I start whining, squirming. My hangover is making me way too cranky.

"No, I don't want it - I only want the lamb, nothing else! And I wanna get out of the bath, I'm hungry, I'm tired," He grabs my shoulders.

"Don't be a brat," Arlan gently warns, teething into my neck. I whimper and still as he begins to mark me. "Be grateful when Sir gets you something," He mumbles against my neck, sinking his teeth further.

I shove away from him. My neck already feels tender and it must be purple now. God damn me for bruising so easily.

"Sorry that it's hard to accept a stuffed animal when you just slapped me across the face twice, Sir," I retort, moving away from him to the other side of the bath now. "And don't make some fucked up comment about me being 'too vanilla' to handle being slapped. Those were un-consented slaps, so even a nonvanilla person wouldn't like them, if your pea brain can understand that."

"I don't know, Aurora, I'm only a multi millionaire at the age of twenty four, tell me what my "pea brain" can understand," His eyes slit and scrutinize me.

"Millionaire?" I scoff. "Remember your debt...?"

"I fixed that with this trip to Russia. Why do you think we even went? That's why. Not to mention Jake left millions in my name when he passed. I always had safety money, I just didn't want to use that to fix our situation. As the leader, I wanted to repair it on my own; And that I did. I'm quite comfortable with my finances, little one," He says in belittlement, tilting his head at me.

I looked away and crossed my arms, dismissing him.

"Whatever," I muttered.

"Yeah, whatever, be prissy and turn your head while you're bathing in a luxury, porcelain tub instead of a dingey water basin in Oakland. Remember who did that for you." Arlan passed a loofah and my body wash across the water.

I scowl and take it from him, then get to scrubbing myself as fast as possible as he leisurely rolls his blackberry body wash over him. Here he was again with his God damn savior complex. I didn't even mind the bathroom in my foster home. It wasn't some dingey water basin, it was an actual tub. Sure, it wasn't as grandeur and sparkly like his but who cares? Money isn't everything, I don't need luxurious, materialistic things to be happy like Arlan so desperately depends on.

"I'm done," I stand, folding my arms over my chest. I want to be out of here as quick as possible. Being naked with him is not something I enjoy; Rather, it's an activity I absolutely despise with all of my being.

Arlan smirks knowingly at me, jade eyes fixated on my crossed arms. Bath water drips and slides off my legs which quickly grow cold in the open air.

"Acting so conservative when I've seen it all, Aurora?"He taunts.

His eyes find my face now and I look away.

"Covering your tits, as if I don't have your breasts mapped out and memorized? I could paint a picture of them, blindfolded. How they curve above your rib cage, the two brown freckles on your left tit, your budding, perky little spiked nipples."

I scowl at him.

"Enough," I cover myself more tightly, wishing I could cover my ears, as well. My cheeks grow bright red.

"I just think it's amusing," He shrugged.

He stands up in the water, tattooed, muscular legs and toned abdomen now exposed, along with his erected penis standing at full attention. He smirks pridefully at me, his hands perfectly still at his sides, having no problem showing his body. My face burns and I twist away.

He comes up behind me, I feel his weight behind my presence and gulp.

"Don't be shy," He murmurs and sends a light smack to my ass, gripping it after it bounces. "I love your body."

With that, he steps out and hands me a plush, red towel.

It's evening time now, the dining area is only lit by candles when we enter downstairs into the kitchen. We're both in sweats and T-shirts; I'm exhausted. The young chefs finish laying out a warm penne dish with vodka sauce and a bottle of Bourbon. My cheeks tinge red remembering how I had ordered Bourbon last night at the club. Then, I recall the other Hollywood monstrosities that occurred last night; Santiago spotting Hadley and I, the girl in the green dress peeing with the door open, her friend doing coke, and the random people fucking on the table for everyone to see. Arlan waves the chefs away, they obediently disappear. I'm lost in thought as I push my fork around my pasta.

It still painstakingly awes me that I let a comment about mafias slip to Hadley. Though, by the roar of her laughter, I'm sure she didn't take it seriously. But what had compelled me to say that? Just because Santiago has a tattoo, and Hadley's parents have the same one, does not mean they're necessarily a part of a crime organization. I haven't even met Hadley's parents, and I probably never will with how much traveling they do. The judgement and assumption I made shouldn't have been passed. Hopefully she's long forgotten about it, seeing as she's most presumably as hungover as I am.

