The Darkest Hour (Running with the Devil Book 1)

by Jasmin Quinn

  “There,” she said as she surveyed her handiwork before standing up. She had been kneeling on the floor so she had a better angle and as she worked Dean watched her. He decided he liked her best in that position, on her knees, mouth near his crotch.

  “I need that Tylenol, too.” He was holding his side. He couldn’t bend to pull it out of the drawer himself. She handed the bottle to him and then watched as he turned on the faucet and filled a glass with water. He washed down three Tylenol, set the glass down and turned to her. “You gotta pee?”

  Kelsie furrowed her brow at him. He could almost read her thoughts. Yes, she did have to pee. No, she didn’t want to admit it. What exactly would this entail? The asshole wasn’t exactly modest, would he give her any privacy? He couldn’t help but toy with her. “You’re not going to get another chance ‘til morning, so if you have to pee, do it now.”

  Kelsie threw her hands up in the air. “Fine,” she snarled, her patience and good will rapidly dissipating. “Turn around so I can have some privacy please.” And he did, walking the length of the bathroom to the door so he couldn’t watch her in the mirror. He could hear her fuss with her towel, sit on the toilet. Then nothing. He knew that was going to happen; nervous bladders were often uncooperative.

  “Try counting breaths,” Dean suggested, and she said something back to him, under her breath, too quiet for him to hear. Maybe started with an F.

  Dean grinned and then his attention shifted to the black satiny bathrobe that was hanging on one of the hooks beside the linen shelf. It was not the robe that interested him, but the sash in the robe. It was long, silky and would make a nice rope if one wanted to… say… tie someone’s wrists together, and perhaps to a bed frame. He pulled it out of the bathrobe’s loops and tugged on it. Yep, strong too, not a lot of stretch. It would make a good tight, secure knot. He heard the toilet flush and then Kelsie washing her hands. She had taken the towel off her head and was combing through her long, wet hair with her fingers. She caught his eyes in the reflection of the mirror, holding his gaze for a few seconds then dropping her eyes down to the sash in his hand.

  She whirled around to face him, her face flushing in panic. “What’s that for?”

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Dean said softly, trying to quell her fear, “but I need some rest and I can’t help but think that if I don’t restrain you, you’ll run off on me. And I need a little down time. Some sleep, some food, some thinking. I can’t do that unless I know you’re secure.”

  Kelsie shook her head. Desperation tinged her voice. “I won’t. I promise, I won’t leave or do anything. I’ll just go to bed and you can use my guest room…” she trailed off as he shook his head.

  “That’s not the way it’s going down, Kelsie.”

  Kelsie looked at him darkly, he could see the pent-up fear and anger crashing over her. “Fuck you then,” she snarled as she launched herself at him, aiming her fist at his gash. But Dean was ready for her, years of combat training resulting in super-quick reflexes. It’s what kept him alive in his job. He grabbed her wrists, then flipped her around and shoved her up against the bathroom door, not too hard, just enough to shake her up. He held both her wrists in his left hand and pulled them up over her head leaning the weight of his right arm on her chest, pressing his body against hers, his cock pressed into her belly. His expression was menacing as he leaned toward her until he was almost touching her face.

  “I would tell you not to do that again, you fucking little bitch,” he snarled, “but you’re not going to get a second chance.” Kelsie howled and tried to kick out at him, but he slammed her against the door again, harder this time, and pushed on her chest forcing the air from her lungs. All this activity was making him woefully aware of the gash in his side. It was hurting like hell. Fun and games were over. “You need a lesson,” he grunted.

  Dean stepped back and jerked Kelsie around, crushing her to him, her ass firmly planted against his crotch. Then he flipped the light switch off and yanked open the bathroom door. As he pushed her into the dark bedroom, he let go of her and brutally shoved her forward. She fell on her hands and knees on the carpet, grabbed a few quick breaths and then launched herself up. But he was already on her, grabbing her around the waist and tossing her onto her bed. She pulled herself up and scrambled up the mattress pressing herself against her headboard. As Dean advanced on her, he was hyperaware of the fact that their towels had fallen off at some point and they were both completely naked.

