by Rina Kent
I know a few things about trouble. I’ve had countless during my career. The last one was being shot.
But this woman?
This tiny, mighty thing? I have a hunch she’ll be the worst trouble I’ve ever gotten myself into.
I settle in a room right above the rocky cliff of the sea. Surprisingly, the constant hits of the waves against the shore aren’t as annoying as I thought they’d be. It’s also a good location, security wise. If anyone attempts to climb the cliff, they’d need a lot of time – and luck to escape the crashing waves.
Due to dust, not so much light filters through the windows’ glass. I pull the dark brown blinders on, too. Risk of snipers. Although it’d be hard to find a good position on those thin branches. The trees would be near impossible to climb while carrying sniper gear.
Whoever built this mansion surely chose a top-notch secured place.
Still, I need to scurry the surrounding forest and plant a few traps. With the injury, I need all the help I can get to remain alive.
I remove my shirt and check on the wound beneath the gauze. It doesn’t burn as much as before. This level of pain is barely noticeable to the likes of me.
A different type of pain, however, is digging its way to my head. Soon, I’ll be worse than a paralysed person, so I need to do this fast.
After throwing my T-shirt on the chair, I sit on the bed and dial Paul. He was my contact when I came to France. His only job was to get me into the country, and therefore, he had no idea about my mission. However, I’m hoping he has some clue about the traitor.
Voicemail.
Again.
Fuck.
I’ll have to visit him in the slums. If he has anything to do with this, I’ll bestow him with the Joker card.
The card is Team Zero’s tradition. Whenever one of us wants to play with a target, they’d place a Joker card on said target. Whoever retrieves the card is the winner and gets to play with the target whichever way they like.
If Paul is involved with the traitor, I’ll glue a fucking card to his forehead.
A throb starts at the back of my head and shoots to the front with a crippling force. I groan, gritting my teeth. I use the antique bedpost to stagger to my feet.
Lying around always makes the symptoms worse.
A gutting pain snaps in my chest, and it’s a lot a worse than being shot. Or attacked by a fucking axe.
I jerk back against something wooden. Drawers open at the force of my fall. Pictures and books scatter on the ground.
Unable to stop the pain, I follow them. My body splays on the hard wooden flooring, covered by a thin carpet. Sweat drips from my forehead, and a full body shake takes hold of me.
My fingers spasm. This is bad. It could mean a seizure is about to follow.
My blurry, disoriented vision falls on the duffel bag. On Omega. My salvation and my fucking damnation. One shot and all this will be over. No more suffering on a daily basis.
I’m dying anyway, so who cares if Omega does it or an enemy’s bullet?
But then, the thoughts that stopped me from taking the shots this entire month stab my head.
One shot and I’ll be a mindless machine, only designed to kill.
One shot and I will start forgetting who the fuck I am in my blind search for blood.
One shot and I will become the type of person who only felt alive when taking lives.
Not anymore.
I hold my head, focusing on the washed-out carpet. It takes every particle of energy to drag my body into a sitting position, back against the bed. This is a better alternative than lying down.
A few more minutes and the symptoms will be gone. At least the seizure will. The pain is a lot less intense than when I first stopped taking the shots. Besides, the bullet wound is meddling with my pain receptors. This is worse than it’s supposed to be.
My gaze falls on the scattered pictures on the floor. My lips part. The excruciating pain almost filters to the background.
Almost.
A younger version of Nurse Betty — or Eloise, or whatever the fuck her name is — holds an older man’s hand and smiles big at the camera. ‘Best Daddy in the World’ is written with hearts at the top. The man isn’t her grandfather. Oh. Abso-fucking-lutely not.
I wouldn’t forget that face even if it meant my death.
That man, the one smiling down at Eloise, like he has a fucking heart, is one of the founders of The Pit. The man who injected us with Omega until most of Team Zero died.
Doctor Dominic fucking Johnson.
Now, I have his daughter under my mercy.
6
Eloise
A loud thud pulls me from sleep. Or a mimicking of sleep; the phase where my eyes are closed but I still sense and hear everything around me.
I sit up in bed and hug Charlotte’s chubby body to my chest. She whines but continues her slumber as if nothing has happened.
My attention drifts to the ceiling as if it can magically become see-through.
Whatever I did today was such a bad idea. Who the hell rents their house to their potential killer?
I don’t even know his name.
But Papa’s house is at stake. I can’t just let that man destroy it. Judging from how he escaped from the hospital while practically delirious with fever, I have no doubt that he’ll fulfil his threat.
I don’t want to find out.
Besides, what do I have to lose?
He already paid me. I can start clearing my debts. If he changes his mind and kills me, then so be it. It’s not like I have any reason to cling to life aside from Papa’s house.
No relatives I’m close to either.
Except for my dad. An old ache resurfaces in my chest, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
Four years ago, right before the cancer hit my mother, Dad disappeared on us. He vanished in England and never returned. My mother was devastated, but she never for once tried to search for him. It’s as if she knew there will be a day where he’ll leave us. She was in pain every time I questioned her about him, so I buried that pain in my chest and quit jabbing her wound.
