Chapter 95 Pitiful Wretch

Chapter 95 Pitiful Wretch

Terrence's POV

Two in the morning.

I'm staring at the ceiling.

This bedroom is too damn big.

This old room of mine at the Nelson estate—the bed could fit four people, and the mattress is soft and comfortable.

But I can't sleep.

I miss that squeaky air mattress.

More precisely, I miss the twin bed less than two feet away from that air mattress, and the small, stubborn woman sleeping on it.

"Fuck."

I irritably throw off the covers and walk barefoot to the window, lighting a cigarette.

The flame from the lighter flickers in the darkness, illuminating my gloomy face reflected in the glass.

I thought fourteen months of back-to-back missions, being forced on leave by the military, endless sleepless nights and stress reactions were the most painful things I'd ever experienced.

In the desert, watching my buddies get blown apart, watching blood stain the sand—I thought that was hell.

But I was wrong.

Real hell is wanting a woman I absolutely can't have.

She's right there in my life, just a few steps away in another room, yet I have to keep myself from getting close.

This longing is like poison, seeping into my bones, scraping against my nerves.

I take a deep drag, the harsh nicotine rushing into my lungs, but it can't suppress that wicked fire in my gut.

She's all I can think about.

Isabella.

The way her eyes crinkle when she smiles, the way she looks curled up on the couch in that ridiculously oversized gray hoodie, like a startled rabbit.

I'm fucking crazy about her.

That last week before I moved out was pure torture.

She started deliberately avoiding me.

In the morning when I got up, she'd already left for the academy.

At night I'd sit in the living room waiting for her, and she'd always drag it out until midnight before coming home, then dive straight into her bedroom without saying more than a few words to me.

I know I brought this on myself.

I was the one who almost lost control in the parking lot that night, the one who snapped at her in the car.

But she doesn't know—the more she avoids me, the more that beast inside me wants to break free from its cage.

Every night, after that idiot Maurice started snoring like thunder on the couch, I'd creep like some kind of thief to stand by her bed, watching her sleeping face in the dim light.

She doesn't sleep well—her brow is always slightly furrowed, like she's worrying about something even in her dreams.

I don't dare touch her.

I can only stand there, eyes fixed on the delicate skin at her neck, on her chest rising and falling with her breathing.

My mind replays that night over and over—her lying in my arms, my painfully hard cock pressed against the inside of her thigh.

She was so soft.

She had this faint scent, a mix of fresh body wash and her body heat, with a hint of something sweet.

I imagine tearing open her pajamas, pinning her down on that narrow twin bed.

I imagine my fingers tracing over those purple bruises on her waist from that punk, then covering those marks with my lips, one by one.

I want to hear her gasp beneath me, want her lips—always pressed so tightly together—to open for me, calling only my name.

In fact, she has called it.

Several late nights, standing by her bed, I've heard her mumbling in her sleep.

When she turns over, brow furrowed, lips slightly parted.

I lean down, move closer, and hear her extremely faint voice: "Terrence..."

Not Maurice.

She never calls for Maurice.

That soft call is like a barbed whip, striking hard against my heart, yet filling me with an almost insane hope.

She's dreaming of me.

In her subconscious, she relies on me, not that boyfriend passed out drunk on the couch outside.

But now?

I crush the cigarette butt hard into the ashtray, the ember burning my fingertip, and I don't even flinch.

Now I'm trapped in this damn fancy estate.

There are dozens of miles between us.

This distance makes me feel pathetic.

I walk to the closet and yank open the door.

Inside hangs a row of high-end tailored suits and shirts, but I immediately spot that black hoodie in the corner.

The one I took off and wrapped around her on the Ferris wheel that day.

She washed it and gave it back to me later, but I swear I can still smell that faint scent she left on it.

I grab the garment and bury my face in it, taking a deep breath.

Fuck.

I've really lost it.

Like some kind of pervert, using a piece of clothing to ease this hunger that's driving me insane.

I want to see her.

Now. Right now. Immediately.

I turn my head, my gaze landing on the car keys on the nightstand.

Just forty minutes.

Just press the gas pedal, and in forty minutes I could be downstairs at her crappy apartment building.

I can even imagine what it would be like if I knocked on her door right now—her opening it in her thin pajamas.

She'd open those beautiful eyes wide, stammering to ask why I'm showing up in the middle of the night.

And then what would I do?

I'd push her right up against the door, grab her chin, and kiss her hard.

I'd push my tongue into her mouth, taste if she's as sweet as I imagine.

I'd slip my hand under her pajamas, knead her soft breasts, let her know who can really make her tremble.

My lower body instantly hardens painfully at this crazy thought.

That thick cock arrogantly pitches a tent in my loose pajama pants, veins bulging, demanding release.

I stare hard at those car keys.

Go. Go take her. Maurice doesn't deserve her.

But my feet are nailed to the floor.

"She doesn't belong to you," a cold voice reminds me in my head.

She's a loyal girl.

Even if she has feelings for me, even if she calls my name in her dreams, she can't cross that line in her heart.

If I really rush over there tonight and force her, she'll hate me forever.

Besides, I'm about to go back to the unit.

The military doctor's evaluation results come out next week.

Once I pass, I'll be sent back to that desert full of bombs and snipers.

How can I take her from Maurice and then leave her alone?

If I die on the battlefield, what would happen to her?

I close my eyes in pain, releasing my grip on the hoodie.

I can't be that selfish.

I walk to the bathroom and turn on the cold water, sticking my head directly under the faucet.

The icy water flows down my hair into my neck, extinguishing a bit of the desire in my body, but it can't extinguish the restlessness in my heart.

I lean against the sink, looking at myself in the mirror—red-rimmed eyes, face covered in water.

I'm such a pathetic bastard.