Not So Prince Charming: A Dirty Fairy Tale

by Lauren Landish

  I yank, twisting left then right, and the chair tips up again, this time almost overbalancing me to the point of falling over. But I’m so close, I can feel the increasing give in the zip-tie.

  I think it through and fold my thumb across my palm, making my hand as narrow as possible. Taking a deep breath to prepare myself, I jerk hard and pain flares through me.

  The chair falls from the force of my pull, crashing to the floor and knocking the breath out of me, and for a heart stopping moment, I think I’ve failed. But then I realize my hand is loose, bloody and disfigured but free.

  Oh, my God! It worked!

  I can’t do the same to my right hand though, so I look around. The desk, with its tools, is just four feet away, but it feels like four miles as I claw my way towards it, dragging myself by one hand, each grip on the floor making me grunt in pain. When I get close enough, I look up at the toolbox above me.

  I grunt as I reach up, grasping for an edge of the metal box. With a yell, I shove the whole box off the edge of the desk, and the contents spill onto the floor next to me. There, right in front of me, is my salvation . . . a pair of wire cutters.

  I shiver suddenly, wondering what Jericho had in mind for me with this tool, but I don’t have time to ponder it now. Instead, I use the tool to cut my right hand free, and then both legs, and get to my feet.

  I have to help Gabe, I think, pushing my way through the plastic in front of the door. It’s still dim in the space, but outside, the office is more of a warehouse area with high tracks of faint yellow light.

  I follow the sounds of their fight, grunted words becoming clear as I get closer.

  “Should’ve just done your job, Gabriel,” Jericho says. “She’s just a contract.”

  “No, she’s not,” Gabe replies in a growl, like he’s hurt. “She’s mine.”

  I move closer, seeing the fight firsthand as they jockey for position. They’re both bleeding, tangled in a pile on the concrete floor as they roll back and forth, short elbows and punches emerging from time to time to thud into the other’s body before doing it again and again.

  I want to scream for Gabe, but he doesn’t need a distracting cheerleader right now. He needs actual help. I’d love to think he could handle this completely on his own, and the truth is, maybe he can. I’ve never seen him truly in action like this. But I can’t stand by uselessly when the man I love is fighting for his life. And mine.

  Seeing a broomstick against the wall, I grab it and risk getting even closer, ready to whack Jericho as soon as I get an opening. Suddenly, Gabe, who’s on the bottom, elbows Jericho’s neck, giving me an opportunity.

  I wind up, swinging for the fences, and the broomstick cracks off Jericho’s skull, shattering into three pieces but failing to knock him out.

  Jericho turns his head, like some Terminator machine, staring daggers at me, and grabs the remains of the broomstick.

  “Steel plate . . . skiing accident,” he says, pointing to his head before tossing me aside. Gabe yells in fury as I go stumbling, but fortune smiles on me as I bounce off a water cooler and see a dark shadow on the ground. I bend down quickly and see if the spot is what I think it is. Thankfully, I’m right, and my right hand wraps around the cold metal of a gun.

  Whether it’s Gabe’s or Jericho’s, I don’t know. But I check the safety and see the little red line on the safety, just like Saul taught me at the gun shop.

  “Stop. Step away from him,” I bark, praying my voice sounds more badass than I feel because my knees are seriously knocking.

  Surprisingly, they shove off one another, actually doing what I said, Jericho getting to his feet while Gabe rolls to his knees, his hands out to me. Jericho, on the other hand, seems more intrigued than anything else.

  “Come here, Princess. Let me have the gun,” Gabe coos instead. “You don’t want to cross this line. Trust me.”

  To be honest, that sounds like the best idea. Of the two of us, he’s definitely better equipped to handle Jericho and a loaded weapon.

  But as I reach toward him, Jericho lunges for us.

