The Possessive Convict

by Celia Crown

  While cops question nearby households, many residents simply don’t care about finding the killer.

  It’s a terrible thing to say, but they think those boys deserved to be put down like animals. They hope the perpetrator doesn’t get caught; they’re the hero of the town in many people’s eyes.

  That goes to show how much those teenagers were despised.

  However, all of that is only hearsay from my gossiping neighbors.

  No one knows for certain what happened.

  The mayor wants to hold a conference at City Hall later today after they gather more information.

  “What do you think happened?” I ask Sergei.

  He turns to the side, watching the neighbors from the window while staying hidden. I had fresh flowers delivered this morning and seeing him surrounded by them is a strange contrast with his black clothing.

  “Who knows?” he finally utters with that ridiculously deep voice.

  That voice has only been heard a couple of times when he wakes up. I’d be lying to myself if I say it’s the same deepness; it’s more of a baritone and bone-chillingly hoarse.

  Nothing like this has ever happened in this sleepy town. At times, one or two drunken brawls might lead to jail time for bodily harm with a weapon.

  Even the mayor proudly stated they haven’t had a murder for fifty years.

  Of course, heat-of-the-moment deaths, car accidents, and suicides happen. Just not murder-suicide by a teenager.

  This town has lost more children in one day than all the years the sheriff has been working.

  What made the boy snap?

  If one of the gang members had a falling out, the town would know because there would be vandalism somewhere. There is none of that, the incident was in an isolated woody area about a mile from the flower shop.

  The music I heard before going to bed was from their party. The party that Dakota had mentioned. A part of me, a small and evil part of me, hopes that he’s in the group of deceased children.

  A flare of guilt gnaws at me, reprimanding my indifference and seething in anger at the lack of sympathy. My mother had taught me to be kind and become a woman she can be proud of.

  I can’t help it. I don’t feel any sadness for those teenagers. I’m relieved, actually. They were troublesome and annoying with good-for-nothing superiority.

  To put it offensively, I think.

  Another spontaneous thought jumps into my mind. Maybe the boy was sick of the group and took the rest of the gang out.

  I can speak for myself; I’m tired of their pointless existence.

  Oh, that’s heartless of me to think. Still, the sympathetic side of me lies dormant.

  When did I become like this?

  Thinking back, I try to remember when this uncaring side of me started.

  Sergei. It was when I first met Sergei.

  The moment he barged into my life with his bloodied jumpsuit and the eyes of a hostile demon, I knew the shattered peacefulness of my world had changed my views.

  He’s an enigma. The image of a criminal in my head has always been a rough-looking person with unflattering features and a nasty personality. It’s what cartoons and books have taught me.

  Sergei isn’t like that. He changed my embarrassing and reprehensible views. He’s a strikingly attractive man with courteous manners and a bewitching air of vitriolic power.

  “You’re happy.”

  I give a startled yelp. His hand cradles my cheek, stroking the hot skin as the musky scent whiffs into my lungs.

  Jerking my attention to his face, the fierce glow of blue darkens with malicious persistence.

  I’m in love with his eyes.

  “You’re pleased with their demise.”

  It’s not an accusation; I hear it as a simple truth that he observed from my silence. My instinct tells me to apologize for the callous thought, but the dominant side doesn’t see where I went wrong.

  I don’t like this change in me. I’m scared of turning into someone my mother would likely not approve of. She’s gone, but her belief in mutual respect continues to swim in my genes.

  Unmistakably, Sergei plays a massive part in this.

  “Was it you?” I blurt out in a panic.

  I wanted to ask him earlier, but self-doubt hit me first. I’m not ready for the answer, and I’ve given some thought to how I should react if he says he’s the one who took those teenagers’ lives.

  He smiles and ambiguously says, “I’m not fond of owing favors.”

  What’s this man talking about? Who did he owe a favor that needed to be repaid with blood?

  Sergei chuckles roughly, shaking me from my jumbled thoughts. He hums thoughtfully as his hand coasts down to my slender neck. His thick fingers settle around it to graze the erratic pulse with purpose.

  “The common approach would be to return the favor with money,” he reckons with a deft pinch to my neck.

  I hope I didn’t step on a landmine when I accused him of murder. He could easily snap my neck, and I wouldn’t have a second to defend myself.

  “It’s impersonal and momentary, the ties between us are severed, and there is no inconvenience.”

  What he’s describing is a business transaction.

  “I did owe you, little girl,” he purrs hoarsely. “I still do.”

  “Owe me?” I echo quietly. “I didn’t do—oh.”

  He’s repaying me for the time I didn’t rat him out to the police. Honestly, I was thinking about my safety. I didn’t want to die by his hand, but I also didn’t want to be thrown in jail.

  “I have a long way to go, Nia,” Sergei murmurs as he leans in.

  “That’s not enough?” I ask in disbelief.

  He killed children, seven children he had never met. He did repay me for keeping him from returning to prison.

  It dawns on me how deep I’m in. Sergei had tied me to him while we sink into disgrace together.

  “You helped me avoid years of prison,” he supposes taciturnly. “Moreover, I’m fond of you.”

