Page 63 of Manic

His face was so close to mine, the warmth of his breath fanned my cheeks. He smelled of smoke and whiskey, as if he’d drank before coming back. Was that another distraction for him? My conversation with Naomi resurfaced, and my smile slowly faded.

“Did you kill them?” I wrung out the stained rag before soaking it again. The water rushed softly, a steady stream against the porcelain before I shut it off.

“Yes.”

My pulse climbed from his answer. “Why do you do it?”

I already knew, I just wanted to see if he would tell me. Manic sighed, eyes distant, as if our conversation was inevitable.

“It helps…” he started, then rubbed his chest, “...with the pressure sometimes. It builds until it has nowhere to go.” He smiled sadly as his attention fell back to me. “When it explodes, it becomes… violent. It’s the only way I can make it go away, at least for a while.”

That guilt of mine crept in again, because I felt like I was the reason it exploded. I was his captive, yet I felt like an idiot for pushing him. I wanted to blurt my apology, but I thought he’d snap if I did. Manic didn’t seem like the type to accept half-hearted apologies. Plus, he’d probably think it was out of pity, and so I refrained.

“Antisocial personality disorder,” I murmured, and his blue stare blazed right through me. “That’s what Naomi had called it,” I continued. “Do you… feel anything?”

“Yes. It might not be as strong as others, but I do feel.”

Pain and pleasure, I thought.

And anxiety and panic, if that pressure was what I thought it was. From what I knew, people like him often experienced it due to outside stressors. In Manic’s scenario, it would be the mafia and loss of control. What else could he feel?

“Do you feel love?” I whispered, unsure why the question fell off my lips the way it did, but I was genuinely curious.

“Not anymore.”

“But you did once—with Raven?” I assumed, and he nodded. “Your mother?”

Another nod, but his eyes narrowed again. “Are you analyzing me, Sutton?”

I stilled from the question. Perhaps I was, in a way. Instead of answering, I squeezed the rag one last time, watching as a rush of crimson drifted down the sink in a violent swirl.

“Did killing help this time?” I asked finally.

“No.”

I set the rag down and stood there with cold, wet palms, unsure of what else to do. He didn’t move, but neither did I, and my pulse fluttered the longer he held my gaze. I expected emptiness behind his eyes, but something more settled there. They drooped slightly, yes, but they held a faint glimmer of light. It was unsettling.

“Is that why you decided to shatter a few…” I glanced around again, unable to figure out what he’d shattered. A cup, maybe. Then I spotted the bottle of whiskey off to the side. How long had he been at the penthouse?

“Pain calms me,” he said quietly. “Pain is⁠—”

“Familiar,” I answered for him and glanced at his nose. “Did you ask Axell to punch you?”

His chest heaved, but he nodded again.

I gave him a small, understanding smile.

Forcing pain on himself made sense, especially if he’d tried to soothe his frustrations by lashing out on the enemy. When that didn’t work, he sought out the next best thing. Like a drug. I wondered what else he had up his sleeve.

“Did the pain work this time?”

Our stares lingered as he said, “No.”

I blinked. That must be why Axell wanted me to go back to my room. I wondered if he feared Manic would kill me. Would he, though? Manic seemed to hate me as much as I did him, so maybe.

I cleared my throat. “What else… helps?”

The corner of his mouth turned up, his eyes dancing. Silence clung to every particle in the air as he waited. Then it clicked.