  I don’t think. I don’t have time. Whether I’m the target or bait, I don’t care. I just react in self-defense, my hand squeezing the trigger just like I was taught. Somehow, the pop of the pistol sounds quieter in here than it did when I practiced, and Jericho’s body jerks once, twice, and a third time. He stumbles, his left hand going to the hole that’s appeared in his chest, and he looks at his hand in total shock before he collapses to the floor.

  “Oh, my God, did I kill him? Did I just kill a man?” I whisper as Gabe gets up and takes the gun from me, gathering me into his arms.

  I can’t . . . no . . . what? My mind fogs in disbelief, and the world starts to spin.

  I can just make out his face, his eyes wide with shock, fear, or maybe anger? I don’t know, but I can’t focus to decipher it right now.

  Instead, I collapse into Gabriel’s arms as everything goes black.

  Chapter 37

  Gabriel

  I hope that waking up this time is a completely different experience for Bella. There are no zip-ties and chair, no Jericho and plastic. Instead, she’s cocooned in the soft fluffiness of memory foam and Egyptian cotton, her head cradled on two down pillows that I’ve wanted to adjust but haven’t for fear of waking her.

  She makes a small noise, and I lean in close, worried she’s in pain. Her lips twitch, and I can see she’s having a nightmare, so I reach out, laying a hand on her forehead. “It’s okay, Princess, I’ve got you. Welcome back.”

  She tries to make words come, but her throat seems to be scratchy and dry because she swallows a few times. I hold a glass of water with a straw in front of her and she sips gratefully.

  “Not too much at first,” I warn, and she slows down her gulps. “You’ve been out awhile . . . don’t want to upset the stomach.”

  The bit of water eases her throat and she blinks, still a little groggy. “What happened? Where am I?” she asks, but then looks around. “Mia’s?”

  I grimace, focusing on her first question. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  She blinks again, remembering, and I can watch the play of emotions across her face like a movie. The house, the fire, Jericho knocking me unconscious and kidnapping her. I see the fear, fear I had to be dead if I was letting Jericho take her, the fear she must’ve felt when she woke up in the plastic-covered room, the fear of seeing Jericho and me fighting.

  And the gun.

  “Did I kill him?” she asks tentatively after a moment. “There’s a piece of me that hopes I didn’t, that hopes I just hurt Jericho and we got away. There’s an equal part of me that hopes I killed the fucker and that we’re safe.”

  I nod slowly, stroking her cheek. “You were protecting us. You did what you had to do, Princess, and I don’t want you to doubt for a second that if you hadn’t shot him, he would’ve killed us.”

  I speak to her gently, unsure whether she feels guilty or remorseful over what she’s done. Killing someone is not something to be taken lightly, and I can still remember vividly the first time I took a life.

  There are times I wish I’d had someone I could trust to help me through the change it wrought upon my mind and my soul. So if I can be that for her, I will be.

  She looks pensive, as if she’s teasing through her thoughts, looking for any sign of doubts, and I can’t read her expression to know what she’s feeling. “Do you feel bad about the people you’ve killed?” she asks bluntly. “Any of them?”

  I jolt, surprised at the question. “Bad is maybe too generic of a word. I don’t feel guilty. They were all just like Jericho, not trained killers per se, but still people the world’s better off without. I made sure of that. If I regret anything, it’s that the situation ever came to that. I hate that they wasted their lives doing something that got them killed. I’d say I feel tainted, with a better perspective of what life should be. Does that make any sense?”

  Admittedly, it’s not the sm
oothest monologue in history. I’ve never tried to put my feelings about my work into words. It was safer to just keep it inside. I didn’t have anyone to talk about it with, anyway, and was always able to justify my actions with thoughts of catching Jeremy’s killers.

  Even when the contracts moved beyond things that would help me with that mission and were more about taking out my anger on the world in a violent, destructive manner, I found some reason to make it okay on the surface.

  Deep inside is a different matter. I know I’m damned and made my peace with that long ago.

  “I know. I don’t regret killing him, even if it was awful. Because the worst part of it all was the fear that he would kill you. He was excited about the idea, like a high he got from the anticipation, the torture, the experience of it all.”

