by Rina Kent
“You’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for, ma petite.” I ruffle her fur.
She licks the wound in my neck, and it burns. I wince. My fingers ghost up to the injury as if reincarnating the memories from three nights ago.
In that moment, a sudden urge pushed me to provoke the English gangster and force him to hurt me. Maybe even kill me.
If someone else kills me, Maman and Papa wouldn’t blame me for losing the house since it would be completely out of my control.
Such a coward I’ve been.
But even in that moment of impulsiveness, even after talking myself into believing the cowardly story I’ve weaved, he didn’t kill me. He just ran away from the hospital like they do in Hollywood films.
Xavier told me that the gangster is currently on the wanted list and will be found sooner or later.
I wouldn’t be so sure. If he managed to escape the hospital with infection gnawing at his wound, I wouldn’t be shocked if he’s already out of the country and back to England by now. Or wherever he came from. He did sound very British, though. Just like Dad’s accent.
My heart aches at the thought of Dad, but I quickly push him back.
Dr Bernard found traces of a strange drug in the patient’s blood. It’s nothing like we’ve ever seen before. The substance is toxic, but the man is obviously still alive.
The hospital had to send a sample of his blood to a bigger lab in Paris. Like everyone in the hospital, I’m curious about the nature of the drug.
I’m curious about a lot of things that should be none of my concern.
The tip of my finger glides over the wound.
The disregard for human life in that man’s frozen blue eyes has never left me since that night. If he were in better circumstances, would he have killed me and put an end to this numbness?
I jerk my fingers away from my neck and toss on my back. I have to stop these masochistic, cowardly thoughts.
Papa’s house is a priority. My grandparents and Maman are buried atop the hill. The day my mother died, the coroner advised against seeing her face and I complied. We had a closed casket funeral where no one saw her after her death. I wish I did. If I had, I wouldn’t be feeling regrets about not saying goodbye.
I sigh and focus back on Papa’s house. Maybe, just maybe, after I get it back and have it registered as a historical monument, I’ll hire someone like the English Patient to finish my life. Because I’m too cowardly to do it myself.
I nod, my lids fluttering closed.
Sounds like a good plan.
Somewhere between wakefulness and sleep – in which most of my sleeping cycles are trapped in – a creak on the wooden flooring filters through my ears. It isn’t loud or disturbing, but it’s there. Then a growl rips through the silence, loud and aggressive... then nothing.
Charlotte?
Before I can open my eyes, I feel a large body hovering over mine.
Definitely not Charlotte’s.
My lids snap open to be greeted by that lifeless gaze from the hospital. Only now, he appears more focused. Even less human than before.
Sleek strands of blond hair fall haphazardly on his forehead, almost brushing against my cheeks. His eyes are the deepest shade of turquoise; intense, grabbing. Frightening. Someone could drown in those eyes and never find a way out.
The scent of leather and something tame underneath fills my surroundings. He leans closer, confiscating my air to replace it with his hot, threatening breaths.
My pulse skyrockets.
He’s here to kill me.
It’s as clear as the sun outside. If his emotionless features aren’t a clue, he points something cold at my temple. A gun.
I’ll die. Now. At this man’s hands.
Peace falls over me like a calming halo. A sense of relief I hadn’t feel in forever envelops me in a cocoon.
This is it. No more numbness or automatic smiles or pretending to be fine while I scream inside.
I close my eyes, a tear trickling down my cheek.
I’m so sorry, Papa. I really wanted to save the house before leaving.
That option is out of the question now.
The wait for death is longer than I expected. For long seconds, nothing comes.
I’m acutely aware of my killer’s clad, hard thighs entrapping my own, his breaths still tickling my skin, and the barrel of the gun pressed to my temple, but then... nothing.
No bangs or white tunnels or Grim Reapers.
“Open your eyes.” The low, snappy order booms around me and slices through my chest.
What does he sound so angry for? He’s the one who’s come to kill me, not the other way around.
“I said open your fucking eyes, Nurse Betty.” He squeezes my chin between harsh fingers.
I hate that damn nickname. I’m not even blonde.
Something different than acceptance courses through my veins. Something so similar to anger, it’s unbelievable. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been angry.
Aside from when this same man who’s squeezing my flesh refused to kill me back at the hospital.
“What?” I glare at him. “You’re here to kill me, so do it. Get it over with.”
He lightens his grip on my jaw but doesn’t remove his hand. The touch causes heat to rise to my cheeks. I’m self-conscious about the intimate position he’s caging me in. Not to mention my thin, short nightgown. This is nowhere near appropriate.
But who am I to dictate in which position I should die? I don’t even have the guts to do it myself.
I peek at his impassive gaze, trying to read something out of this man.
Absolutely nothing.
He just seems to be waiting. For what, I have no idea.
“Just do it.” I urge him, voice harsher than intended. “Pull the trigger.”
My words have the exact opposite effect of what I hoped. Instead of fulfilling my wish and doing what he came here for, the stranger removes his gun from my temple and hides it somewhere in his belt. The muscles underneath his black shirt flex with the motion.
