14. Lilith
LILITH
Thirty minutes later, when I slip into the storage unit next to Alaric’s, I find him where I hoped he’d be. With Harold, seemingly about to hurt the bastard.
My body still reels from our encounter, my sex still sore. He ruined me in the best way possible. So much so that I nearly fell asleep in the shower.
If only he were there to carry me to bed, but—no.
Letting him go was the right thing to do.
So there he is, and here I am.
Both of us have changed clothes. He’s in a worn-out pair of jeans and a tattered T-shirt, gloves on his hands, while I’m in a pair of black sweats and a matching sweatshirt, peering into his storage unit.
Or should I say, into his makeshift hospital room. It looks like an underground version of one, with Harold attached to the monitors.
A twisted thrill rushes up my spine when his eyes bulge as he stares at Alaric.
At my man.
Mine, mine, mine.
Refusing to miss a second of this by daydreaming, I shake my head, silence my thoughts, and follow him across the room.
His long fingers drag a metal table into place in front of Harold. I squint, trying to make out what’s on it, just like I did yesterday. But even now that it’s closer, I still can’t tell what tools are laid out on it, only the bulky leather notebook.
The one Alaric is writing in.
Dammit. The peephole is too small. I’ll never be able to see what he’s putting on the page.
My curiosity spikes to unhealthy levels when he sets the pen aside and picks up a syringe.
Harold, much like me, catches the movement. Panic flashes across his face, his chest stretching against the ropes, his whimper muted by the duct tape covering his mouth.
Alaric ignores the piece of shit who beat his own mother.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Harold is guilty. Yesterday morning, Mrs. Tobin looked thrilled as she told Hope and me that she’d finally be moving into an assisted-living facility.
No one is that excited to leave their home unless that place isn’t safe for them.
I should know.
The rest of my sad and righteous thoughts fade out a moment later, when Alaric holds the syringe up to the light, tapping it lightly with his knuckle.
One, two, three, and then a bead of liquid forms at the tip. A satisfied hum rumbles through him.
He turns to the table and taps something on it. Ugh, I don’t know what. Whatever it is, it’s too flat for me to see from here.
Maybe he isn’t tapping a button or a tablet or anything like that. Maybe it’s just a ritual, like the ones some athletes have before a big game.
One day, I’ll find out.
“All set,” is the only thing he says when he turns back to Harold, who thrashes against his restraints.
Alaric doesn’t react to his captive’s tantrum. His expression is blank as he sinks the needle into Harold’s throat, pressing the plunger until it’s empty.
The precision and iciness of the action shouldn’t turn me on. I should be terrified of a man who wields cruelty without blinking an eye.
Thing is, this isn’t some stranger I’m spying on.
Alaric is no monster. He apologized back in the cafeteria. He aches for me whenever we’re together, but never neglects asking for my consent. He insisted on spending the night after my first time, then walked me home.
If anything, he’s a protector. One who deals with real monsters by not just kidnapping them, but killing them, since that’s what he’s done to Harold.
And Harold is dead. I don’t need to be a doctor to know that.
The monitors he’s attached to flatlined a second ago. Harold’s head has fallen back, his body slumped in the chair.
His death doesn’t shake Alaric in the slightest. That, on its own, isn’t strange. What’s weird is that it’s been seconds since Harold died, and Alaric still watches over the dead body.
Why bother? He should just say good riddance and go home.
I know I should. I have to get out of here before he wraps up for the day and catches me running down the block from his window, if he happens to look out onto the street.
One last glance at my gorgeous vigilante, and I push away from the wall, about to grab the duct tape to cover the hole.
“Mmm!” The gasp, or scream, or whatever the hell it is sounds desperate.
What the fuck?
As quietly as I can, I hurry back to my spot by the peephole.
Oh my God.
The lines on the monitors have jumped back to life, climbing and dipping. Harold’s eyes are confused but otherwise open, blinking the world into focus.
My jaw drops. I have to clasp a hand over my mouth to silence a gasp.
And while I’m stunned, Alaric, once more, seems completely unfazed. It’s like he expected his murder attempt to fail.
So if this wasn’t a mistake, what is this?
“I’d say it’s good to have you back.” Alaric turns to write in his notebook again, his voice bored. “But there’s nothing good about it, even if I was the one to resuscitate you.”
“Mmm.” Harold thrusts his body left and right. The chair doesn’t budge, just scrapes the floor with a tiny, miserable sound. “Mmm.”
“I agree.” The next item Alaric grabs is a small Mason jar from the floor, a greenish liquid sloshing inside it. “I wish I could be somewhere else too. Away from you, obviously.”
His words throw me off, replacing my shock with amusement.