  She shudders before continuing. “When he heard you, Jericho’s face went from dead and impassive to hungry and eager. When you came in to rescue me was the only time he came to life. But, now what? Am I going to get in trouble?”

  “I took care of it,” I reply softly, knowing that even if I hadn’t, I would have protected her. She would never have gone down for killing Jericho, even if I had to cop to it myself. In this particular case, though, that isn’t necessary. “There will be no questions, no cops, and no one looking for Jericho. He was as alone in the world as I was before you. No one will miss him.”

  She frowns, looking down at the comforter. “That’s sad.”

  Her words touch me. She can become strong and tough . . . but there’s an inner essence of purity, of goodness, that will never be shaken. I swallow, my throat tight as her eyes lift back to mine.

  “Do I want to know how you ‘took care of it’ or will that just give me nightmares?”

  I lift one eyebrow, giving her a moment to decide for herself, and she shrinks a bit. “I don’t want to know. At least, not now. Maybe one day.”

  I give her a soft smile, brushing her hair back and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Anytime you want to know, I’ll tell you everything. Or if you never want to know, that’s just as fine.”

  Honestly, I selfishly hope she chooses the option of never knowing. There’s no benefit to her knowing the dirty details of how I used Jericho’s own plastic tarps to wrap up his body, minus one key piece. She doesn’t need to know how I used Thomas’s truck to haul Jericho’s body out to the woods, where I implemented the same plan I’d originally had for Bella. The specifics of what I did won’t give her anything but nightmares. I’d spare her those, as long as she trusts that I handled everything with the skills I’ve developed for years.

  I made sure this body dump was my cleanest ever, with no possible signs of what happened, who did it, or where. One, because I want to make sure she is never implicated as the one who pulled the trigger, and two, because I want us to both get away scot-free so we can be together.

  “What about Blackwell? Isn’t he just going to send another hitman? This is never going to be over, is it?”

  I wish I could spin her a tale of sunshine and rainbows, of happy endings and chocolate cookies. But I can’t. “There’s no way to be sure. To a logical man, he shouldn’t. He went after you to try and get at Thomas indirectly since Thomas is too public, too well-protected. It was about the element of surprise. Now that Thomas knows, the costs of striking again is high, especially when Thomas is preparing for war. Blackwell has bigger fish to fry, the one he truly wants.”

  “Are you saying I’m a little fish?” Bella asks, trying to deflect her worry with humor. “The kind you throw back when you catch them?”

  “Well, I’m not throwing you back, for damn sure. But I’m feeling like I’m the one hooked on your line.” I lean in, kissing her neck before nibbling softly.

  She pulls her hands out from beneath the comforter, beginning to reach for me, but stops when she sees the bandage on her hand. “Oh, my God, I forgot that part. Or blocked it out. My finger!”

  She touches the thick white bandage wrapped around her palm and over where her left pinkie finger used to be. “It’s numb.”

  “I’m sorry, Princess. Thomas had a doctor come in to clean and stitch it. The doctor said you’ll be fine but need to take antibiotics for a couple of weeks. He gave you a mild sedative to do the stitches, that’s why you were a bit groggy.”

  “Yeah,” Bella says before she sniffles, looking at her hand. “I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid to cry when things could’ve been so much worse. But it’s my hand. I’m an artist, for fuck’s sake.”

  I kiss her bandaged palm and then her right palm. “Bella, you’re right-handed. You can write, draw, paint, and more. The only thing you’re going to have problems with for the next few months is typing. I’m sure your geeky buddy will hook you up with some Star Trek voice typing program if you ask.”

  She rewards the silly joke with a watery smile, sassing slightly, “So you’re saying I’m overreacting?”

  “I am way too fucking smart to ever say that,” I reply with a chuckle. “But what I am saying is that sometimes, we fixate on small things when the big things are scary. I just want you to know that you’re okay, you’re safe, and you’re with me.”

  She snuggles into my arms and I hold her tight. “I almost lost you, Princess. I promise that will never happen again. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. I don’t want to lose you either,” she says pointedly.