His heat leaves mine as he sits beside me, the bed shifting and creaking under his massive weight.
What?
Is this some sort of a trick?
“Why...” I swallow, sitting up to face him. The rush of whatever acceptance I had earlier withers away. “Why aren’t you killing me?”
“Because it isn’t fun.” His bored expression falls on me like he blames me for his misfortune and everything wrong with the planet.
“What?”
“If you welcome death with open arms, where’s the fun for me?”
Mon Dieu.
Is he damn serious? I’m not allowed to accept my own death?
Screw this man. Just because I allowed him to kill me, he dares to judge how I let it happen?
Okay, that sounded so wrong. I’m not supposed to allow anyone to kill me. But either way, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
“Connard.” Bastard.
“Hey, no French swear words, they sound weak.” His perfect British accent drifts so coolly, I would’ve been mesmerised if I wasn’t on the brink of anger. “Come on, Nurse Betty, you can do better.”
That nickname again.
A rush of hot fire burns through me, and I have no one to release it on except the man in front of me.
I jump up from the bed and point a tense finger at him. “If you’re not going to kill me, then get the fuck out of here. How about that much English for you, bastard?”
He grins so wide, I’m momentarily paralysed by how handsome he looks with that crookedness and seemingly natural charm. Tattoos peek from the sleeve of his leather jacket and the collar of his shirt, swirling along his skin in an intimate embrace. What do those little birds mean?
I can’t believe I’m ogling him.
“Much better.” He’s still grinning, no malice whatsoever resides in his previously-closed features. “But I’m not leaving.” He retrieves his phone and shows me
a conversation I had with the person who expressed interest in renting the second storey of the house. “I’m your new tenant.”
5
Crow
I know a few things about death. It’s a given when growing up as a spawn of it. When blood is all I’ve breathed since I’ve been taken into The Pit.
It goes without saying that death’s subjects aren’t afraid of it. Not even when I realised that Omega is destroying my cells with every breath.
When it’s time to die, I will.
It’s a given in our line of work. Only a handful live to witness their hair turn grey.
But this woman?
This tiny, mighty Nurse Betty?
What the fuck does she know about death to welcome it so easily, so obediently, without any damn fight?
Not once, but bloody twice.
She’s playing on the strings of death as if he’s an old friend. And fuck if that isn’t driving me bonkers.
Why?
I just couldn’t pull the trigger without knowing why the hell a French doll is toying with the spawn of death.
Nurse Betty stares at me from her standing position by the side of the bed. Or more like, she glares. Full fucking on. Her fists clench by her side and a tint of red flushes her cheeks after her outburst of profanity.
She looks fucking adorable.
I never thought I would say that about a living being – aside from cats.
Only there’s nothing adorable about the nightgown she’s wearing. Its thin fabric outlines her modest curves and full pale breasts. And now I’m starting to get hard.
Fuck.
“You’re delusional if you think I’ll rent you my place!” Her voice strains by how much she tries to shout, which means she’s not used to yelling. Not with that soft range.
I jump off of the bed, and it creaks in protest. My wound burns, but I bite down the pain. As I stalk towards her, Nurse Betty’s gaze follows my every move, but she neither flinches nor does she show any sign of fear.
Fuck me.
She really isn’t afraid of me.
That’s... strange. Except for Team Zero’s members and Hades, everyone is scared of me. One way or another.
I tower over her tiny frame. That sorry excuse of a nightgown is teasing me with the V between her creamy breasts. It takes an effort to focus on her face. “What makes you think you have a choice, Nurse Betty?”
Although I didn’t think it was possible, her cheeks redden further. She reaches to the phone on the nightstand and holds it close to her chest. “I’ll call the police!”
She really is adorable — and hot. Which shouldn’t be the right combination. But as I said, I live for weird.
I smile despite myself, my voice coming out in a rumble. “Of course you won’t.”
“Of course, I will. What will you do about it?” Her lips lift in a conniving smirk. “Kill me?”
The little fucking witch.
I lean closer until I breathe a tame flowery scent. Lilac or some apple shit that shouldn’t mean anything, but there’s something unique in it. Something that smells like her, and that’s worsening the state of my trousers. “You’d want that, wouldn’t you?”
Only I don’t think she actually wants to die. It’s probably due to the apathy that resides in her eyes. An apathy that completely disappeared when I refused to kill her.
Twice.
She can do anger and she can do it well. It’s only suffocated under the surface. I wonder what made her trap everything inside. Not that I care.
Her lips thin in a line. “Either leave or I’ll call the police.”
I reach out to the phone, but she hugs it to the visible line between her breasts.
It’s cute that she thinks the gesture would stop me.
I dive in. My fingers brush against the skin of her breasts. Fuck me. They’re softer than they look. I’m so tempted to grab a handful. See if they fit in my palms.
Nurse Betty gasps, letting the phone fall in my hand, and jumps back. She crosses her palms over her chest, cheeks turning a deep crimson. Not sure if it’s because of anger or something else.
“I...” She swallows and points a finger at me. “I’ll find a way to report you.”