Dad wouldn’t have left us willingly. Whenever he wasn’t on business trips to England, he loved us and breathed for us. He would’ve done anything to protect ‘his girls’ as he called us. I considered flying to England to search for him myself, but I know no one there. Besides, Maman fell sick and I dedicated all my time for her.
Now that she’s gone, I’m terrified to even search for him. If I do and he turns out to be also dead, I might never return from this.
Oh, merde.
Dad!
All my father’s stuff is on the second floor. How could I forget about that?
I jump out of bed, Charlotte’s tiny body slips from my hands to the bed with a huff. I shove my feet into slippers and put on a robe while stumbling out of the room and up the stairs.
No one is supposed to know about my father, especially not a shady, nameless stranger.
Chest heaving, I stop in front of the second bedroom door and knock.
No answer.
I try again, louder.
More deafening silence greets me.
Strange. There was a thud a few minutes ago. Surely he’s inside.
With careful fingers, I push open the door. It gives a slight squeak in protest. When it’s ajar, the dark room comes into view.
I remain rooted at the threshold, trying to make out any shape. “Hello?”
No answer. Instead, a cool scent of leather drifts my way. What is he doing? Playing hide and seek or something?
I reach blindly to the wall on the right until I hit the light switch.
The room bathes in yellow light. A half-naked man comes into view. He’s huddled beside the bed. His large muscles on full display. More of those intricate bird tattoos swirl along his toned abdomen.
Lips pursed in a sign of pain, he clutches his head in both hands as if attempting to stop it from exploding. A painful-looking crease
settles between his brows. Sweat beads on his forehead, dampening his blond strands and trickling on the side of his right cheek.
“What’s wrong?” I carefully advance towards him. One hesitant step after another. When he shows no response, I crouch by his side.
A low sound drifts from the back of his throat. Something between a whimper and a groan.
The sound lures me closer like a moth to fire. The pain and suffering written all over his face are disturbingly close to Maman’s. Even when she tried to hide her pain from me, to let me bathe in the stupid hope I drew for myself. Deep down, I knew she didn’t have much time left, yet I chose to ignore it.
I shake my head and focus on the English Patient.
My hand automatically goes to check on his wound. I don’t see a nameless stranger, a fugitive, or even a killer. I see a person hurting. My life could mean nix, but other people’s lives are a different story.
I would never leave someone in pain if I could help. No matter how monstrous they might be.
My fingers clasp around his wrist to check his pulse. It’s skyrocketing. I remove the bandage. I expected an infection – a possible reason for his delirium – but the wound is clean.
Bizarre.
The man still whimpers, a low haunted sound that soon turns into a deep-throated growl. Primal and animalistic and with so much pain.
He thrashes in place, shoulders quaking until they hit the bed with brute force, I instinctively push back. We’re not to touch a patient while they’re having a seizure unless we can handle them. The English patient would need a few male nurses to subdue him.
My mouth dries as I watch this massive man seemingly possessed by demons, tossing left and right. The veins in his biceps and his rigid muscles contract with every move. The intricate small tattoos shine with the sheen of sweat. Then I peek a glimpse at a large tattoo covering his back. Its beak is open in a wide shout, releasing countless little birds. There’s no sound, but the design is so vivid, I can almost hear the gut-wrenching scream.
A raven.
The tattoo darkens with the man’s twists. The shadows become as eerie as the stranger.
Just when I consider calling an ambulance – and possibly exposing him — which means getting my house blown up, the seizure subsides.
He remains perfectly still except for the twitching fingers and his harsh, heavy breaths. His eyes stay closed, but a cloak of peacefulness covers his face as if he didn’t just go through a seizure.
“Hey...” I say, tentatively reaching a hand to shake him. “Are you all right?”
The moment my fingers connect with his shoulder, a large hand clasps around my wrist, and my whole body is yanked forward.
I yelp, eyes shutting. My hands reach out to grab onto something for balance. I end up gripping something warm.
What the...?
My lids slowly flutter open to be greeted by the most heated eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. And I’m straddling his lap, legs on each side of his hard thighs and both hands on his bare shoulders -- a little off the reddening wound. My robe is tangled and my nightie bunches up to the middle of my thighs.
My pulse spikes at the proximity and how tiny I feel compared to his size. I bite the inside of my cheek. I’ve never been this close to a man before.
Like a deer caught in the headlights, I just stare at the icy blue eyes that should’ve never appeared in my life. Or my house. Or anywhere near me.
Instead of the death they promised, something entirely different is shining in them. A sinister promise. A dark journey. Instead of the safe numbness I’m supposed to feel, my heartbeat thunders in my ears, causing a shiver to ghost up my spine.
For the first time in forever, numbness isn’t taking over everything. Something is scratching at its surface. Something wild and unknown and... exciting.
Exciting.
I can’t even remember the last time I’ve been excited. What does ‘excited’ even mean?
I’m guessing it has to do with the tingles crawling up my limbs.