I kind of like this side of Alaric.
“With her.” A possessive note takes over his tone.
Her. He means me.
I flatten my hand on the wall, wishing I could touch him. At this point, I would’ve settled for being his helper, handing him a straw instead of watching him reach out to grab it from the table on his own.
But since this is all I have, I stay quiet and watch him drop the straw into the jar, then pluck a toothpick from the table before walking over to Harold.
The other man rears his head back and away from Alaric, his body shaking with fear. Sweat beads at his temples, trickling down his face.
“Hold still.” Alaric sounds calm as he bends at the waist until he’s at eye level with his captive. “You must be thirsty, right? A little deflated? I have electrolytes for you.”
At that, Harold’s gaze darts to the Mason jar. In an instant, he stops shaking and takes a deep breath.
He must think that Alaric plans on keeping him alive. And if he’s alive, he still has a fighting chance.
I wouldn’t count on it.
“Here we go.” Alaric sets about puncturing the duct tape with the toothpick.
After he gets a few holes in, he moves the toothpick around, creating a small circular opening.
“Pwease,” Harold murmurs. Please. “Pwease, ont oo iss.” Please don’t do this.
Alaric cocks his head. Another suspiciously friendly gesture. “You want to stay dehydrated?”
“Mom.”
That one word breaks through Alaric’s facade. He holds the Mason jar so tight his knuckles turn white. The muscle in his jaw tics.
Harold senses the change in him too, the lines on the monitor rising and falling wildly as he mumbles, “Sowwy. Sowwy.” Sorry. Sorry.
“Just shut up and drink your electrolytes, Harold.”
The toothpick is gone, tossed onto the floor. With his free hand on the straw, Alaric shoves it into Harold’s mouth, whose throat works as he starts gulping down the jar’s contents.
I say contents because there’s no chance in hell it’s electrolytes.
Electrolytes don’t do…this. Harold has only taken two or three sips, and he’s shrieking while trying to spit the straw out of his mouth.
Alaric waits and waits, and only when it suits him does he pull it out.
He slaps a new piece of duct tape over Harold’s mouth while the other man’s face swells.
Realization hits hard and fast.
Alaric must have gotten his hands on Harold’s medical files.
So.
Whatever Alaric has in that jar, Harold’s allergic to it.
Just like before, my mouth gapes wide open. There isn’t an ounce of fear coursing through my body, only awe. Pure, unadulterated admiration.
Because even if law enforcement charged Harold with hurting his mother and locked him up, they wouldn’t do this. They wouldn’t put him through hell and back.
They wouldn’t stand up for Mrs. Tobin like she deserves.
Alaric does.
Is it possible he tortured my mom too?
Hmm. I wish, but no, there’s no way he did.
Alaric was twenty-eight at the time. Fresh out of med school. He had to have been a resident, not an attending like he is today. He must’ve spent days and nights in the hospital without a moment to spare.
Still, that doesn’t take away from the fact that he saved me that night.
Even if he didn’t kill Mom, which I don’t think he did, he’s still my angel.
Back to Harold. While he fights for air, Alaric toys with a bulky autoinjector. It reminds me of an EpiPen, only with a different brand name on it, one I don’t recognize.
Strange.
“There, there.” He strolls over to Harold. “No need for the theatrics.”
His dark humor makes me bite back on my lip to stifle a laugh. My God, he’s hilarious.
The moment Harold’s eyes roll back, Alaric injects the pen firmly into the middle of Harold’s outer thigh. Then he goes back to the table. Taps. Scribbles.
I expect him to go back to Harold, except…
What’s this? He removes his gloves, picks up his phone, and types on it.
Why? Is he texting someone?
And if so, who the hell would he text at a time like this?
Does he have an accomplice?
I shouldn’t be jealous of this person who might be helping Alaric, but I am.
A knot ties in my stomach. My mouth twists.
I don’t spiral for long. A minute later, to my left, my phone lights up. I get up quietly, snatching it from the dusty stool I placed it on earlier.
My eyebrows fly up when I see his name on the screen, and I can’t unlock the phone fast enough.
Alaric: Wanted to check in on you in case you’re up. How are you? Changed your mind about me coming over?
Alaric: Wish I could’ve stayed the night.
Alaric: I’m not upset or anything. I just—I miss you.
He was right. His words aren’t cheap. At all. For fuck’s sake, he’s torturing a man and still has time to think about me.
Unfortunately, he’ll have to wait for my reply. I can’t risk sticking around for another second.
After taping the hole in the wall shut, I slip quietly out of his building and jog all the way home, a smile tugging at my mouth.
I fell for the right man.
Life is perfect.