“No, you won’t.” I twirl the phone between my fingers. “Here’s how it will go. I’ll rent the second storey for a while. You’re not to disturb me or utter a word about me. In exchange, I will pay you a few thousand in rent.”
She huffs, folding her arms. “What makes you think I won’t report you?”
“Because if you do... ” I advance until her sweet, head-turning scent is all I smell. My voice drops. “I’ll burn this whole place down.”
She flinches as if I slapped her. The tiny features contort into a mayhem of emotions; hatred, sadness, anger. Everything that’s able to purge that numbness right out of those huge green gates. Those eyes should be alive. It’s unfair that they would get anywhere near death.
Not that it should be any of my fucking business whether she lives or dies. It’s my job not to care.
“Y-you... wouldn’t,” she whispers, the sound haunted. Terrified.
“Try. Me.” I emphasise every word.
I didn’t miss the family pictures at the entrance and the huge architectural credit that the man in the old picture built this place. Judging by the age, her grandfather. Which means this gothic mansion has emotional value to her. It was a long shot that she cared about anything in her apathetic state, but good to know that there’s a weakness to explore.
“Or better yet,” I continue. “I may explode it.” I edge to murmur in her ear, “Boom.”
Explosions are Storm’s style, not mine. Doesn’t hurt to threaten with it.
She jerks away from me, posture tense. A series of French profanities spill from her mouth. Something about me being a sick bastard and blah fucking blah.
I cut her off with a finger to her lips. “What did I say about cursing in that weak arse French of yours, Nurse Betty?”
Before I can realise it, she does something I never thought a tiny thing like her would have the bollocks to do.
She bites my finger. Hard. Like a rabid dog planning to crack the bones. The green of her eyes is anything but dead. It’s firing up with simmering rage.
Fucking hell.
I push her away to save my bloody finger from being cut off. And there. Blood is already coating it.
“Stop calling me Nurse Betty!” She spits blood – my fucking blood – on the wooden floor. “My name is Eloise, not Nurse fucking Betty, you bastard!”
I stare between my assaulted finger and her bloodied mouth. My lips part, unable to believe she did this. Me, Crow, one of Team Zero’s notorious fucking killers, a founding assassin of The Pit, got bit by a French doll. “You little –”
“Pay me up front.” She cuts me off, widening her stance and tapping her foot on the floor.
“What?”
“I said to pay me the rent now. How would I know if you disappear in the middle of the night?”
She’s lucky I’m not banging her head on the bedpost, and she’s asking for money?
I laugh, the sound long and humourless. Eloise remains unfazed. Still tapping her foot, waiting for the payment.
She’s something. Something so fucking irritating and yet so fascinating.
Again, a weird combination.
But it’s good. I’m getting what I want by staying at the safest place in this town. I reach out to my back pocket. The tapping of her leg screeches to a halt. She chews on the inside of her cheeks, eyes widening a little.
When I produce my phone, her shoulders hunch. Was she thinking I’d retrieve the gun instead?
“Give me your bank account number.” I can stay for free, even kidnap her at her own property. But that would be a hassle, especially with the fucking gunshot. Besides, I have a lot of money due to my killing contracts. What would I keep it for?
Except for my bike, I only use it for living necessities. I never
understood the need for it. Hades and his underground partners do, though. He’s built The Pit to gain money and makes sure to take a large percentage of our killing contracts.
After she enters her number, I transfer a few thousand euros from my Swiss bank account. That should be enough for at least three months’ rent. Not that I plan to stay more than a week.
Storm or Ghost would get me out of here in no time.
Once I show her the confirmation message, Nurse Betty – aka Eloise – pushes me towards the door. “Your floor is the one above. Unless you’re taking the stairs to go out, don’t step foot on mine again.”
The door slams shut in my face.
The little fucking witch.
Now I know how it feels not to have someone scared of me. It’s irritating as fuck.
Perhaps I should demonstrate real fear. Put her in her place. Before I can contemplate the idea, the door swings open. I’m once again met by fired up tiny features.
“Where’s Charlotte?” she demands.
“Char-what?”
“My dog!”
She must be talking about the furball that almost bit my toes off. Like dog, like owner.
“If you’ve done anything to her....” She leaves the sentence hanging as if that should relay the threat.
As if she could threaten me.
“What will you do?” I barge into her personal space until her breath hitches. “Continue what you started with my finger?”
She stares up at me with those mesmerising eyes, and I simply can’t look away. It’s like being caught in a web of my own making. A monster I just released from its cage.
That monster happens to be in the shape of the most beautiful and intriguing woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
A whine interrupts the moment. Eloise shakes her head and runs to the source of the sound — downstairs, where I locked the dog in a cupboard.
I can’t tear my gaze from the gentle sway of Eloise’s hips or the way that thin gown glues to her waist. The fabric hunches up, revealing sublime, tall legs.
“Go upstairs!” She throws over her shoulders as she descends the stairs, the wood creaking with each step. “Don’t show yourself on this floor again.”
The best way to have me do something is to tell me not to do it.