by Celia Crown
“Come here, little girl,” he commands chillingly.
I smooth the nonexistent wrinkles from my sundress and notice my fingers are coated with dried blood. The woman didn’t flinch when she saw it, or maybe she didn’t see it at all. That’s a bit of a stretch when it’s all over my hands.
“Now,” he says with a clipped timbre.
My feet carry me to him with a dreadful thud of my heart. He takes my hand in his with an astonishingly soft touch before yanking me down to him. I narrowly avoid landing with my hand on his wounded stomach, but it collides with the floor.
He lets go and places his fingers under my chin, causing a pinch of soreness as he observes my face with purposeful interest.
“Thank you,” he says ambiguously.
I hope he means because I didn’t tell the mayor’s daughter that there is a convict behind the counter.
He finds a grip at the base of my neck, tangling the loose strands between his thick fingers as he kneads the tense muscles.
He’s going to snap my neck. I can practically feel the lethal resolution behind his movements.
“I’m sorry,” I slur out hesitantly.
Sergei pauses. “Why an apology?”
He interrupts me before I can ramble on about what I could have done wrong. When I’m nervous, half of my brain doesn’t want to work with me.
“You’ve done a better job than I expected,” he says.
He held my thigh as a hostage, and I didn’t exactly have a choice.
A wicked gleam flashes through his blue eyes far too briskly to understand what it was. He’s already leaning in and slanting his soft lips on mine as I choke through an alarmed gasp.
Sergei pulls back and breathes on my swollen lips with a charming smile.
“I found a good girl.”
Humiliation wreaks retaliation through my thunderous veins at the realization that I had followed him for more.
Chapter Two
Sergei
Just as I had predicted.
The police come barging in the shop, voices muffled by the creaking floorboards as fine dust rains down on my head.
I was anticipating their arrival yesterday when that woman mentioned the streaks of blood on the counter, but they didn’t come until the next morning.
I had not rested my exhausted body yet. There are too many uncharted spots in this shop that I haven’t explored yet, so I used what little time I had to understand the layout.
Nia, my sweet Nia, had gone out of her way to offer the bed to me.
Being the gentleman that I am, I slept on the floor. Of course, we were in the same room.
I may be courteous, but I’m not trusting. I prefer not to have the sheriff’s gun aimed between my eyes when I wake up.
Truthfully, I merely wanted to be close to her.
The week of cutting through the dense forest and dodging canines had pushed my body’s limits; I was running on adrenaline. Some inmates foolishly followed me while some went their ways after the escape.
It took too much of my travel time to shake them off my tail. They were relentless with their desperate need for protection—protection they believed I could offer.
They hadn’t taken my rejection well.
Their fragile masculinity had been harmed in the most nonsensical way, and they wanted to retaliate against me for looking down on them.
We fought, and I came out the victor. I was still wounded.
I’m better off than they are. When the police find them, they’ll see the inmates’ lifeless bodies on the ground. One of them might have a branch sticking out from his exposed ribs, but I can’t be certain of the placement.
A coil of pain clusters around my healing wound. The soreness snaps me out of my thoughts as I press a hand there. My touch doesn’t have the same magical soothing factor that Nia’s has.
It’s a strange revelation, one I don’t oppose.
Her hands are much smaller, softer, and hesitant because she thinks she might cause pain.
Lovely girl, she is.
I listen closely to the footsteps, and a new sound catches my ear. It’s sharper and scratches on the floor.
The cops brought the canine.
I’m flattered to know they brought more than imbeciles in blue uniforms.
The door to the basement slams open, the groaning crash skidding through the stale silence as loud stomps from their shoes travel down the stairs.
This is an old foundation; the woodwork is not the best, nor does it serve as protection from a strong rainstorm. A tornado from a mile away would rip this place to pieces. That’s how weak the wood is, but the bricks help provide some sturdiness.
The dog trots around the floor, sniffing and whining at the corner of the basement. It barks, and the echo bounces back to me with more dust flying into my lungs.
“What’s behind that?” a man’s voice shouts.
“There’s nothing there!” Nia cries, her voice quivering with fear.
The corners of my lips peel back with a sneer at his sheer audacity in raising his voice at my Nia. From the moment I laid eyes on her exquisiteness, I knew I wanted her.
To what extent remains a conundrum.
That lure of innocence in her demeanor tempts the evil in me. I will be depriving myself of her sweetness if I don’t make her mine while the search continues.
Days, weeks, or months. No one knows for certain. It’s a battle of wits and intelligence, aided by resources and the weight of repercussion.
I do have the resources to leave this place; one phone call and I can be within my element.
How could I leave such a darling thing like Nia?
No one has ever been successful in capturing my attention, but she did with just a fleeting glance. She made my heart rage with dismay when her body shook with fear, and she forced the blood in my veins to pour out of my wound with her docility.
I could’ve died.
She saved me in an unorthodox way.
I had the eeriest morbid need to know her name, to touch her soft skin.
I fought my light-headedness for her, and I am going to get the reward for my hard work one way or another.
She tastes sweeter than I had imagined.
