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Chapter Twenty-Three
Alena
The spare clothes come in handy. When we get back to the car, I rip off my ruined trousers and wipe the cum and blood away as best as I can. Idris drives off into the night as I stretch into the back, my stomach twinging as I grab more clothes and slip into them commando. He hands my knife over as he manoeuvres the vehicle. I wipe it clean and sigh, a smile on my face as he cranks up the heat.
“Who’s next?” I ask.
He smiles and turns the wheel, drifting around a corner. “I’ve already picked. Spider texted me, he’s close.”
I shrug and watch the roads as we speed from the scene. He weaves through the evening traffic, and before long, we pull up into a multistorey parking garage. He takes us nearly all the way to the top to a darkened, closed in floor. The lights flicker overhead, providing hardly any illumination, and the sunlight doesn’t reach this far. This level is mostly empty, filled with a few expensive Mercs.
He stops in the corner and gets out.
I follow, and he heads over to a silver Audi in the corner, checking the reg before pulling a key from his pocket and pushing it. It doesn’t look like a normal key though, and he sees my expression. “I have my tricks.” He smirks and opens the back door. “In.” He gestures.
I crawl in, and he spanks me on the way before following after. He sits low in the back seat, a gun ready in his hand as he shuts the door and gets comfy. His eyes close as he leans his head back against the headrest.
“What now?” I question.
“Now?” he murmurs, turning his head and opening one eye. “We wait. Sleep while you can.”
He relaxes back, and the car is silent. I look around, but I decidefuck it. He’s right, I’m tired, and I may as well nap while we wait. Curling into the seat, I press my cheek to the expensive leather seat and close my eyes.
I’m asleep before I can even count to five.
* * *
I wake warm and comfy.I crack open an eye to find my head pressed against his chest. His arm is around me, and my hands are clutching his shirt.
He’s unmoving and silent, his chest rising and falling slowly. He’s asleep. I take the moment to run my gaze over his face. The old, faded scars make me ache to reach out and touch them. I wouldn’t dare while he was awake, since he would probably throw me from the car or shoot me, but something about the peace, the silence on his face, has me reaching up. Darting my eyes between his closed ones and his cheek, I slowly reach towards it. Before my fingers can even make contact, he grabs my wrist tightly, grinding the bones until I gasp.
His eyes open, and his breathing never changes as his head slowly turns. Idris’s dark eyes lock on me as his lips tilt down. “What are you doing?” he rumbles in warning, his deep, gravelly tone sending a shockwave of lust straight to my pussy.
“I just wanted to touch you,” I murmur. He watches me, unblinking, squeezing tighter and tighter until I think he might break my wrist, but then he suddenly lets go. The shock of it makes my hand drop. Not once does he look away, but his eyes are guarded and his body is tense, like he’s expecting me to try and kill him or hurt him as I inch closer.
Poor man.
If all you know is pain, you begin to expect it from everyone. It becomes easier to be guarded, to never be vulnerable. I see it in his eyes—the lack of trust.
The anticipation for the blow.
Humans are such fragile creatures. Our bodies can withstand damage, but it’s our hearts, our minds that bear the scars, even after the bones have set and the skin has healed. And Boogeyman? His mind is filled with scars, a thousand tiny cuts. All reminders of what humans are capable of.
For some reason, I want to change that, I want to heal one of those wounds to prove we aren’t all bad. To offer even a semblance of peace to this man who helped bring me back from the brink and gave me everything I needed.
Wanted.
I may be damaged. I may be crazy and fucked up. I may never have a normal life again, or find love and happiness, but that doesn’t mean all of the old me is gone. There are hints of her, of the woman who used to volunteer at the dog shelter every weekend, who brought food to the homeless shelter, who would smile and pay for someone’s bill if they were struggling. The darkness they injected into me with each blow, each act of violation and degradation, can only infect so much.
Even the night has glimmers of light, like the stars lighting up the dark.
I move my hand slowly so I don’t spook him, acting as I would with the abused, untrusting dogs they brought in. I always went to the ones who were labelled as biters and broken beyond repair. No animal or human is. You simply have to be patient, kind, and willing to get bit, but when they trust you, when they open up and show you what’s beneath all that anger…
Hate.
Pain.
There is such love, such kindness and devotion, it makes it all worthwhile. I wonder if he’s the same, or is my assassin dark to the core? I don’t think he is, although he’s no saint. His hands are covered in so much blood that I bet he can almost see it, his soul stained from the crimes he’s committed. Yet I see glimpses of something more. Like when he took the pain away from me, or when he let me kill my torturer or saved me from Donald and the doctor. Like now, as he waits silently, unmoving, to give me what I want, even though it might hurt him.
