by Hera August
The sensory lights click off just at the prompt time they should. Like a panther, he crawls, kneeling ever so slightly forward, his brow alert to the unimaginable circumstances. Everything is mapped out in his head, every avenue and shadow of the building. He leans his weight onto the garbage disposal closest to the door. His fingers graze the lock-pick in his back pocket. He fishes it out, nipping the opening with his teeth and trapping the metal utensil with his lips, placing the cover back in his pocket.
He counts to sixty and the lights flash on again. That’s the second consecutive round. Next round he goes—bypass the alarm and get to the south-corner office. He only has a window of roughly twenty minutes before someone from the main security calls in asking about the dead alarm. That gives him a solid fifteen minutes to do his job and not get pinched.
The guard's footsteps fade as they round the corner again and the light switches off just as his watch lights up.
Time to play.
SHE HAS TO ESCAPE.
Belle has only been at the ball for a few hours and the need to flee is greater than ever.
Emmett Irving is here.
Why is he at the school ball? He’s not even a student...
She paces as fast as she can in her heels, needing a breath of fresh air. But hiding under a rose-lined archway, Emmett creeps up behind her. Trying to move past him, he blocks her path. “What do you want?” she spits.
The smirk on his face makes her skin crawl. "Why don’t I give you a ride back to my place,” he says, stepping so close to her, she can smell ashtray and whiskey on his breath. “This is your last chance…” His fingers snake up her arm. “…before you fuck every man at college, Petal.”
Suddenly, a sickening sensation clenches in her stomach when he calls her ‘Petal.’
Her instincts tell her to run away, but before she can react, he slips one of the spaghetti-straps of her dress down her shoulder. “I know what’s you like,” he slurs, “jus’ a quick dirty fuck in the backseat.”
“Get off me!” she shrieks, pushing him away.
“What’s the matter, Petal? You use me and think—”
Belle kicks him in the groin with her two-inch heel. He plunges to the ground, moaning. His body curls up like a baby, his face reddening like fire.
“I’d. Rather. Die,” she grits out, “than let you touch me ever again.”
Something punches hard inside her, squeezing her strength like a damp rag. Her knees knock together, her joints and muscles scream to ball up and release itself.
Don’t… Don’t let this bastard see you cry.
Tugging the strap back over her shoulder, her skin prickles as though his touch was poisonous. She should call for a taxi and leave. But Belle is at the mercy of her anger and she has to get away from him. Immediately.
She storms off and walks all the way back to her house, leaving the hurt pride on Emmett Irving’s face to match the hurt in his groin.
The slam of the front door shakes the house and the walls vibrate. Her mind finally catches up with her blinding fury.
Crap. Probably woke Toby.
Stomping for nearly an hour, in high heels, makes a stinging friction against her skin. She uses the wall as support to kick them off. Looking ahead, her home is so dark and ghostly, she thinks she’s alone. But then she hears papers whooshing around in the study. The light in the den is swallowed by the darkness of the house. Her father must be working late again. She won’t disturb him, especially this late at night. If the thud of the door didn't wreck his concentration, he must be swamped. She checks the clock at the top of the stairs. 12:59PM. How did she even last that long at the party?
Belle bounds up the stairs, her body worn and wound tight. Her spirit is tired, her mind hurt, and all she wants is endless sleep. But she hesitates just outside her bedroom door, looking in. Her bed is unmade, the blankets are lopsided, the puffy waves of fabric inviting her in. She leans in like they’re calling to her, but she can’t accept. She needs time to let her skin settle in and breathe.
Fresh air fills her nostrils and her senses relax. The afterthoughts of the ball already bleeding out from her body. Belle half smiles at the thought of Emmett having a permanent limp and brushes the cascading caramel hair from around her face. The sweet coolness from her window breezes around her. She peers in, catching the bright end of the Moon through the half-slit window. The view will be spectacular in the attic. Aching with a parched man’s thirst to be up in her hiding place—where she can just be—she twists around to face the stairs. But then her body snaps back, just as her mind pauses.
That’s strange... I don’t remember opening the window...
Her mother.
On tippy-toes, Belle ascends the remainder of the creaky wooden steps. Her mother is always snooping in her room. But it isn’t like her to leave windows open at night...
The attic is painfully quiet and everything appears dimensionally flat like a portrait. An unfamiliar feeling crackles inside her and she’s reluctant to enter as if she’s disturbing something. As her bare feet settle onto the attic floor, the uncanny sense stays with her. It doesn’t break like she thinks it will. It clings to her body like a swarm of hungry mosquitoes. Moonlight spills around her as she closes in on the window. Her breathing settles through its trembles, yet the skin on the back of her knees starts to tingle along with her spine.
Her anger, her mortification, her bruised pride—it all comes beating down on her at once. Tonight is something that will never happen again.
Her finger skims the edge of the window. “Ow!” The wood isn’t sanded down and a drop of blood appears on her finger. But something sticky, something darker, tears Belle's gaze from her wound to look down and discover a dark spot of liquid on the ledge. She backs a smidge-of-an-inch away, her eyes following the spot of liquid down the ledge and the ones that accompany it on the painted wall below.
