Dark Savior: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Stella Noir

  Joseph and I have freed the world of another asshole because no one else would. But we’re still murderers. The law doesn’t care who you kill, and the police has proven to be ineffective against him. They’re our heroes and protectors all right, but if you ask me, they’re far too easy on the guys who could really need a kick in the nuts — or their heads chopped off.

  Joseph and I don’t have that problem. When someone needs to go and the law is not taking care of him, we make sure that someone does. Especially here, where we grew up. We’ve seen shit happen to good people almost every week, and the bad guys never seem to have to face prosecution. Even if they were found guilty, they were back out on the streets within weeks, sometimes days, because whatever they’d done wasn’t bad enough to lock them up for any longer, or there wasn’t enough evidence to put them away for a more serious crime. A man could rape women and girls as young as twelve over and over again and again without facing any harsh consequences because his victims have no voice or are too afraid. They’re just poor little ghetto girls, often charged with their own little crimes. A lot of them sell their bodies for money out of sheer desperation, and they’re the easiest victims for these assholes. After all, how can you rape a prostitute? How can she press charges against you?

  “Well, glad this shit is over,” Joseph adds. “It’s good to have you back.”

  “Mmhmm,” I reply. “Don’t get used to it.”

  He may be happy about my returning home, but I’m still torn up as fuck about it. I had a good life out on the East Coast, a normal life. Peaceful, successful. Just like my mother always wanted my life to be. Perfect, almost. She worked her ass off to make things possible for me — an education, a chance to get out of here — and I took advantage of that chance. I wanted to help her get out, too, but she refused to leave the place that had been her home for almost her entire adult life. All she wanted was for me to leave, get out there and make a life on my own, far away from the dirty streets I grew up on. What would she think about me being back here? Would she be disappointed or glad that I’m just as connected to my home as she was?

  I know she wouldn’t be proud of our activities. She knew I was protective of our neighborhood and the people who lived in it, but she never appreciated Joseph’s and my desire to clean the area of those who made it especially terrible. I’m getting tired of it, too.

  “This was the last one,” I say.

  A husky laugh echoing on the other end tells me that Joseph is not buying it.

  “Yeah, you said that the last time, too,” he reminds me. “And the time before that.”

  “I’m serious,” I insist. “This shit is getting too risky. I’ve worked too hard to risk everything for these pieces of shit. They don’t deserve my attention.”

  “Oh, and their victims don’t either?” he asks.

  I pause. Joseph knows just how to get to me, that bastard. He knows of my dilemma, the desire to leave this shit behind, while still feeling responsible for what is going on around here. But that responsibility has decreased significantly since my mother’s death. I helped to clean up this neighborhood because she was still living. Now, there’s no one left who needs my protection.

  Except for her. Meadow.

  “Will I see you at the bar later?” Joseph asks.

  “No,” I say. “I won’t be around for a while.”

  “Why?” he probes. “You leaving town tonight?”

  “I’ll be busy,” I reply simply. “We’ll keep in touch.”

  I hang up and start the car. Part of me wants to go back upstairs, back to her. I don’t feel comfortable leaving her up there by herself.

  But what kind of message would I be sending by staying with her overnight? Girls get attached with shit like that. I don’t need that, especially with a potential nut case like her.

  As I drive through the streets of my youth, I go back and forth on my decision to take her in. What’s the long-term idea behind this? I can’t keep her locked up in my mother’s apartment forever. What if she never wants to leave?

  And what if she does? What if I come back tomorrow and she tells me she wants to leave. I can’t keep her against her will, even if it’s just to protect her. Meadow doesn’t only need to be protected from others, but also from herself.

  I wonder what brought her to that bridge, yet at the same time, I don’t want to know. The more I know, the more involved I get. I can’t have that. Love. Relationships. I don’t do that shit. My life has always been better without it. Caring for people makes you weak and vulnerable. I should know.

  Childhood home or not, I let out a loud sigh when I leave the ugly side of town and get sight of the clean high-rise buildings that serve the new me. My current penthouse is just a makeshift solution until I make up my mind about whether I’m here to stay or not, but it’s miles above the apartment my mother insisted on living in until her death. It’s my sanctuary, free of commitment, free of responsibility.

  But as my mind wanders, it’s not free from her. I can’t stop thinking about Meadow, and it bugs the hell out of me.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Meadow

  He never said anything about the bedroom being off limits to me, so I decide to spend the night there instead of on the sofa. I wake up early in the morning, feeling more refreshed and alive than I have in a very long time.

  After I take a shower and put on the only clothes I have at the moment — his shorts and hoodie sweater — I’m delighted to find coffee in one of the kitchen cupboards. I haven’t had an appetite for weeks, and I can’t remember the last time I had a proper breakfast, but today my stomach is growling so loudly there’s no way for me to ignore it. I make myself another sandwich, realizing there really is no other option in regard to food. I won’t starve, he promised me that much, but it seems that sandwiches will be as creative as I can get.

