okay so a few people asked for chapter 2 just for some closure, which is okay because this one doesn't end with a cliffhanger, so this is where it ends(muahahaha) have fun!

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A gasp escapes my lips. Holy crap! The beat of my heart trips over itself and I almost let go of my grip on the towel, but the subconsciously modest part of me holds on. The gears in my head start running, and begins swarming with thoughts, questions and red alarms buzzing from one end to the other of my skull.

My father's orotund voice speaks over the chaos, like how it would with his cadets:

You have to be ready. You can never let your guard down baby, the bastard could attack any time.

He's prepared Kohen and I for situations like these for such a long time now, never have I thought I'd actually have to put them to use. I drag a breath through pursed lips.

1. All ears, Sergeant; listen.

I try to quell the tempest in my head and tune in. It gets less cloudy, and the sounds of the room gradually seep in.

Amongst the stillness evolves quiet snores and haphazard grunts. He's sleeping. The bees start racing faster in my skull; numbers growing by the millisecond as I learn more about this stranger.

2. What do you see, honey?

My eyes search and are drawn to the twinkling metal against the white linen. It's grip looks tight and firm, his thick wrist filling most of the boundary and seem to dig into his skin slightly. But only one wrist is held by the restraint. He can still strike. The inner sergeant in me and her nimbleness begin formulating a game plan. I carefully walk towards my original destination on the right of the room.

3. Soft as Stuart, Rhea.

I use my free hand to mindfully open the cabinet hanging above the sink, and my eyes frisk for the arms needed to carry out the plot I devised mere seconds ago. I scour through the spare toothbrushes and rolls of toilet paper, before finding the penknife. Sidling myself behind the glass door of the shower, I grab the long body brush that's hooked on the wall and return to the main room.

I slowly creep up to the ominous corpse; my heels high in the air as the itchy carpet beneath sifts between my toes. His body partially cleansed only by the weak glow of the lamp, in an elongated oval across his body; leaving the rest of him to blend with the dark.

Now at the edge of the bed, the faint scent of bergamot and vodka filter the air around his body. Odd. I observe him. His body is sprawled in a sort of starfish position, except for his free arm that lays slackly on his hip bone. And now only do I realize how young he is.

Typical white tee, black jeans ripped at the knees and boots. He has to be 21, at most. His chest shallowly rises and falls in step, and I can faintly see the blurred ink vined beneath the thin cloth covering his abdomen; only making an opaque appearance a little above his collar. The arm latched to the column seems to be tattooed as well, figures I can't quite make out dancing on his bicep. But other than that, I can't really see much of his face with his head turned to the side.

Curiosity killed the cat; my subconscious knows better.

4. Give the sucker your best shot!

I firmly hold and raise the body brush, slamming it against his stomach; slicing a soft whip into the quiet air.

His body jolts and crunches in the middle, the focal point of the pain I caused.

"Fuck!" His raspy voice chokes, and his body wracks under a fit of harsh coughing. He then spurs, his head shaking like a wet dog. Under the dim light, he's mostly a blur but once his eyes land on me, I can feel his cold gaze burning.

His eyes shrew as they acclimate to the cause of his "pleasant" awakening, and he roars, "What the fuck?"

His voice booms, shaking the muted room, and I can feel all the hairs on the nape of my neck grow more erect, adding on to the effect the cool night and it's breeze have on me. I almost jump, not of fear but his sheer loudness. But I don't, because showing any sign of clumsiness wouldn't make him look at me like anything less than a joke, so I stand tall in my ground.

"Who are you and what do you want?" I put the body brush in the hand holding the towel, and hold the penknife with the other; bravely pointing it at his chin, inches away from grazing his skin.

I match my glare to his, coursing menace into my eyes. I'm not backing down on this one. I wait for a fleeting look of distress, worry, panic ― it doesn't come. He doesn't seem concerned about the short distance of the sharp weapon, but I think more of why I'm staring at him. After a few seconds, his brows twist even more, into an almost there monobrow; his glare more cutting than the penknife.

"Fuck off, Charlie brought me here." He rolls his eyes; as if my interrogation had deprived him of the best sleep he's ever had. Closing his eyes, he turns his head to the other side, returning to sleep.

My subconscious is raging; practically fire breathing at this point. She's being held back by others. But then it hits me, hard, and his sentence replays over and over, chiming again and again with the last four words of his insolent reply being the clearest audible.

"How do you know my father?" The question slips out before I can think of a tone to say it in, completely chucking away the fact that he isn't even facing me; let alone listening. The head splitting ache earlier compared to now was just a dull throb, and now I feel like I've got the whole world's problems to solve in my mind.

And suddenly, the door swings open, and with the speak of the devil, the man of the night walks in.