Wait… That’s not paint...
She hasn’t painted today and what lays on her finger is warm and... fresh. Unaware her breathing is gathering in her throat, she tilts a finger into the moonlight and gasps.
It’s red.
Dark crimson red.
Oh God... it’s blood.
She smears a little red on her finger with her thumb; the tremble starts in that one finger and crawls all over. It doesn’t make any sense. Tendrils of terror weave around her spine. Her mind races and her body slows down at the same time.
Run... Run... RUN!
She begs her body to move when the hairs on the back of her neck buzz in attention. Everything goes from slow motion in her brain to fast forward. She hears herself yell the word ‘run,’ and just when her body reacts, something black surrounds her.
Her mouth opens to cry out, but the cry falls muted to the black blockade of a glove over her. Her mind screams in her brain, her arms and legs paralyzed by the cement force fenced around her.
Whoever has her, secures themselves further with their other arm—a very thick, weighty arm—by pushing her deeper into their very large and hard body, locking themselves around her torso.
Her assailant leans in.
The voice is sonorous, imposingly deep and full when he speaks, a low husky timber. But all Belle can comprehend in the hazy blur is, leather creaking and the smell of blood on her finger as he mutters against her ear, “Don't move."
Chapter Three
“DON’T MOVE,” his fierce whisper commands against her throat. Belle, clinging to the hairline thread of sanity, obeys.
So close and out of breath, he keeps repeating the same words, “Don't move.” His tone carries alpha control, but the more that time passes, the slushier his words come out, along with heavier breaths.
Standing for at least a minute, the only thing that changes is the pressure of his solid body into her delicate one. His mouth is so close to her ear—and then he shifts. His forehead digs into the flesh just behind her ear, the bones of his skull are piercing and sharp.
I have to break
free, somehow…
But judging from the weight of him, he has more than ninety pounds on her. His flesh-piercing grip loosens around her waist, but it isn’t enough. Barely able to breathe, her eyes search, but her brain comes up barren. She knows this room like the back-of-her-hand, but the terror of the situation eradicates all possible weapons, escapes, and even screams.
He hasn’t killed me yet…
Still being alive is a good sign for Belle because if he’s some homicidal murderer, she’d be lying in her own pool of blood by now.
He could be a burglar… or worse… God, no... a rapist.
She has to do something. But what? Physically hurting him in her position is impossible right now. Maybe talking is the only solution of a way out. If she can distract him, get his mind on something else, freedom may be in her grasp. She gulps a couple of times.
Shit, shit, shit… what can I say that won’t make him snap?
She twists her head, slowly, hoping he won’t suddenly attack her. But then fear clogs her throat. She can’t speak without choking. Forgetting any sense of logic she just had, she uses the only weapon that comes from instinct.
Her teeth.
She bites him, right through the leather. She hears a grunt as his hand swings up, and then a second later, the rest of her body is unbound from him. She lunges for the door, her hand latching onto the cool feeling of the doorknob—
“Help...” The hiss is an urgent hot cry, but it’s cold. Deadly cold. Every impulse screams at her to run. And not look back.
But she doesn’t.
Instead she turns, picturing a gun or knife that has to be drawn along with a sadistic grin, stamping her fate before she meets the afterlife. And for a moment, peering at him, she’s hypnotized by his gaze. Backlit by the Moon, leaning against one of her paintings, he looks like a carved stone idol with luminous jewel eyes. Belle wants to turn and run but she can’t move, rooted to the floor in the grip of fear.
The moonlight bounces off his profile making the skin appear gray and red. There’s a vein on the side of his neck protruding. From the contortion of his face, the sweat dripping off his nose, he’s in a great deal of pain. Her eyes travel lower, her hand still glued to the door just in case this is a way the beast lures its prey...
He’s clutching his right side and his right elbow is locked to the side of his stomach like he’s a disfigured piece of clay.
The blood... it’s his.
Belle shakes her head slowly. She has to call 911. She can’t help this man and she doesn’t want to ever lay her eyes on him. Her mind is made up and set.
The floor creaks, her body jolting a little to obey the miniscule amount of rational in her. But the creak goes off like gunfire in the silent room, that for a few deathly minutes, has only consisted of both their breaths inhaling and exhaling.
“Don't."
She starts to open the door as he forces himself to straighten to his full height. Belle's kneecaps threaten to crack, estimating his size to be over six-foot-two.
She points her finger at him when he takes half-a-step toward her. “Y-You stay right there," she warns. He doesn’t listen. He isn’t even looking at her or anything. The slump of his posture tilts forward. He’s weakening. “Just stay there. The police will deal with you."
“No… No cops.” His hoarse voice croaks before he coughs into his gloved hand. “Just… let me..."
“I-I think you should just stay still… Whatever happened to you… I'm sure moving around won’t make it any better.” She hates the accent of fright that tinges her voice, but she can’t control herself.
He just keeps right on walking toward her.
“Look there—if you don't stop moving I'm going to scream." His head shoots up at her courage and he looks right through her; his blue eyes pained and ghostly. And then recognition ricochets against her skull.
The man from last night.