  I don’t mind, but I’m beginning to regret my decision to let him lock me in the apartment. I’m trapped, alone with my thoughts and no way to distract myself, that is, except for reading since the place is filled with books. There’s no TV, no computer, not even a phone. I wouldn’t know who to call anyway, but it still strikes me as odd that this home doesn’t have a landline considering an older woman likely lives – or lived – here.

  When I’m done eating, I involuntarily start reminiscing about the sad reality that almost pushed me to end my life by jumping into that canyon.

  My sister is dead. And I blame myself for her death.

  I’ve lived with this guilt for more than half a year. I tried to keep going, to live the life she wanted me to live, but I screwed up. I failed my sister even after her death. She gave everything she had to give for me. After our parents were killed in an awful car crash more than seven years ago, Sonya didn’t hesitate to bury her own dreams for the time being to make sure that I’d grow up to be okay. I was twelve years old and she had just finished high school. She had a scholarship to go to college out of state, but upon hearing that I’d end up in a foster home because we have no other living relatives, she put that dream on hold to become my legal guardian instead. She worked as a waitress at first, but managed to secure an office position by the time I entered high school. The monthly social security check and government-funded health insurance provided us with just enough to keep getting by. We both felt like we had it all. Already, Sonya had achieved a lot more for us than our parents ever had. They were both heavy drinkers, and the fact that my father was the one who caused their fatal accident didn’t make things any easier on us. At least he only killed himself and our mother. There was another car involved in the crash, and next to our own grief, Sonya and I spent weeks sick with worry about the couple who drove the other car. When it was certain that they’d recover, we celebrated as if we had just been told that it was our parents who had survived.

  It’s a weird thing to admit, even to myself, but Sonya’s death was far worse on me than the deaths of my mother and father. There was no physical abuse in our childhood home
, but the neglect and psychological terror we had to endure because of these two was just as bad.

  Sonya had always been solid as a rock. While she took it upon herself to raise her little sister, I always saw us as a team. I tried my best to become the person I had to become so she would be set free as soon as I turned eighteen and graduated high school. My grades weren’t great, but good enough, and I have her to thank for that. I also have her to thank for that place at college. The place I failed to keep up with.

  I walk over to the living room window and stare out on the street, a heavy lump in my throat. There are no more tears left inside of me. I’ve spent weeks and months crying, and now there is nothing but a feeling of emptiness.

  I hate myself.

  I wish I could turn back time. I wish I could go back to that stupid girl I was a few months back, the girl with that dumb laugh and nothing but fun on her mind. The girl who dragged her sister to a party they should never have gone to. The girl who was about to succumb to the same horrendous habits as her parents. I was on my way to becoming an alcoholic just like them, and I made damn sure that no one, especially not Sonya, would notice.

  There are so many things I wish I hadn’t done, but on top of that list is my decision to force Sonya out that night.

  “You need a little fun in your life,” I had told her. “If anyone deserves it, it’s you!”

  I can still see her face, framed by the same dark blond hair that our mother had as she looked at me and rolled her eyes.

  “You go by yourself,” she told me. “I’m just gonna’ take a bath and head to bed early.”

  “But you always do that!” I protested. “Come on! I promise you, we’ll go home right away if you’re not having fun.”

  I persuaded her to go that night. We got ready together, dressed up, helped each other with our make-up. I loved every minute of it. We were two young girls, just two sisters getting ready for a party. In all those years that we had been living alone, we never did anything like this. Sonya was always working, and so was I. I took a part-time job in high school to help us make ends meet, so when I wasn’t studying, I was watching the kids of families who were better off than us.

  This night was supposed to be special. It was my last weekend at home before I moved out for college. Sonya had applied for evening classes earlier and was about to get her undergraduate degree. Everything was going great, we had the world at our feet.

  We started drinking before we left the house and were tipsy by the time we left for the party. Unlike me, Sonya was not used to drinking alcohol and her tolerance was a lot lower than mine. We drank the same amount before we left, but once we got to the party, I quickly lost track of her. We were together at first, but she started to mingle on her own after a while. We were drinking, dancing, meeting new people. It was a great night for both of us. Every time I saw her, Sonya had a glow I had never seen before on her face. She was a happy drunk, and there was absolutely no reason to worry.

  Until she disappeared.

  Tears. I can’t help it. I’m standing at the window, my eyes fixated on the road below, but I don’t see anything. A shimmering shroud of tears is clouding my view, and I’m lost in this terrible spiral of memories and regrets.

  I don’t hear the door behind me, and I don’t hear his voice. It’s not until he places his hand on my shoulder that I realize his presence. I flinch in surprise, accompanied by a pained cry.

  “Hey, hey,” I hear him say, but his voice sounds as if it’s miles away.

  I turn around and hide in his arms, burying my face in his hard chest while he holds me in a helpless embrace.

  For several minutes, Kade doesn’t say a word. He just holds me while I burst out in violent tears, clinging to his shirt as if I was holding on for dear life. Maybe I am.

  He lets me cry for as long as I need to, and by the time my desperate wails begin to quiet, I tilt my head back to look up at him. He reciprocates my look with a calm expression. His hazel eyes observe me with their strong gaze, while he begins to stroke my back. I’ve missed him. I hardly know him, but his smell, his touch, his entire presence brings me to a better place.