"Jesus, Rhea. What's going on here?" My father asks exasperatedly, one hand on his hip while the other still put over the door handle. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the first button of his shirt is undone, his tie loosened slightly. He must've gotten home a few minutes ago.

His eyes snap from me, to the knife, then to our visitor, before they pop out of their sockets and bounce back to me.

Both his hands drop, before one lifts up and pinches the bridge of his Roman nose, the other returning to his hip. He shuts his eyes and frowns dramatically before exhaling frustratedly, both cheeks puffed as he does so. He then waves his hand mindlessly at the guy and says tiredly, "Honey, this boy is with me. I completely forgot to tell you. Let me explain everything."

What? I trust my father with my life, but something about the situation makes me weigh the pros and cons of listening to him this time. What could possibly be his explanation for this?

But I end up conceding and retract my hand hesitantly, inching back each time a second or two passed, my eyes still locked on the guy. My father releases a puff of consolation.

"We'll talk over dinner. Just have a shower, he'll be gone by the time you're done," he says as his knuckles are lifted to his eyes, in which both rub them intensely. I swiftly circle around as he takes his first step towards the bed, my defense weapons still in hand, and tramp towards the bathroom.

As soon as I'm in, I drop the two items to the floor, the body brush seeming to crack the tiles while the knife clatters to a standstill. I'm leaning against the door, my shoulder blades and part of my back in contact with the hard wood. I tilt my head against the door too, the hold of my towel tightens as I shut my eyes.

What just happened?

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A deafening silence has found itself a home, in my home, settling over the tight atmosphere of our ritual family dinner. The layer of dead air is killing me; I feel it gnawing on my insides and slowly freezing my blood. We've been sitting in knee deep stillness the past 10 minutes. All I've been hearing is the stray sounds of bouncing gravel and chirping crickets, and only the soft sursurrus of the wind through the window.

The time has allowed Kohen's hot temper and impatience to swell into something tangible. I can feel it; the red screeching a summoned release, unwanted rampage threatening to burst. It's also let my father's disguised anxiety to shroud the room. He doesn't show any trepidation, but I know better. Kohen could never tolerate batshit from my father, so I don't know what to expect from this. He better have a good explanation.

Both thick and suffocating. I don't know which is more overpowering and uncomfortable, but together they make a torturous brew.

Family meal or pissing contest? I really can't tell, especially with the teams. Conveniently, Kohen and I are on one side of the dining table, while my dad is on the other. John's the ref, sitting at the head seat. I've been stealing furtive glances now and again at the 3 men, trying to glean as much as I can from their settings.

Kohen caustically staring at my father; his glare burning hotter and hotter as the seconds go by. I know he's mentally trying to burn a hole through his head, but I think it might just work. And it doesn't help that they're sitting vertically opposite each other.

My father has been casually eating his dinner, acting as if everything's completely fine. A very convincing facade, I must say. But the way his utensils click loudly, almost too loudly, and his silent grunts between bites betray his unease.

I watch Mr Doe surreptitiously. He has his arms crossed against his chest, staring mindlessly straight ahead. The bright light of the dining room creates a heavy shadow from his fringe, hovering his eyes a little from my view. Similar to how it was in the room; dim, but not dim enough. I can tell he's not looking at me, though. I would've been able to feel his stare if he was. There's something about his company ― it emanates this aura in the room, but I can't quite grasp what it is.

Who is he? I haven't gotten the chance to have a good look at him since our little meeting, but I can see his hands are free now. I should've known it had something to do with Dad. The handcuffs said it all. But what's he doing here? I can't think of any possible reason for his presence and my intrusiveness is eating my patience. The hunger to satisfy my nosiness precedes the actual want to know his identity, if I'm honest.

Not only have I been waiting for something like Kohen to slice the ice with his rage and my questions to be answered, but I've been patiently waiting for my appetite to return. My plate constitutes baked salmon and some fresh ― well, not so fresh anymore, salad. Where earlier when I heated it up it looked much more juicy and inviting, it now looks like a sad, soggy piece of pink.

I've been told too many times not to play with my food as a kid, but rolling my cherry tomatoes seems like the best distraction. I don't know what to think anymore. I've been trying my best to methodically list all reasons as to what's going on ever since I had a shower.

Then, my father awkwardly coughs before setting his fork and knife down; finally authorizing us to lock our both questioning and heated eyes onto him without having to be sly about it. His voice raises above the sacred silence he's been trying to keep safe.

"Kohen. Rhea. This here, is Colton." He introduces carefully, waving his hand between all of us.