The one with the Devil's eyes.
“You…” Her heart thumps louder and louder.
Has he been stalking me? Is he here to—
And then he collapses.
The thud sends the dust on the floor flying everywhere, floating about the room like tiny fairies who’ve been hiding in all the creaks and crevasses of the old wooden floor. An easel crashes to the floor and Belle’s heart beats overtime as she whips her head around searching for a ghost in the dark.
Calming her breathing down, she braves a few inches forward, counting the steps along the way, frantic for a distraction. She listens. His heavy pants have ceased.
Is he… dead? Oh God, no... There’s only one way to know for sure... Damn it!
Belle kneels next to him, short on thought, full on action. Her left hand supports her weight, the other one leaning in to graze his forehead.
He’s hot and clammy, his forehead leaves a sheen of sweat on her palm. She wipes it on her dress and sees that his other hand is clutching the wound. Her hand hovers over his, then relaxes. Her nails slide over the skin of his knuckles and a strange jolt runs through her. Ignoring the physical warning it echoes, she struggles to remove the death grip he has over his side. The wound doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, but she can’t tell how much blood he’s lost to begin with.
The bullet wound is in the right side of his abdomen. By the hold he has on himself, a shattered rib or two is the least amount of damage done. There’s no telling what other internal injuries lay behind the blood. And the more that time passes, the lesser his chances are.
Belle stiffens for a second when she sees a gun tucked into his jeans—
“Please...” His fingers circle her forearm and the pressure jerks her off-balance, forcing her to hover over him.
Close. He is too damn close.
“I'll leave… just… don't say anything. I can't—” He winces, doesn’t breathe, just goes rigid. She guesses it’s from a spasm of pain. His eyes look like they’re about to pop through his closed lids as his teeth grind.
She has to call someone before it’s too late. Before she’s reporting a dead intruder instead of a live one. But when she makes a move to leave his side, something catches her eye.
Something silver glints in the moonlight around his neck.
What is that…?
Curious, she leans in, her eyes squinting, trying to get a clearer view of the object.
A silver cross…
But it isn’t the pendant that draws her attention. To the left, at the base of his neck, there is a tattoo, a word or... her fingertip feathers over it.
Oh my God... it can’t be...
She is so close to him that there is no denying the script inked into his skin.
‘OLIVIA.’
It’s you…
Her entire being shakes and thousands of shivers shoot through her spine as though someone has just walked over her grave.
H-How…? How is this possible? Do you know who I am? Are you... I-I—
The weight of her past almost buries her then, and her mouth opens just as his body caves into her. The tight grasp of his fingertips around her arm lessens a bit, but they remain encased around her.
“Please…” he chokes out, “…no cops."
“I-I…” She is speechless, doesn't know what to say. “You… you need a doctor.” The gentleness of her voice catches her off-guard. She sounds just like she does when she’s trying to soothe her baby brother Toby. Belle immediately withdraws her arm and he doesn’t move to stop her. “You broke into my house so I need to call—”
“The window was open."
“Are you…?” She searches his face. He actually has the nerve to have a faint smirk playing there. She ignores the toying edge of his voice. “You shouldn't move. Once I call, they should get you to the hospital pretty fast."
“I can’t. I can’t go… to the hospital."
“Why not?"
“Because,” he barely breathes out, “I can’t."
“I can’t just leave you here. I need to let..."
His breaths are coming harder the more he talks. “I can't go. Pretend you never saw me."
“Pretend?”
His eyes turn serious and he raises them to her. “I didn’t take anything. I… no-one can know I’m here… Please… There are people... There’s this gang… they’re after me… If I go to hospital, they’ll find me and kill me… Just let me leave."
“The hospital—”
“No,” he says fiercely, almost spitting the words out. His profile sharpens and a shot of adrenaline shoots through her body. She retracts just a step. He eyes her up and down, and she gulps as a drip of sweat falls over his lips.
Here, in her arms, is the man who saved her. The mysterious biker who rode up on his bike, shot her assailant, carried her in his arms, and left her in a hospital, never to be seen or heard from again. The man she’s been dreaming about nearly every night for the last four years...
But can she trust him? It’s not like she knows him. Four years is a long time—enough time for a person to change. And why is he here of all places? Has he tracked her down? Is he… stalking her?
He turns to face the ceiling. “I won’t hurt you, I—"
“Isabelle?"
Shit!
Her father.
“Don’t,” he warns. “The ones after me... if they know I was here they’ll come after your family.”
“Why? We haven’t done anything.”
“Doesn’t matter... They’ll do whatever it takes to make sure my death... can’t be tracked back to them... They’ll... kill you all.”
“Isabelle?!”
She dashes to the door, pats her hair, brushing the anxiety down with each stroke of her palms against the sides of her dress. Belle steps out from the darkness and into the light.
“Y-Yes?"
Her father stands at the bottom of the second set of stairs. His voice is almost a whisper, but she can sense the underlining worry because it mirrors her own. “Is everything okay? I heard something bang up there."
“I... uh…"
“Isabelle. I told you not to go up there at night. Your mother and I have all our junk stored up there. You could really hurt yourself."