I plan on tasting the honey from her lips and from between her supple thighs. She would be terrified of my zealous need to dominate her; I need to move tactfully.
A clattering screech of metal going across the wooden floor pierces my ears. A swarm of anger swirls in my gut as I grind my teeth roughly.
I’m restless. The more those pathetic law enforcement officers raise their voices at my Nia, the less mercy I will have on them later.
“We had an anonymous tip! Do not lie to us!” one of them yells loudly.
The dog barks too. I’m disinterested in animals, but I won’t treat a mutt any differently than a human if it hurts Nia.
“You can look around!” Nia shouts apprehensively.
“There’s no one here!” I can hear just how frightened she is.
That little quiver in her tone suggests a heavy distrust of them—as strangers or authoritative figures, I don’t have an answer for that yet.
It wouldn’t be difficult to find out. She’s an open book, a delightfully sweet one too.
Thinking about her has a strong yet soothing sensation taking over the fiery rush of adrenaline in my veins. It’s not something I have ever experienced before, and it’s quite bizarre.
I’m not distraught over it.
Strange, indeed.
I admire her ability to hold her voice steady. There had been times when her vocals would shake comically, her fear of me showing when she can’t hide it.
I don’t want her to hide what she’s feeling. I want to watch that fear gradually turn into acceptance before jumping back to panic within minutes.
It’s as if she wants to be comfortable with me, but she knows that a convicted felon cannot offer empathy. Sympathy stands a chance, but empathy is lost for an unfeeling crim
inal like me.
“We have reason to believe you’re harboring a fugitive!”
That’s bold of them to assume. I am here of my own volition, and I can fend for myself. To be precise, I’m the one who is refusing to leave. She had hinted that she’s scared of me being here.
If I leave, she will be vulnerable to unwanted men.
It is not appropriate or normal to have a bizarre obsession with a young girl. However, it doesn’t inconvenience my skewed morals. My fascination with Nia runs deeper than anything I have experienced in my life of violence and crime.
“You cleaned up the blood, and that’s aiding a fugitive in the eyes of the law!” the same voice screeches.
He’s grasping at straws.
“I am?” Nia says, so quietly that I nearly miss it.
My pulse rumbles in my ears as I wait. The straight-edge knife in my hand bites into my skin as the dog sniffs around the floorboards.
“Yes, now tell us where he is!” the man demands. “Carl Rupert’s a supremacy cultist!”
A heavy silence follows until Nia sputters in confusion. “Who’s that? I’ve never—”
“Then whose blood did you clean up?” the man accuses.
It’s clear to me that the anonymous tipper is the woman who was in the shop yesterday. She was the one who pointed out the smear of my blood on the counter, and Nia wasn’t sly in deflecting her attention away from it.
“I spilled paint!” she says with a long sigh.
“Sir!” a voice shouts from a distance. “No sign of Rupert or anyone else here!”
“You said you cleaned up blood!” The man’s voice goes higher until it cracks.
“I was handling roses before I started painting!” Nia counters. “They’re always delivered with thorns on them, and I have to cut them off.”
“Roses?”
I can imagine Nia nodding her head quickly. “Rosa Albertine, they’re pretty and very prickly.”
The lie is convincing when she says it with compelling assurance. The man’s voice turns into a hushed whisper, too low for me to hear as a shrilling whistle ripples through the basement.
Footsteps thwack up the stairs, and the door to the basement slams shut. I strain my ears to listen for the engine of the cars roaring obnoxiously; they do take their time leaving.
To be safe, I stay in the confined space longer as I breathe in the unpleasant staleness. I wouldn’t put it past them to try to flush me out with time.
Then, the door opens slowly. The deafening creak brings a change in my heartbeat after being stricken by the impolite banging of doors.
“Sergei?” Nia calls into the dark basement. “They’re gone.”
I love the way my name rolls off her small tongue. She says it with such delicacy that the honeyed voice batters my heart with viscous contentment.
“Their radios said something about finding Abdul Abernathy in the water well.”
I recall the name being that of another escaped inmate. There is hardly any human interaction in that supermax prison. Every prisoner is put into a cell for twenty-three hours with one rotating hour of free time.
Prison guards are not well-paid enough to deal with prisoners, making it much easier to bribe them into betraying their oath to serve and protect.
What a foolish dictum to go by when carnage brings thrilling fulfillment.
I open the hatch and climb over the small opening in the ground. This underground storage unit was not built for a man of my stature, my shoulders burn from getting scraped by the jagged edges.
A throb of pain punches me in the stomach as I lift my knee to push my weight up. I shouldn’t do strenuous movements when I’m still healing, but this beats the alternative. I would rather not be caught and put back into a cell.
“Are you alright?” she asks as she skitters closer to me.
I close the hatch and groan faintly as another wave of tenderness gathers around the wound. She stands with her hands twisting in discomfort as her pretty lips curl compassionately.
“Painful,” I mutter.
That’s a lie. I’m only sore, and the pain slips away with the flat beats of my heart. I’ve had life-threatening injuries that top this one.