  He gripped her by her ankles and pulled her down so that she was flat on her back lying the length of the bed. She cried out and flailed at him with her arms and her fists as he straddled her with his legs, sitting on her pelvis so he could contain her movements. She struggled under his weight, arching her back and bucking at him. He felt his cock start to harden – whose wouldn’t in this circumstance? But no, he was not a rapist. Yes, he wanted her, actually was feeling a little possessive of her, even admired her for her fierceness. But now was not the time. He needed to contain this situation before he got so hard he lost his sense of right and wrong. He grabbed her wrists and pulled her arms up over her head, then he lay his full-length on her, weighing her down so could barely breathe, let alone struggle anymore.

  “You son of a bitch,” she groaned. His cock was against her thigh, half-hard and throbbing. She tried to shift away, but he held her in place with his legs.

  “Shut up,” Dean snarled. “Not another fucking word out of your mouth. Understand me?” Kelsie started to protest, and Dean yanked hard on her hair with his free hand. “I will gag you if you don’t stop.”

  His words brought her sanity back to her with a thud. She stilled almost immediately. “Please,” she said to him, through little half-sobs. “Please don’t gag me. I need to be able to breathe, I can’t catch enough breath right now.”

  Dean looked down at her stricken face, eyes bright with unshed tears and felt something tug at his heart. Regret? Remorse? Guilt? Fuck was he ever getting soft. “I promise,” she added in a small shattered voice. He hesitated and then sat up, still straddling her, but letting her hands go, waiting a minute to see if she meant what she said. She lay there, chest heaving, staring at him, not moving a muscle. He sighed as he swung off her and pulled her into a sitting position.

  “Arms up over your head, wrists together,” he commanded. She obeyed without hesitation, raising her arms over her head, her beautiful breasts jutting out at him, nipples erect. He ignored the savage hunger that rose up in him, trying to keep his attention focused on binding her wrists together, eyes to her hands not her chest. Then he pushed her down on the mattress and pulled her arms close to the headboard, knotting the sash to one of the brass rods.

  He got up off the bed and stood, staring down at her, stretched out, naked and helpless. It didn’t seem to matter that he was beaten, tired and gunshot. All he wanted at this moment was to possess her. He reached down and caressed her flat stomach with his fingers. She shivered as he trailed them down her belly to the neat triangle of hair over her pussy. It could have gone either way at that moment. But Kelsie made the decision for him. “I’m cold,” she whispered warily. “Can you please cover me with the blanket?”

  Chapter Six

  After he tucked Kelsie in, he wandered naked through the house in the dark. The street lamps provided enough light to keep him from bumping into furniture and he easily found what he needed. A washer and dryer in a utility room with a door that led out to the garage. There were no windows either, so when he closed the door, he could turn on the light. He retraced his steps to the bathroom and gathered up his clothes, her wet and bloodied nightgown, and the towels. He threw them altogether in the washer, added soap, and turned it on. Even if the blood stains didn’t wash out, he’d have something clean to wear tomorrow.

  He opened the garage door. She drove a black Mercedes SUV, not new or top of the line, which was good. Not going to draw too much attention to themselves in it. The rest of the garage was more or less emp
ty. A few gardening tools stacked up a corner. A couple of small boxes. Some skis hanging from a wall. Not much of interest or use.

  He closed the garage door quietly, then flicked the light off and wandered out of the laundry room. As he prowled around the interior of the house, he noted that all the rooms were tidy but sparsely furnished. Feminine enough to indicate that a woman lived here, but impersonal. He stepped through a set of French doors into Kelsie’s office. Light from the street helped him find what he was looking for. Her laptop and her purse. He carried them both into the laundry room and set them on top of the dryer. He went through her purse first. Not much to get excited about. Keys to the car and the house; earphones, but no cellphone. A small tube of lipstick, pale pink. A comb, sunglasses and her wallet. An access card and ID for the Ministry of Justice. Well, now that was interesting. A single woman, nice house, nice car, works for Justice; maybe a lawyer? Dean wondered how that could be useful for him.