  I know what she’s asking, if I can give up my mission to find Jeremy’s killers for her. The danger and risks of going after the men who would take his life so casually could result in me losing my life.

  Once upon a time, that was a reasonable loss. I would have happily died if I could take them out with me, one big blaze of glorious vengeance for Jeremy. But I can’t do that now, won’t do it to Bella.

  She’s lost so much, and for whatever crazy reason, she’s chosen me as one of her people. I won’t make her feel that loss again for any reason if it’s within my power.

  “I already told Mia to delete the data card,” I whisper softly. “Jeremy will understand.”

  Bella blinks, stunned before she cups the back of my neck with her good hand, pulling me towards her. She lifts up to kiss me, and I can feel the heat building inside her the same way it is in me. Reluctantly I resist, looking in her eyes.

  “Bella, you need to rest, recover. Your hand—”

  “I can keep it off to the side,” she says, biting her lip. “I feel okay. As long as you don’t touch my hand, I’m good. And I need this. I need you, Gabe. I thought you were . . .”

  Her voice cracks, and I roll her back carefully, pinning her beneath me with her arms over her head on the bed, out of the way. She instinctively spreads her legs, cradling me between her thighs.

  “I’m right here, Princess,” I say, grinding against her. “We’re both safe, together.”

  She nods but her eyes still look anxious.

  I reach between us, lifting her T-shirt nightgown up and her panties down before pulling my hard cock out of my boxers. There’s no need for foreplay. That’s not what this is. The reassurance she needs is that she’s alive, I’m alive, and that she’s still everything I need.

  Right now, I need to remind her that she is mine, imprint myself onto her, no, into her very cells so she feels me even after my cock leaves the heaven of her pussy.

  I push into her slow and steady, letting us each feel every inch as I open her, spreading her soft folds and velvet walls, forcing them to conform around my thickness.

  Each stroke is a vow.

  Each retreat is a promise to always come back.

  And as we come together, we pour our love, our hopes, and even our dreams into each other, along with our sticky cum, in beautiful and carnal bliss.

  Chapter 38

  Blackwell

  “Sir, a package has arrived for you,” my secretary says, her voice quavering. She knows about the extra security, although she doesn’t know why. She just knows that I’ve placed a dozen security guards between
the lobby and my door at various places, and each of them carries a gun.

  I’m taking no risks when it comes to having two hitmen in town, both well skilled in their respective styles. Especially since I’m certain Gabriel Jackson would like nothing better than to get close enough to make me his next victim.

  “Bring it in,” I snap, not having time nor patience for her mousy pussyfooting about.

  Three days.

  After a deadline of two days, I’ve been waiting for three days since Jericho promised me my proof. Three days since I’ve had to place myself in this prison that’s my own home and office.

  “Sir, the package has specific instructions that you have to sign,” my secretary says quietly. “Should I have them bring the box in here?”

  A chill goes down my spine, and I force myself to slowly nod my head as a courier brings in a nondescript cardboard box. On each side are red stickers that say Fragile, Handle With Care, and the top is sealed with plain brown packing tape. “Sign here please, sir?”

  I take the clipboard and see that the package is marked Gift, but there’s no other information. I scribble my name, and the courier leaves like he wants to be anywhere but here, already ignored as I look at the box.

  “Is that all, sir?” she asks, ready to go just like the courier.

  “No. Open it,” I tell her.

  “What?” my secretary asks, shocked. “Open it?”

  “Yes. Open it!” I growl. “Are you deaf as well as stupid?”

  She swallows and shakes her head, taking the knife from my blotter and starting to cut the tape. Already, I can imagine an explosion, a bomb or something being sent by Gabriel Jackson. It’s not his style, but my mind still wanders, contemplating scenarios.

  Or perhaps this is finally my proof from Jericho?

  The options are endless and therefore too unknown to open the box myself. But my secretary is disposable, with others lined up to fill the financially beneficial role.