I wonder if when Hadley got out of her Uber, it woke Beck up. Knowing him, he probably rolled out of bed at 4 AM to help get his sister to her room, holding her steady. That was the kind of guy he was: selfless, always looking out for others, no matter what time or what place. He most likely placed a glass of water and Aspirin by Hadley's bedside. And if I was, hypothetically, his girlfriend, and he'd have done the same for me. Maybe I would have slept over in his bed, and he'd press soft, gentle kisses at the migraine pressuring my forehead. He'd comb his fingers gently through my hair, help me sip some water, and hold me comfortingly throughout the night. Things would be easy; Life would be easy.

"Wine, Dove?" Arlan asks. "I can get some from the cellar."

My body freezes, I peer up. He's about half-way through his meal already while I've simply pushed my fork around absentmindedly. As if I ever wanted alcohol again - last night pretty much ruined it for me when I nearly threw it up in the Uber.

"No thanks," I mumbled.

"Cmon, baby Dove," He rolled his shoulders, "It'll loosen you up," He encouraged. "Seeing as how hungover you were after your little college dance, I know you like to drink."

"I'm too tired to drink, but thank you," I dismissed him softly.

"How about this," He tested. God damn, I rubbed my forehead. He really wasn't giving up and it was getting on my last nerves.

Arlan reached over, placing his bourbon glass in front of me. "I never let you drink at my level. I'll let you have this one glass of Bourbon."

I swallowed thickly, wondering why he was pushing this so much. I couldn't handle Bourbon with how much I drank last night. I decide I'll just nurse it extremely slowly and take about two sips just to shut him up.

"Okay..." I agree beneath a whisper.

I shut my eyes tight and lift the glass, taking a deep breath and exhaling into the glass. I will myself and raise it to my lips, the pungent smell of the liquor irritates my nose. I manage the tiniest sip of the alcohol. My throat burns and stomach immediately hates me for it when I swallow the liquor. My whole nervous system is essentially screaming that I'm a dumb bitch, which I get. I wouldn't have otherwise drank if it wasn't for him pressing the issue. I set the glass down. We both poke around at our food and I honestly don't have that huge of an appetite anymore. I should've never left bed when I smelled Nate cooking. I should've just kept napping.

"Give me a smile, Aurora."

I look up in Arlan's direction, sort of confused. He smiles at me. I adjust myself on the chair so my legs are criss-crossed on it.

"What am I, a waitress at Denny's?" I prod grouchily, eating my penne and looking at my plate.

He laughs softly, but then frowns dejectedly.

"I just want to see you happy," Arlan amends.

"My face hurts," I voice, gathering a stack of pasta to my plate. As I raise the food to my lips, my lashes flutter up to meet his gaze.

His lips grimace. Oh, now he's upset because I've reminded him of what he's done? Poor baby.

Arlan looks down and pokes around at his pasta, placing his fork in the side of his mouth.

"I've been hit many times and didn't take nearly as long to emotionally recover as you. It's called building resillience," He grumbled.

I fold my arms, seething with anger.

"You said, earlier, that I just have to get used to the way you love me," I began thinking out loud. That gets his attention, he's glancing to me now. "I don't agree - that you love me, that is. I actually think you hate me."

Arlan pauses, an incredulous look crossing his face. Caught off guard, his fork falls to his plate in a clanging thud.

"Hate you?" He echoes in disbelief.

"Yes, I very much think that," I strongly continue. "You hit me and reduce me to nothing but a sexual object, and you attempt to isolate me from anyone and everything else but you. Why would you do that to someone if you didn't hate them?"

"Dove, I don't hate you,"-

"Why wouldn't you?" My words are spiraling now before I can stop myself. "We've both been abandoned by our parents, but I'm a better person than you. You're jealous, insecure and threatened by me because I haven't assimilated to your toxicity. And you hate it. You hate that I'm not like you. Maybe you loved me once. But now, seeing how much I'm not like you, you have no choice but to utterly hate me, hence why you do things like slap me. How could you not hate me? You yearned to have someone understand you, justify you, empathize with you - you expected me, and I utterly did not. I refute it. I'm repulsed by it. All I feel from you now, towards me, is hatred."

