My Heart, His Spare Part

Johns

ht's events. Grant's existing injuries were clearly exacerbated. His face was drawn, a pale mask against his dark ha

the quiet evening air. "Dragging Grant into such a dangerous place! You saw how much he was hurting. He

first arrived, a timid, trembling girl, I' d genuinely felt for her. I' d offered my room, my clothes, my time. I remembered buying her books, trying to

ng. It had been gradual, I realized now, watching her. Slowly, subtly, she had grown bolder, more demanding. Each time I had indulged her, thinki

ice flat, devoid of any

by genuine shock. No one, least of all me, had ever spoken to her like tha

lightly in front of her. A small, protective shift in his stance. My hea

walked into my room, closing the door behind me wi

under the fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to his dark suit. His left arm was ti

disciplined. She understands her actions yesterday were inappropriate and

I didn't ask what "disciplined" meant. I knew it would be a slap

light defensiveness in his tone. "And I've ensured she won't interrup

ife and manipulating you into a potentially fatal situation?" My voice was quiet, bu

less floor, avoiding my stare. A hint of shame,

one hand on the banister, the other pressed to her forehead. "Oh, Grant, my head hurts so much," she moaned, her voice weak and breathy. "I

out of bed? You should be resting." His voice was laced with concern, a stark contrast to the dist

he, her willing puppet. My heart twisted, not with pain, but with a profoun

spoon-feeding Dariana a bowl of oatmeal, his head bowed, murmuring soft words of comfort. She smiled up at him, a genuine, radiant sm

at. Men. So easily fooled by a pretty, fragile face