  He opened her wallet next. Everything was neatly arranged – cash on one side, credit cards and driver’s licence on the other. Change purse in the middle. He pulled out the cash and counted the bills. Almost $300 – things were looking up; he folded the bills to put in his pocket then looked down at himself and smiled ruefully. Not much of a thief if you don’t have pockets. He put the cash down on top of the dryer. Tomorrow he would have pockets.

  He looked through her credit cards – Visa and American Express, and a bank card to a local credit union. That was good. Credit unions can be a little isolationist, so they might be able to pull out a good chunk of cash without it setting off alarms bells. He’d have to think on it. He pulled out her driver’s licence last. It was her, Kelsie Susannah Scott, nice picture, nice cute name, like a cheerleader would have. In his youth, one of his goals was to fuck his way through the high school football team’s cheerleading squad. He got as far as four, until the girls started talking to each other and realized what he was doing. He was a hero though, a man among men, for making it as far as he did. He grinned at that thought and then his expression clouded. Were those days ever gone.

  He drew his attention back to Kelsie’s driver’s licence. Class 5, 28 years old, 5’5” tall, 130 pounds. He held the card in his hand and tapped it thoughtfully against his other hand. Kelsie Scott. Nice, innocuous name, like Smith, but without the fake name baggage that comes with Smith. He slid the driver’s licence back in her wallet before turning his attention to her laptop.

  It was a PC. Good. He was proficient at both Macs and PCs, but preferred PCs, for no reason other than he used them more often. This one was a Lenovo, looked fairly new. He flipped it open and the screen lit up. “Fuck,” he muttered when he realized it was password protected. Of course, it would be, he thought. Little Kelsie was far too organized to not cover her ass. It was okay. He wasn’t sure what he would do with it anyway. Certainly not log into his organization profile. That would immediately register the IP address and whoever gave him up to the Russians wouldn’t hesitate to lead them right to Kelsie’s home.

  Dean looked over at the washer as he closed the lid on the laptop. It was on the last rinse cycle. Good, he thought. His body was aching, and his eyes were dry and tired. He needed a little more Tylenol and some sleep. But he needed to put the laundry in the dryer first. He grinned at himself, he wasn’t generally this domesticated.

  He walked back into the office to find Kelsie’s cellphone. It was there, plugged into the wall, sitting on a little side table, slightly hidden by a silk ivy. He picked up the phone and pulled the plug out of the wall. He’d need that too. He looked around in the dim light and noticed a safe in the corner. Not a floor safe, but one of those useless pieces of shit that didn’t keep thieves out. But they were fireproof, so she probably had all her important papers in it. He picked it up with his left hand. The little fucker was heavy, and he felt the strain as he hauled it into the laundry room.

  Key lock, not combination, that’s a blessing, but he needed to find the damn key. He went back into the office and searched the desk drawers first; nothing interesting in there except a couple of letters written by her and to her. On letter was signed, Kelsie Scott, L.L.B, Assistant to Malcolm Westwick, Vancouver Regional Administrative Judge. He filed that information away in his memory. It might come in handy to know a judge. He shrugged. Or it might not.

  He rifled through the stuff on the top of her desk. Nothing much there. Then he ran his hands along the bookshelf behind her desk and came upon a little carved box. As he felt inside, he found a small key, presumably to the safe, and a couple of rings, which, based on how they felt, merited a closer look under some bright lights. He picked up the little box and took it back into the laundry room closing the door behind him, flicking the light back on. He opened the lid and dumped the rings and the safe key into his hand. The rings were interesting.

  The first was an engagement ring, bright, shiny and expensive. About 1½ carats in a platinum setting – probably 15K retail. Interesting that Kelsie kept it in a box on a bookshelf in her office, especially with the safe sitting right next to it on the floor. It seemed a little out of character for who he thought she was. The wedding ring was not part of the same set as the engagement ring. It was a gold band, no diamonds, plain, pretty, clearly meant for a woman as it didn’t even fit on his pinky finger. It gave him an idea, a way for him to go deeper undercover, a way to lay low and stay low until he figured things out.