  There’s more than affection in his voice when he speaks. It leans towards an unfathomable monstrosity that warps the blues of his eyes and the beautiful smile on his face.

  I’m still afraid of him, yet I feel protected in his presence.

  “I can give you everything you desire.” It’s familiar, shared with conviction, and faint coercion.

  He wants an answer.

  I don’t have one to give that’ll please him. “I don’t know. I never thought about payback for helping you.”

  “You’re selfless, Nia,” Sergei tuts quietly.

  Whatever he was going to add doesn’t come. The voice in the back of my head fills it in, and it calls me an idiot. I’m going to get scammed if I ever leave this place because I don’t learn to take advantage of people before they do it to me.

  We stand in silence. His hand engulfs my jaw and caresses the curve to relish the unspoken dominance over me.

  “Nothing is off-limits, little girl,” he says, “Not even me.”

  I blush and stammer through choking on my saliva. I fumble away from him, but his grip tightens like a cobra constrictor as he digs his fingers into the delicate curve of my neck. My heart clatters against my ribs, beating a buzzing rhythm that dampens the noise from outside.

  Sergei tilts his head, regarding me with those brilliant blue eyes as he reckons, “I want you to choose me as compensation.”

  He raises his other hand and presses a finger to my lips, silencing me and smiling at my bewilderment.

  “You did go out of your way to protect me from the police. The least I could do is to offer everything I have to you.”

  He’s playful. He’s also serious, profound clarity singeing the edges of his blue eyes like a ring of ardent hunger.

  “Nevertheless, the choice is yours. I would never take that from you.” He lets me go, and I inhale shakily while breaking a sweat on my forehead.

  I want him. I want him. I want him.

 
It’s a chanting song in my head, and I desperately want to say it. But fear of the unknown shoves the voice to the back of my mind.

  “I guess,” I squeak feebly with my frantic hands motioning vaguely. “I want to leave this town?”

  “You guess,” he repeats dully.

  My heart ticks with a harsh thump. I hate the flash of disappointment in his eyes and the way his lips twitch into a sullen frown.

  “I don’t know,” I admit as my blush fades. “I’ve never really wanted anything.”

  “Interesting,” he deliberates amusingly.

  The shift in his expression is a reminder of the vast difference between us. I can never read him, but he seems to know what I’m thinking at any given moment. It’s scary how he’s so observant yet keeps his findings to himself until he can use them at his discretion.

  Like how he used the stress the juvenile gang was causing me to justify killing them.

  “That’s fine,” he concedes with a smile. “Take your time.”

  Car tires crunching on gravel roll into the shop. Sergei glares over my head and reels back the sneering expression as the car door slams shut.

  “Nia,” he says curtly before slipping behind the backroom’s door frame.

  I smooth the wrinkles on my dress and turn to face the deputy who takes off his hat as he walks through the chiming door.

  “Howdy,” he greets me as he holds the hat to his chest.

  I nod. “Hello. What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Have you heard about what went down this morning?” he asks after he drops the hat on the glass counter.

  I go to stand behind it. “Yeah, I heard.”

  It’s hard not to know when my two elderly neighbors talk like they aren’t right next to each other. They do have biased views and put the blame on karma; they think the teenagers got what they deserved.

  The officer starts with easy questions and probes about the “protection fee” that everyone was forced to pay, or they would face spiteful retribution.

  He asks a peculiar question, “Who came in here? The one who always collected yours?”

  My brows furrow. “His name’s Dakota.”

  He murmurs the name and takes out his notepad, flipping to a written page.

  “Dakota, Dakota…” His eyes jump back to me. “There’s no ‘Dakota’ on the list.”

  I describe the young man’s appearance to him. I doubt the small police department doesn’t know the faces and names of those delinquents by heart. Everyone does, and we avoid them like they’re a curse that had manifested itself before our eyes.

  “He’s not on the list of the deceased,” he notes with a frown.

  I can’t stop the disappointment from rushing to my face. I pretend it is confusion mixed with compassion; the officer buys it with a sigh.

  Lying is becoming easier, and I can’t put a finger on the reason why. It probably has something to do with Sergei. All the changes in my psyche are because of him.

  “What can you tell me about him?” he questions diligently.

  I have no reason to hide my disdain for the young man. I tell the officer about the discomfort Dakota caused me when I started working here. My words can’t tarnish the boy’s reputation when he had already done that himself.

  I’m baffled that the families of those delinquents have not disowned them. I assume it’s because they don’t want any retaliation.

  “If you think of anything, give us a call.” The officer grabs his hat but lingers with creasing brows.

  He glances over my shoulder briefly, and a burst of fear roars under my skin. Sergei’s in the backroom and paranoia has me believing the officer saw something back there.

  “Could I borrow your bathroom?” he asks.

  I swallow thickly and point to the side. The bathroom can see into the back, but there is a clustered mess of storage containers that block most of the view.

  The problem is that Sergei is a huge man, a behemoth hovering like an eyesore.

  The officer comes out of the bathroom, and I watch him closely when he comes back to the counter. He plants his hat on his head and gazes at me from under the rim.

