CHAPTER 8

Hours after hours, Poppy had spent checking on him and giving him his pills when it was needed. 

She'd also made meals for him, one that had Xavian wondering for a second if he should somehow hire her as his personal chef, but he smacked the thought out of his head, knowing that if he couldn't even stand her as his caregiver, he would never be able to stand any more of her. 

"Are those real?" 

He lifted his head, glancing at Poppy through the mirror in front of him. She was brushing his hair. "What is real?" 

"Your eyes," she said. "They are very golden, it's like the sun—sunrise. I've never seen anything like it before. I've never even heard they exist, so they must be contacts, right? Medicated?" 

Anything to make a small talk and kill the silence

An expression that was hard to read painted Xavian's face, and he wiggled his fingers at her. "Come over to this side." 

Poppy was a bit confused, but she did let go of his hair, moving over to stand right next to him where he was seated at the table. 

"Lean forward." 

She felt even more perplexed, unsure of what he was getting at. The second she did as he asked, he gripped her jaw, pulling her face so close to his that she could feel his hot breath brushing her skin with every exhale.

"Mr. Winslow—" 

"Do these look like contacts to you?" Xavian asked. 

When she tried looking away, he forced her gaze back into his. "Keep your eyes on me." He asked, "Do they?" 

Poppy held her breath. "N-no, not really." 

"They are real." 

"Oh…" She rapidly blinked. "That's—" 

She wasn't sure what it was, but she watched something too fast to dwell on, a glimmer, swirl in a circular motion in his eyes. Her lips parted. "Y-your eyes, there was—" 

It was like an electric shock, zinging between the both of them so harshly she gasped, her breath constricted in her throat. Poppy pushed out of his grip, falling on her butt and crawling backward, her chest rising and falling in heavy breathing. 

"W-what was that?" 

Xavian's jaw clenched so tightly that the cords on his neck stood out, and he shoved the chair back, standing up. Was that… panic in his eyes? The man dropped his hands on the table, fingers scraping into it. 

That was panic—that was definitely panic. 

"You need to leave now," he said, without looking at her. 

"Again?" Poppy's gut clenched, forcing herself off to her feet the second he grabbed her arm. 

"Leave, and don't come back. You're fired. I'll pay you every single dime that was promised." 

"Mr. Winslow—" 

"I mean it, Poppy! Leave. Now." He glanced at the clock. "It's almost seven p.m, go home, my sister will forward your payment to you." 

"I don't understand what it is I'm doing wrong. I'm doing my job, and if there is anything you would—"

"Leave."

She opened her mouth to protest but closed it without saying anything. Then she snatched her arm, walked over to the table, and grabbed her bag. "You're the worst patient I've ever had!" She was too pissed off to even care about any damned bad review. Nothing she did ever satified this man, not even if she worked her butt off for him.

The door slammed heavily shut behind her, and she stormed her way downstairs, shoving her phone into the pocket of her jacket. 

She never should have accepted him as a patient in the first place. All these rich people were always so much trouble, too full of themselves, and he was no different!

Poppy made it to the door to leave, but the sudden sound of something breaking upstairs had her stopping, spinning around to glance at the second floor with widened eyes. 

The sound didn't stop. If anything, it grew worse. 

It was the continuous sound of someone breaking things, glasses—she wasn't sure. 

"Mr. Winslow…?" 

She had the urge to go back, to know what was going on, but she turned, wanting to leave. The breaking sound, though, wasn't letting her. Her body was neither listening to her brain, and by the time she knew it, she was running back upstairs, stopping once she arrived at the door. 

Poppy was confused. He was thrashing the room with painful grunts. Was he in pain? What was going on with him? But she had made sure to give him his pills at the designated times. 

"Mr. Winslow. Mr. Winslow, are you okay?" 

There was no response, prompting her to open the door, only to stop at the sight of Xavian, who'd not only been punching the wall, but he'd broken it as if it had been bulldozed through. 

"Mr. Winslow…" 

Xavian stiffened at the sound of her voice and slowly turned around to look at her. His knuckles were a bloody mess, and his nose… They were bleeding profusely, the look in his eyes animalistic. 

"I told you to leave," he grounded out. "You don't. LISTEN."