  &quot;What?&quot; it's that knee-jerk reaction of a response and he visibly closes up as he turns to face me. Caught out. Shutting down to deadpan when cornered.
      &quot;You went there? You were in that shithole? Why?&quot; It's an accusatory tone, spat at him in response. I swallow hard, blood running cold at how much worse this is getting, and slowly I try to sit on the edge of the table, my legs turning to jelly and giving way on me. Forgetting about the box and weakening to lightheaded, that this night just keeps getting worse.
      I didn't think it could, and yet he has this great habit of proving me wrong. Alexi in Hackney, in the place I lived. The squalor and shame of that run-down shithole.
      Oh, God.
      Alexi seems restless and paces away as though he too is having a hard time reeling in a reaction or his thoughts and feelings. This feels like one very long night

  Sleep eludes me. Not that I thought it wouldn't, but it's frustrating just the same.
      I spend what seems like forever tossing and turning in the bed, unable to clear my mind of anything and everything and rolling myself into a frustrated mess. Up and down like a yoyo. Mood and emotions twisting me up and trawling me out just to do it over again. My bedclothes get so screwed into an unholy mess I end up getting up and fixing them several times, so unsettled and restless that I'm making myself crazier than hell.
      I can't think straight because I'm so utterly tired, yet I can't clear my head enough to close my eyes and think of nothing at all. It's exhausting and making me irrational and tearful all at the same time.
      He really has a lot to answer for.
      Alexi is all up in there in a hundred different ways. Good and bad, I guess. Churning over months of scenarios and sh

  &quot;I need to show you.&quot; Alexi gets up quickly, eyes still avoiding me, and walks off toward his room leaving me to sit here like a confused idiot. Watching the direction he went in and straining to listen to sounds as he disappears. I expect to hear a drawer open or something similar, but it sounds like he's punching in the digits on his safe keypad instead. Whatever he wants to show me he keeps in his bedroom safe.
      Now I'm worried.
      He doesn't use that thing like an extra cupboard; he uses it as its purpose intends. To store things you wouldn't want others getting hold of.
      I wonder if it's something sinister or creepy; I mean he is the master at shocking me to the core with the lengths he goes to with his devil side. I'm not sure what I'm expecting but my gut says it's not good at all.
      I fidget, fingers itching, so I pull a cushion into my lap to focus m

&quot;What?&quot; it's that knee-jerk reaction of a response and he visibly closes up as he turns to face me. Caught out. Shutting down to deadpan when cornered.
      &quot;You went there? You were in that shithole? Why?&quot; It's an accusatory tone, spat at him in response. I swallow hard, blood running cold at how much worse this is getting, and slowly I try to sit on the edge of the table, my legs turning to jelly and giving way on me. Forgetting about the box and weakening to lightheaded, that this night just keeps getting worse.
      I didn't think it could, and yet he has this great habit of proving me wrong. Alexi in Hackney, in the place I lived. The squalor and shame of that run-down shithole.
      Oh, God.
      Alexi seems restless and paces away as though he too is having a hard time reeling in a reaction or his thoughts and feelings. This feels like one very long night of large confessions and major traumatic events. I want to lie on the floor and die.
      I swe

Chapter 73