  He put both rings on top of the cellphone. The engagement ring could be pawned, bring in some cash, pay for some fake ID to get him and Kelsie over the border, a gun too if he couldn’t figure a way to get safely into his apartment to get one of his own. Maybe they’d head state-side – no one would expect him to do that. They were going to need cash while they were on the run. The wedding ring, Kelsie would wear. It would make them look more legitimate. A couple on vacation. Married, in love… or not… either way it would work.

  He took the key out of the box and opened the safe with it. Yes. Her passport was in it along with insurance papers and her will. He took out the passport and flipped it open to her picture. He wasn’t sure if he was getting a bad hard-on for this woman or if the recent events had addled his brain, but she even looked great in her passport photo. At least they’d only have to pay for one set of fake ID. He tossed the passport on the dryer and looked at his loot. This was going to work, he thought. It had to work. The washer finished its spin cycle and clicked off.

  “About fucking time,” Dean grunted under his breath. He shoved the clothes into the dryer and turned it on. Then he closed and locked the safe, took it and the box back into her office and put them back where he’d found them.

  If someone walked into this house in the next few days, he wanted it to look exactly like how Kelsie would leave it. And Kelsie was neat and orderly; a plan and a place for everything. He walked out of the office and looked around. Just one more thing, he thought. He found it in the dining room. A cabinet in the corner. A few bottles of wine resting in a wine rack and the hard stuff below, hidden from sight inside the cabinet. He pulled out a couple of bottles and peered at them. An almost full bottle of cheap shit rum, ½ bottle of Grey Goose vodka. Fuck, he needed a shot of whiskey, or scotch or something not vodka or rum. And, as if the universe was listening, his hand settled on a 26-ounce bottle of bourbon. He grunted as he pulled it out. What the fuck is she doing with bourbon? And not just any bourbon. This was Michter’s 1010 – best shit to drink straight up, which is what he intended to do.

  He carried the bourbon into the bedroom and dropped it on the bedside table. He glanced over at Kelsie. Her eyes were open and followed him as he moved. He entered the bathroom, picked up the Tylenol and the empty water glass and then returned to “his” side of the bed, sitting down, his back to her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked quietly.

  “Drinking your bourbon,” he grunted as he poured a measure into the glass and tossed it back. It burned as it hit the back of his throat, but it was a
good kind of burn. He turned to look at her. “Want some?”

  “No,” she said as he poured himself another shot. This time he pulled the cap off the Tylenol bottle and shook a couple of tablets into his hand. He washed these down with the bourbon as he studied Kelsie over the rim of the glass. He could see the panic in her eyes as she watched him mix the alcohol and drugs. He knew what she was thinking. What if he died in the night? How would she get free? He knew she had already tested her binds, probably the minute he left the room to do his search of her house. Who wouldn’t? She would have pulled at the knots with her fingers, tried to slip out of the sash with her long, slim hands, only to find there was no give to the material. Dean was a pro and no one he tied up got loose unless he let them. “Please stop drinking,” she quietly pleaded with him, “or taking the drugs.”

  Dean set the empty glass on the night table. “Nice that you care,” he grunted. Then he slid under the covers and was sleeping before his head hit the pillow.

  Chapter Seven

  Kelsie woke with a start. It was morning, though she didn’t know the time. Early, she thought. The sky was starting to lighten, but the sun wasn’t shining on her east facing window yet. She’d barely slept. How could she with her arms tied over her head and the lunatic snoring beside her? At least he was getting some rest, she thought bitterly. Even though they were up late, once Dean was asleep, the time dragged by. Her mind wouldn’t settle enough for her to drift off for more than a few minutes at a time. Then she would jerk awake and start thinking again. She kept replaying the events in her mind. What happened, what he said, who he said he was.