  I raise myself up on my tiptoes, my movements asking for a kiss, which he gladly provides. I must look horrible with my eyes all swollen up and my face covered in salty streams of tears. But he doesn’t seem to care. His kiss is gentle but demanding. What starts out as a soft peck to console me soon turns into a sensual expression of desire. Our breathing accelerates, as we turn into a heaving entanglement of hunger and longing.

  “More,” I breathe in between our kisses.

  He pauses and frames my face with both of his hands, lifting my eyes up to meet his.

  “More?” he asks, narrowing his eyes as he locks me in place with them.

  “Please,” I whisper. “Take it away.”

  My voice is quivering as a new wave of grief threatens to take hold of me.

  He doesn’t give me a reply, just watching me as if he’s waiting for the tears to appear again.

  “Fuck me,” I plead, switching to a tone I’m sure he understands. “I need you.”

  The look on his face changes to a serious scowl.

  “I won’t be gentle,” he warns. I can feel his tension rising to the same degree as my own. His need is just as strong as mine. I don’t care if it’s just feral lust for either one of us. Right now, he’s all I want, the only distraction that keeps me from falling back into the hell of my own reality.

  “Fuck me,” I repeat, reaching up for his hands. I slowly pull them away from my face and he lets it happen. I lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth.

  “Fuck my pain away,” I whisper, as my lips travel along his strong jaw. “Please.”

  I can hear his breath close to my ear. He’s panting with excitement and it turns me on to no end.

  He doesn’t say another word or wait for another invitation. Instead, he grabs my ass, lifting me up, and my legs wrap instinctively around his waist, just like yesterday.

  My heart jumps, freed from its cage of sadness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kade

  She’s the one who’s taking. She needs me. This is new. Never before has a woman made me feel as if she’s taking what she needs from me.

  That’s my job. I may give them pleasure in return, but I’m always the one taking. I’m selfish when it comes to these things.

  Now, I have this beautifully vulnerable elf at my hands, who doesn’t wait for me to sweet-talk her, but instead takes it upon herself to make sure that she gets what she needs.

  And right now, it seems, what she needs is me. She claws at me with desperate urgency as I carry her over to the middle of the living room. I’m not gonna’ fuck her in my mother’s bed, and we did it on the sofa yesterday. I feel obliged to give her something new. If she needs a good fuck, she’ll get that, but she deserves more than the same old routine.

  Also, I need her naked. Seeing her in my old clothes was charming yesterday, but it’s not doing anything for me right now. I want to see her gorgeous, naked body stretched out in front of me, begging for my cock.

  I brought us some more groceries when I came back, and I’m thanking myself for not placing the bags on the kitchen counter as I usually would. When I saw her standing by the window, not even noticing me when I entered the room, I dropped them right next to the door and walked over to her.

  We’re still in the throes of a longing kiss when I place her cute little ass up on the counter. She’s a good girl and doesn’t let go of me, which makes it a lot easier for me when I lift her up one more time, holding her with one arm and pulling down her shorts with the other. The sound her naked ass makes when I place her back on the surface of the counter provides its own allure.

  She obediently lifts her arms when I pull the hoodie over her head. I love that she’s not wearing anything but these two things. The thought of her bare pussy rubbing against the fabric of my shorts is a sick thrill and it makes my cock twitch.
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  “Lie back,” I tell her, getting rid of my shirt as she obeys.

  Her legs are awkwardly dangling down from the counter, until I grab them, bending her knees and lifting and spreading her legs as far apart as possible. She lets out a desperate moan and closes her eyes in shame.

  Her bare pussy is glistening with arousal. What a twisted girl, craving my cock like a bitch in heat even when she’s in such a deep hole of sadness. I can’t wait to be inside of her and see her lose all memory of that sadness with each and every deep thrust.

  But I want a taste of her first. I bend her legs back even further and revel in the deep and needy groan she lets out as I start licking and eating out the wetness at her core. I hold her in place by her legs as I worship her throbbing clit. Her taste is divine, touched by a hint of sweetness that reminds me of vanilla. She’s gasping for air when I take her cute little nub between my teeth and nibble on it, applying and releasing pressure in a constant rhythm.

  Her pleasure fuels mine, and my cock is pressing against the crotch of my pants, rock-hard and begging to be buried deep inside of her. But I want her to come like this first. I’ve never enjoyed a woman’s pleasure as much as hers. Seeing her squirming and hyperventilating deliriously is the most beautiful sight.

  I’m the one who can make her feel this way. I’m the one who’s doing this to her, who has control over her in every way. I feel drunk with power at the thought of it.

  She doesn’t warn me this time, but just lets it happen. The way her breathing changes is telltale enough, but I can also feel heat pulsating under my tongue. She holds her breath as she’s overtaken by her orgasm, while I still hold her hot clit between my teeth.

  Her moans turn into cries of bliss and she spreads her legs even further, as if she’s trying to get even more out of this release.

  When her movements start to slow down and cries turn into exhausted whimpering, I straighten up and let go of her legs. She holds her position even without me holding her in place.