Colton, I try out. He's warily testing the waters, mainly because of Kohen; making sure the temperature's just right before letting him dive in completely. A very crucial step, but at this rate, we're going to be here all night. I twist my brows in confusion at his vagueness, sort of as a prompt for him to go on. And he gets the signal.

"I found him speeding on the highway at noon. Drunk." He continues, the last word punctuated sharply.

Strike 1: Intoxication. In the middle of the afternoon? This guy sure has a lot of time. And guts. I take a quick glance at him. He hasn't moved an inch; the same impassive visage laying blankly. What's he thinking about? He's unusually quiet. But I have an odd, queasy feeling in my gut that tells me his silence isn't due to guilt.

"This would have been his third official offence for drunk driving if I called him out, safe for the times he wasn't caught. He got away with the last two times but along with his other records, I didn't think they'd let him off this time. Not to mention assaulting the Commissioner. You should be grateful I was the one who caught you." His words are then diverted to Colton.

Strike 2: Violence.

"Cut the crap." Kohen snaps acridly as he props both elbows on the table, intertwining his fingers together and resting his chin on them. I see the tic in his jaw; he's getting impatient.

My eyes skid to my father. A frown distorts his face. I can tell he's trying to refine and tamper with his initial strategy of how to convey this new set of news for us; the intonation of his words earlier seemed far too collected and slow paced for Kohen's liking, in a way making feel like his words were in fact only intended for me.

"Well, Colton is the son of an old friend. I've taken it upon myself to help him." He spills curtly, his words leaking as quickly as water with annoyance.

Oh no. No, no, no. This isn't happening now.

Friend? What friend? I don't recall any of his friends having son's. Let alone son's like him. This friend and him must be really close for him to just take him in like a stray cat.

But my father is one who holds his moral values up on a pedestal. Honesty being one of the important; one he feels strongly about. His tolerance for immoral behavior is always at a zero; the reason why he gets so riled up when Kohen does. So it makes me wonder hard what is it about this boy that makes him any different, besides the fact he's a friend's son.

"You're not a fucking babysitter. If he's old enough to smoke pot, he can take care of himself." He sputters in disgust, the toxicity of poison heightening as each word is spoken.

Last strike.

"Get him the fuck out of here. I don't want him around Rhea." He has a sneer in his voice that extends to his eyes, and I can see his anger is violently trying to break out of the box it's in with each word he speaks.

I frown slightly. I love Kohen with all my bones, but I hate how he thinks I'm as fragile as a newborn; despite his good intentions. I am nearly 18 years old and I am more than old enough to care for myself.

"That isn't your call, Kohen. He'll be under my watch 24/7, so he won't be any where near Rhea. End of discussion," he states calmly but slightly clipped; telling me it's only a facade.

My eyes flicker to Kohen. Fires of fury and perturb now smolder in his eyes, far more rage in them compared to the small flame earlier, as they narrow down, zeroed on my father. I can already see his mouth ready to run like a machine gun.

"You can't fuckin ― " My father stands up, the screech of his chair being kicked across the floorboard cuts Kohen's words off. He picks his plate up and walks out of the room, leaving Kohen, Colton, and I alone.

My eyes widen as I feel my Kohen's anger spew; the heat rolling off his body, like waves crashing choppily against shore, without having to even look at him. This argument is one of the very few where Kohen has lost, which is probably pumping red into him even more right now. Angry Kohen and an opposing male is never a good combo. It isn't a recipe for disaster; it's a visit to the bloodbank. He holds no grayscale; only the polar extremes existing. No maybes. No lines. No halves. We're alike in that way. But my extremes aren't as intense.

He can never contain his anger, but that's Kohen for you. It's the way he's wired, although I hate it sometimes, I love him all the more. I can only thank God I was brought to this Earth as his sister and nobody else. If there is one thing that can flip Kohen off, it'd be hurting me.

Colton hasn't moved or spoken since the beginning of the conversation and I can't conclude if that is a good or bad thing. But he seems pretty impassive. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, fearing for my death if I look up at the daggers Kohen's eyes are shooting.

"If you so much as so lay a finger on her, I'll break your skull." Kohen's voice so dangerously low it made the nerves beneath my skin crawl, before gripping onto the table with both hands and shoving it in Colton's direction.

His brusque blow makes me jerk in my seat; the thunderous sound of the wood thrusting against the floor loud as ever in the quiet of the night. The plates slide across to the end of the table, but only Colton's meal falls to the ground; his plate crashing into pieces.

I don't think I'll never get used to his awful temper. Colton's lucky. I have no idea how it would've ended if I wasn't in the room. My subconscious slices her throat with her thumb.

Colton speaks, his voice raspy yet exceedingly guttural submerges from the short-lived vacancy of tensity, in such an almost cocky, but very firm tone, like a snicker:

"Don't count on it."