I just want her to put her little hands on me.
“I never knew it existed,” she mumbles in bewilderment as she stares at the latched hiding space.
It is possible she never noticed. It’s hidden deep in the clustered corner under useless things. The seams and the latch blend into the cement floor.
Luckily for us, the scent of flowers did distort the dog’s senses.
I stretch my shoulders and roll my neck, cracking noisily as I put a comforting hand over the wound again. Nia blinks harshly and snaps her attention back to me, her hands trembling as she steps closer.
“Did it reopen?” she asks frantically.
I don’t answer her immediately while I relish the frantic petting as she runs her hands over the black shirt.
“I’m sorry,” I offer gravely. “You’ve gone out of your way to bring me clothes, and it’s ruined.”
She wrenches her hands away with a blush, her feet gauchely moving back as her body recoils at the memory of our situation.
Nia left the shop yesterday to bring me clothes from a donation shelter. She had chosen neutral colors for me and discarded the orange jumpsuit along with the white shirt.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs shyly.
“Is it?” I counter with a bold step towards her. “You have aided my refuge once again, little girl. You are more than a complicit partner now.”
Nia frowns and struggles to explain her side when I stalk up to her trembling form. The sudden raid of the shop had shaken her up, and she’s unable to calm down.
I run a knuckle against her pink cheek. She shudders, and an involuntary mewl escapes her parted lips. As if my touch is magic-laced, her shoulders sluggishly relax as the tremors slow down.
“I—” Nia swallows harshly. “I didn’t want to get in trouble.”
She’s more naïve than I thought.
I keep my judgments to myself. It won’t do any good to scare her into paranoia. I want to see her sweet smile, not that unfortunate contortion of a grimace.
“Since you’ve helped me twice,” I reckon cunningly as I bring her chin up to watch the crippling fear on her face. “It’d be impolite of me to not return the gesture.”
“I don’t want anything,” she whispers tentatively with her eyes refusing to blink.
I brush off her apprehension. If I have learned anything over the years commanding groups of criminals to do my bidding, it is that everyone wants something. Maybe they aren’t aware of it at that moment, but they always want more than they bargained for.
I want Nia, and I will make her want me.
“Don’t be rash in deciding, little girl,” I purr hoarsely.
Her breath hitches and her cheeks burn with a vibrant shade of scarlet.
It won’t be too challenging to get her to fall into the same despairingly black spin of obsession as I am.
“Anything you desire, I will hand it to you,” I vow bleakly.
She shakes her head and spins around to awkwardly walk towards the bottom stair. Her hand holds the wooden rail for support when she stops to glance over her shoulder.
“Wouldn’t it be better to not… make connections?” she says, unconvinced. “I shouldn’t be helping you or even interacting with you!”
Her fear of being thrown in prison for aiding a criminal is valid. I understand where her mind is wandering, but I don’t care. I won’t let that stop me from marking her as mine.
I trek up the creaking staircase and inhale fresh oxygen. The trace of pungent flowers come with it. It’s not as bothersome as yesterday, but it takes time for my lungs to adjust to the abundance of scents.
I scan the empty shop and out the window, the knife I had snag off the workstation aims downward as I wait for an ambush.
Those dimwitted cops had l
eft.
I drop the weapon on the counter beside me and release a long sigh. Nia takes a small step closer to me, but not close enough for me to grab her if I need to.
It’s precautionary. I’d say it’s a hindrance to me; I always want to have access to her delicate body.
“Could you check if I’m bleeding again, Nia?” I inquire with a smile.
Her slender throat bobs as she curls her tiny hands into fists, but she nods gawkily at my suggestion. She doesn’t want me to drop dead in the middle of the shop.
I leave the reassurance about my life expectancy for a later time. Having her fuss over the non-threatening wound warms the iciness in my heart.
“It’s better if you’re sitting down,” she mentions as she waves her hand to the side.
I make my way up the stairs to her bedroom on the second floor. She keeps the door to her personal space close to prevent the overpowering fragrances from breaching it, and she keeps the second-story window open for fresh air.
It’s a nice change that my lungs need.
I sit in the chair at the corner. It faces her bed and is placed at an angle that’s optimal for fresh oxygen. She skitters to me with her arms cradling the first-aid kit.
Lifting the hem of my shirt, I intend to make this as effortless as possible for her. She scrambles to hold my arms down with her feeble strength. The moment she touches me, the power in my muscles goes haywire before obliterating itself.
“Keep it on!” she pleads pitifully. “Please!”
Her face turns distressingly red while her fingers tremble uncontrollably.
Is she inexperienced with men?
Why did that assumption come to mind?
However, it would be pleasing to know the answer. I could ask her outright, but that would risk her fainting from embarrassment. She can hardly handle a bare chest.
The winning part of me wants to rip the shirt over my head just to test my theory of her inexperience linking to her virginity.
“Sergei?”
Her pretty face comes back into focus as she secures the bandage again. “What’re you doing?”
I regard her with confusion until the faint brush of her silken hair runs down my knuckles. My hand had reached into her hair and cupped the back of her head.