  He asks, “Do you have a man here?”

  “No,” I say with a dreadful crack in my voice.

  What’s with the choice of those words? An assumption about a man in the shop shouldn’t result from a trip to the bathroom.

  The toiletries. There’s one bathroom in the shop, and Sergei shares it with me.

  “Why do you ask?” I question him with suspicion.

  He shrugs with a polite chuckle. “I don’t mean to pry, but I saw men’s clothing in the basket.”

  At least he didn’t point out the pair of toothbrushes. I’d hate to make the excuse of using a different toothbrush for nighttime. That alone would probably spark wariness.

  “I like to sleep with them.” I return his casual shrug with a jerk of my shoulder.

  He doesn’t read too much into my answer as he nods in approval. He scans the shop and lingers on the racks of flowers, then turns to the windows that are open for air regulation.

  “Make sure to check the windows at night,” he advises. “Better safe than sorry, especially after this morning.”

  “Yes,” I mumble quietly. “Thanks, officer.”

  He bids me goodbye as he tips his hat. The chiming bell stop seconds later, but the car hasn’t moved yet. The engine didn’t start, so it’s fair to assume that he went next door to the liquor shop.

  Sergei chuckles from behind, his voice traveling down my spine as he presses his chest to my back. He holds my hips rigidly; the taut stretch of his fingers compelling my muscles to yield to his commanding grip to lean into his body.

  “He’s not gone yet!” I whisper.

  I peer out the closest window to search for the officer, but I don’t see any sign of him. He could be hiding somewhere to prove his suspicion that I’m harboring a man.

  I don’t see how that’s any of his business unless he thinks it’s the criminal he’s looking for.

  Fortunately, it is Sergei that he’s after, and he’s got his work cut out for him. Unfortunately, I’m guilty by association.

  What a crazy mess I’ve stepped into.

  If the FBI can’t find Sergei, I doubt a deputy can. It’s embarrassing to say, but this town’s police officers can’t even handle a few delinquents.

  The mayor is even more useless.

  “He might see you!” I mutter as I squirm.

  “He won’t, he has his hands full with a drunk.” Sergei hums, and the vibration shoots down to my ass.

  A baffling sensation breathes into my panties.

  “How would you know?” I tilt my head up.

  Sergei presses a kiss to my forehead abruptly. “I watch your neighbors. The man next door is a functioning alcoholic, stubborn like a bull and quite against the government too.”

  “That’s some level of stalking,” I point out.

  “Observation,” he counters. “We’ll agree to disagree.”

  He spins me around, planting my face into his warm chest as he nuzzles into the junction of my neck. His burly arms crush my spine and force me to arch into his strong body, but my arms lay stiffly by my sides.

  “This isn’t good,” he surmises grimly.

  “What isn’t?” I grasp his waist and shake him, but my weak hands don’t budge his thick muscles.

  “You’ve become a terrible liar.”

  I sputter, offended. There are so many things I want to dispute about that one statement. I end up biting my tongue to calm the indignation in my voice.

  “Let’s get something straight,” I chide as I slip my hand between us to jab at his chest. “I started lying for you, so I won’t get in trouble. Also, I’m a good liar. The officer left without knowing I’m hiding an escaped felon and the murderer.”

  His lips twitch roguishly. “You have my gratitude.”

  I squint my eyes, skepticism clinging to my lashes as they flutter.


  “I’m indebted to you,” he concurs.

  This is bad. I didn’t expect this conversation to go this route.

  I clear my throat. “It’s not like I threw myself out there to save you.”

  I’m the last person who could pull off a heroic moment by launching myself to block a bullet for him.

  “You threw away your life, your safety, and your integrity for me.”

  For a criminal, I think it’s what he wanted to say. I never thought of it that way. I was selfish and only did what I believed would get me in less trouble. I could get on the bad side of the law, but Sergei did something to land him in a supermax prison.

  He has no regard for the law.

  I made the right choice to save him, or I would be dead already.

  I did nothing wrong.

  Chapter Six

  Sergei

  Slowly, the abrasive bandage unwraps from around my waist.

  The wound has healed but is still sensitive where the stitches crisscrossed. I am not at risk for infection because Nia had competently cared for the wound.

  I didn’t have time to deal with the inmate who shanked me. He wanted to take the leadership role that I never wanted, but he didn’t believe that. He thought I was a master manipulator who would eventually turn the other two escapees against him.

  I’m merely good at lying, a cherished trait of businessmen.

  I never asked anyone to follow me. I had my own plan and having them in my vicinity would raise the chances of being caught.

  He attacked me, and I defended myself. I had no other reason, but the other two inmates ran in the opposite direction. They had received the message clearly; they were going to be next.

  “You want me to cut the stitches?” Nia sputters anxiously.

  “I don’t see a reason not to,” I note. “You stitched me.”

  “Doesn’t mean I should be the one to take them out,” she protests as she shifts between my legs.

  The pair of thin scissors is sitting on her bed now that she has cut the bandage. I never allow a dangerous weapon near me unless I’m the one handling it, and I certainly would never let anyone come close to me with a sharp instrument.