"Let's get one thing straight, okay? I hate my father, just my father, only my father, and that's it," Arlan snaps, his words are a blunt ice slab. "He killed my mother and tried to kill me. I need all the hatred I can possibly muster in my body solely directed towards him. Sure, you aggravate the fuck out of me and we have our differences and I have my toxicity, but I do not hate you."

His glance held mine in the light of the flickering, bouncing candle light.

"What about the man that killed Jake?" I dare to implore, emboldenned.

Arlan clutches his fork, the veins in his hand surge through as his knuckles grow white. His jaw locks hard and my heart beat ticks against my throat rapidly.

"I suppose I did hate him when he was alive. So I killed him," Arlan's eyes scowl at me, his irises are two flames.

His words leave me immobilized. I physically feel my blood ice up, rushing in successions in my arms.

"Too much for that faint heart of yours, Aurora?" Arlan taunted.

Yes, being across the table from a murderer, the horror was agonizing. I was faint and sick and dizzied. My heart pounded with dread. The whole ordeal was completely nonsensical, how did I end up here with someone as torturously twisted as Arlan? A murderer. The word relentlessly plays in my mind like a vinyl looped and looped to torment the mind. The cold, surreal presence of this nightmare before me was one I was overwhelmed and unequipped to process.

"Don't look so sick about it. He's a killer too. Santiago deserved it."

Abrupt shock is a punch to my stomach, heartbeat spiking. My eyes snap to Arlan's face. Sheer panic overtook my face in a heated flush. Santiago? Did I hear him right? Did Arlan say that name? No, it couldn't be. My mind turned to TV static, confiscating any ability to form a coherent, sensical thought.

"Santiago?" I echo hoarsely.

"We're done talking about him," He eclipsed the conversation roughly. "I can see how it's sick it's making you."

It must be a different person, because my tutor is alive. Right?

But something still felt so wrong. I was beginning to grow suspicious that maybe my blurting out of mafias to Hadley last night was completely unwarranted. Maybe I felt like Santiago was a part of something suspicious. He was always filling my water bottle, and come to think of it, I was sick directly after he returned it to me with the water being white. Maybe I've been suppressing these thoughts for a while, but deep down I've been ignoring that I don't trust him.

But if Arlan said he has killed his Santiago, and mine is still alive - they're clearly different people. My mind is making me go crazy. My tutor wasn't a murderer, he wasn't trying to poision me, he didn't kill Jake. He was just a regular college man. This was all Arlan's fault, the fact that I even questioned my Santiago. Arlan's making me go crazy, dissasociate from clear reality, it's making me resent him even further.

"And what if I hated you?" I challenge breathlessly, looking up to him. "Could you tolerate that?"

"I could, Dove," Arlan avowed, " because you are so young, going through growing pains, and your brains not quite fully developed for another seven years; So with what in mind, you will have a lot of angst and your brain will try to convince you that what you feel is "hatred". Maybe it's just you afraid to get close to someone so intimately and emotionally for the first time. Or maybe, if you're an entirely different from me, Aurora, you don't have the capacity to really hate anyone at all. Do you hate your biological parents?"

Fucking ow. He really just crossed that line with that. My jaw unhinged as it fell open to my collarbone. A question like that was one that stung like no other. Thinking of my parents abandoning me was a rare occurrance, it would be too painful to, so it was never worth it. Therefore I did not hold a space in me for them - no rage, anger, hurt or disappointment. No hatred.

"No."

"See," He concurs pointedly, lifting his Bourbon glass. I eye him calculatedly as he takes a leisure sip, rolling my jaw.

It astounds me how he finds new ways every day - hell, every hour, to infuriate me. He does so with ease, with how malicious and ill-intentioned he is. But now I'm just frustrated. I almost wished he'd just throw the towel in and agree that he hates me. But if he's going to be stubborn, I'm going to push one last time.

"Let's propose I'm still here at twenty five," I begin.