“Breaking your own rule, aren’t you?” He drawls in that mesmerising British accent. His head tilts to the side until his nose gets impossibly close to the throbbing pulse in my neck. He breathes me in for a few seconds until I’m darn sure my heart will leap out of my throat.
“Huh?” I manage after a few seconds because apparently, I’m reduced to a mute.
“You said to never go to your floor, so what are you doing on mine?”
That’s a good question. What did I come here for, anyway?
There was something pressing, then he was having a seizure, then he touched me, and then... nothing. And everything. All at once.
His fingers glide over my collarbone, light, sensual, barely touching. I suppress a gasp as a full body shudder takes over me.
The combination of his leather scent, his hard chest against my achingly heavy breasts, and his thick arms surrounding me is already too much. Add his touch, and my skin resurrects under his fingertips.
The urge to surrender to this foreign sensation is so strong, I can’t access any thoughts past it.
It’s like I awaited this moment for a lifetime. Like I waited for him to ignite whatever lurked inside me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Whatever is happening in my body isn’t supposed to happen. Especially with a fugitive I have zero idea about.
This is wrong. Absolutely wrong. I want that familiar numbness back.
“L-Let me go.” I push at his chest, but something tells me the gesture comes out weak like my voice.
“Say it again and mean it.” He lowers his voice to a shiver-inducing rumble.
His large hand grips my nape in a firm hold until my head tilts back. My stomach flips. The good kind. The strange kind.
The exciting kind.
Hot lips find the pulse point in my neck. At the contact, a tremor jolts my body. A deep moan fills the air. To my horror, I realise it’s my own.
My thighs tighten around his waist, wanting a friction or something.
Anything to extinguish the burn overtaking me.
He sucks on the sensitive spot in my neck, slightly nibbling. My stomach clenches into something that isn’t there.
My eyes roll to the back of my head, needing more of whatever the hell is happening. Despite my wobbly state, I make out pictures of my father holding me scattered by the side of the nightstand.
Dad.
The mere thought is like drenching me with ice.
I try to push away from the stranger. He tightens his hold around me. I bite his arm. Hard.
He ends up being the one pushing me away. The ice of his eyes falls on me in complete annoyance. “What the fuck is the deal with you and biting?”
I stumble onto unsteady feet. My breathing is ragged. The place in my neck where he sucked is still hot and tingly.
I give him my back and smooth my tangled robe. Then I crouch to pick up the pictures and albums. Shame and embarrassment heat my cheeks. If it weren’t for Dad’s pictures, I would’ve let this stranger have his way with me, wouldn’t I?
Worse, I wanted him to have his way with me.
I need real counselling.
Lots of it.
I blame the hormones and being alone for a damn long time. That makes perfect sense.
Perhaps I need to go out more and stop being such a recluse.
“Is that your father?”
The deep voice from behind startles the hell out of me. I knew he was still there, but I didn’t realise he was so close to the point that his heat radiated down my back.
“That’s none of your business.” I whirl around, holding the photos close to my chest.
Every family has a secret. Mine is Dad.
“Actually, it is my business since this is now my room.” He edges closer. He makes no sound while moving, which is so contradictory to his impressive physique. Agile. Strong. Secretive. Everything a killer should be.
And I melted in his arms
like an idiot.
He continues stalking towards me, and I can’t help but take a step back. I’m fine as long as he doesn’t touch me. There’s no way I’ll be stuck in that unknown, frightening state.
But also exciting. You forgot exciting.
I shoo the voice away as he finally stops, but not before barging into my personal space. If this is a tactic to intimidate me, then it’s working. His scent and height overwhelm me. I’m not short by any means; I was always the tallest between my female colleagues, but the sheer size and height of him make me feel so small. It takes all my effort to stop ogling his chest and tattoos and to focus on his face. Those rebel, blond strands are begging to be pushed back.
I clear my throat. “Do you often have seizures?”
“That’s none of your business.” He shoots back with a grin that I want to slap off his face.
He’s infuriating.
“It is if you’re living under my roof, Mr...” My brows furrow. “What’s your name?”
“Crow.”
Like the one on his back. I tap my foot on the floor. “That’s not a name.”
“It is for me.” He points at the door. “If you’re done questioning me, out you go.”
Annoyance swims to the surface in no time. Why does he always know the exact buttons to push? I don’t know how to stop being provoked by him.
So I brush past him, holding Dad’s pictures close to my chest, and deliberately hit his bad shoulder. “It’s not like I want to stay anywhere near you.”
He clutches my arm, drawing me to a halt. The tingles from earlier resurface again. Hot breaths tickle my ear as he leans in to whisper. “You didn’t seem to think that when you moaned in my arms.”
A thousand retorts form at the base of my throat, but none of them come out. I’m thankful because the first reaction would be blabbering. I yank my arm free and do what any sane person does: I run.
I don’t stop until I reach my room and lock myself in.
Not only is my heart once again threatening to leave my chest, but my cheeks are almost exploding with so much heat. And my body, my damn body, is itching to go back to him. To feel those sinful sensations again.
