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As the clock ticked by, hours passing, the silence within the sprawling estate was oppressive, my nerves on edge.
After two hours I’d started wandering the house, the phone firmly planted in my hand. I wasn’t certain how many times I’d glanced at the screen in hopes that he’d called. Being in his house alone was almost as terrifying as the thought of what he was doing, the people he was killing.
Eliminating. I’d heard him use that word, as if by making it sound more clinical, it wouldn’t remind him that he was taking a human life. Just another aspect of his world, his business. His life was full of opulence, every room spectacular in color and detail, so comfortable and inviting.
But hiding under the designer couches and fine lines shadows lurked, unseen bloodstains from the violence he accepted as just another day at the office.
I’d all but told him I loved him. Did I? Was it possible I wanted a life with a brutal man? The honest answer left a hollowness in my chest.
Laughing, I headed up the stairs, ready to roam another floor. It was after three in the morning, my stomach in knots. I’d almost raced outside, grabbing one of the soldiers and demanding he tell me what was going on.
But I knew the man wouldn’t talk to me, likely not allowed.
And so, I continued to wait.
I’d yet to walk into his bedroom, maybe out of respect or worry that crippling anxiety would topple what limited hold I had on my sanity. Now there was no place I’d rather be. As I opened the door, his dark, masculine scent washed over me. Musky, citrusy, and full of life.
Just like the man.
The furnishings were stark, very much what I would have expected. I fingered the cologne on his dresser, the two watches he’d casually placed on the surface. And I dared to open one of his drawers, finding nothing but socks and underwear.
Like a normal person.
Laughing, I moved to his bed, brushing my hand over the comforter. Then I sat down, tugging one of his pillows from under the covers, bringing the softness to my face. I could drink in his scent for as long as possible, feeling him all around me.
As I closed my eyes, envisioning his face, a moment of peace crowded against the anxiety.
Then I heard a hard thud and jerked up, sucking in my breath.
I listened for a few seconds, hearing nothing else. Then I rushed to the top of the stairs, peering down. There was nothing to see but shadows in the limited light coming from the living room. But I knew he was here.
I flew down the stairs, moving into the living room. Then the kitchen.
Where had he gone?
As I headed down the hallway, my heart hammered in my chest. A warm glow of light was coming from his office. As I ventured into the doorway, I was flooded with relief. He was standing at the window, staring out into the blackness, a drink in his hand.
The silence was even worse.
The moment I padded into the room, he sensed my presence, cocking his head.
“Phoenix.” My voice sounded so far away, haunted.
He took a few seconds, exhaling but remaining where he was. Then he turned around, the light over his desk unable to hide the horror, his shirt covered in dried blood.
Even worse, the carved edges of his face were harder than before, his eyes burning into mine. I knew instinctively the blood wasn’t his.
Tick. Tock.
The passing seconds seemed like hours.
“This is what I am,” he stated flatly.
“I know.” I walked a few steps closer, refusing to allow him to see I was disturbed in any way. He was searching as he’d done before. For acceptance. For absolution.
For love.
“Do you want this?”
