6. Cipher
Cipher
My body still burns with desire. My mind screams in protest. The taste of her lingers on my lips—sweet, innocent, everything I have no fucking right to touch.
When I'm sure I'm out of her sight, I slam my fist into the metal siding of the garage. Pain explodes up my arm, a welcome distraction from the dangerous hunger still coursing through me.
All I planned to do was apologize to her, and instead, I ended up molesting the woman.
I hit the side of the garage again. And again. The skin splits across my knuckles, blood smearing the painted surface, the metallic scent filling my nostrils.
Good. Physical pain, I understand. Physical pain I can relate to.
I force myself to breathe, to push back the red haze threatening to consume me. Three point two seconds inhale. Four point six seconds exhale. Repeat until heart rate normalizes. Basic self-regulation techniques.
But they're not fucking working, because all I can think about is Rose's soft body against mine, her inexperienced lips opening under mine, the small, breathy sounds she made when I touched her. The way she looked at me with trust in her eyes—trust I don't fucking deserve.
Fuck.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the hard-packed dirt, head in my hands, the cool metal soothing against my back. Blood drips from my knuckles, forming small dark patterns in the dust. What kind of monster looks at something so pure and thinks : mine?
The same kind that's left bodies cooling in alleyways across four continents. The same kind that extracted information through means that would make hardened killers vomit. The same kind whose hands are so stained with blood they'll never be clean.
The voice of my NSA handler echoes in my mind: "You're a weapon, Walsh. Not a man. Don't forget that."
For years, I've lived by those words. Weapons don't have desires. Weapons don't have needs. Weapons certainly don't kiss innocent girls rescued from human traffickers and imagine fucking them.
But I did.
And worse—for those few minutes, with Rose in my arms, I forgot what I am. I let myself believe I could have something I have no right to touch.
I’m a killer and I’m good at it. Cold-blooded. No remorse, no hesitation, just cold, methodical execution.
That's who I am. That's what lives inside me.
And Rose—sweet, gentle Rose who's endured so much pain already—deserves better than to be touched by the hands of a monster.
I push myself to my feet, wiping blood from my knuckles onto my jeans. The compound buzzes with the continuing celebration, music and laughter carrying through the night air. Normal people living normal lives—a world that has no place for an aberration like me.
The few brothers I pass give me a wide berth, recognizing the dangerous energy radiating from me. Smart. Very fucking smart.
The door to my surveillance cave opens with a soft click. Inside, the blue glow of monitors bathes everything in cold light. I sink into my chair, eyes automatically scanning the feeds until I find her.
Rose is back at the party, standing near the edge of the celebration. Even through the camera lens, I can see the slight tremor in her hands. Her lips—swollen from my kiss—form a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
I did that. I put that hurt there.
Good. Let her hate me. Let her fear me. It's better than the alternative—better than her believing I'm capable of being whatever white knight she's imagined in her head.
I zoom in, studying her face. Are her eyes glassy? I zoom in again and catch a tear as it trails down her face. The sight sends a fresh wave of self-loathing through me so intense it's like acid in my veins. I've made her cry.
As she moves swiftly through the crowd, I switch camera views, following her progress across the compound.
The dress she's wearing clings to her slender curves in a way that makes my jaw clench.
Other men are noticing too. I watch as a member of the Renegade Kings tracks her movement, his interest obvious in his predatory stance.
My finger hovers over the keyboard, tempted to identify him, to mark him for special attention later. The thought of his eyes on her, his hands anywhere near her body, sends murderous rage coursing through me. My heart rate spikes, vision narrowing to a pinpoint.
But what right do I have?
The rational part of my brain—the part that allows me to function in society—says absolutely none. The primal part, the part that's been steadily growing since I first laid eyes on Rose, disagrees vehemently.
I force myself to switch screens. Focus on something productive. Something that doesn't involve imagining how many ways I could disembowel a man for looking at Rose.
But my eyes keep drifting to the camera showing Rose. She's sitting alone now at a table, her expression lost and wounded. My chest tightens painfully.
This isn't working. I need something more effective to drive these demons back into whatever dark corner they escaped from.
I know exactly what I need.
The training room occupies the basement level of the clubhouse, a space outfitted with weights, heavy bags, and a sparring mat. At this hour, with most of the brothers at the celebration, I expect to find it empty.
Instead, Hawk is there, pummeling a heavy bag with methodical precision. He pauses mid-strike when I enter, taking in my bloodied knuckles and tense posture with a knowing look.
"Again?" he asks. There's no judgment in his voice, just weary recognition.
I nod, already stripping off my cut and shirt, leaving me in just my jeans.
The fluorescent lights reveal the tapestry of scars covering my torso and back—thick keloid ridges from burns, jagged lines from knives, circular marks from cigarettes pressed into flesh.
Evidence of my time in captivity and the life I've led since.
I reach for the utility rope hanging on the wall rack, methodically binding my right arm—my dominant arm—behind my back, securing it tightly enough to render it useless. Next, I strap twenty-pound weights to each ankle, the familiar restriction immediately altering my balance.
"The blindfold too?" Hawk asks, watching me with a mixture of resignation and concern as I reach for the black cloth.
"Half-vision," I reply, positioning the fabric to cover my right eye while leaving my left unobstructed.
Hawk shakes his head. "You sure about this? Last time you could barely walk for three days."
"I'm sure." My voice comes out like gravel. We both know that a monster with my skill set could take Hawk down in under thirty seconds at full capacity. These handicaps are not just to make the fight fair—they're to ensure I receive the pain I'm seeking.
He sighs, stepping onto the mat. "Your funeral, brother."
Hawk is the only one who understands this arrangement, this need I have to be punished when my control slips. As the club's enforcer and former Army Ranger, he has the skills to hurt me without killing me, and the discretion not to ask questions.
"Rules?" he asks, circling me.
"Don't hold back."
Something like concern flashes across his face. "That bad, huh?"
I don't answer, just raise my free hand in a fighting stance. Hawk sighs again, then moves with blinding speed, his fist connecting with my ribs before I can fully block. Pain explodes through my side—a clean hit, possibly a cracked rib.
Good. Perfect. This is what I need.
I counter with a jab that he easily avoids, leaving me open for a knee to the stomach that doubles me over. The air rushes from my lungs, spots dancing in my vision.
"Does this mean I have to beat the shit out of you again?" he asks conversationally, landing another brutal blow to my side.
"Shut up and fight," I growl, back on my feet, swinging wildly, deliberately allowing my technique to deteriorate in a way I never would in a real combat situation.
Hawk obliges, his fists finding every vulnerability in my defense.
Blood fills my mouth as his elbow connects with my jaw, the coppery taste familiar and grounding.
Pain blooms across my body, bright and clarifying.
With each blow, Rose's face recedes a little further from my mind, replaced by the immediate reality of physical suffering.
I land a few hits of my own—enough to make it feel like a fight rather than the beating we both know it is. I'm here to be punished, to pay penance for daring to touch something pure when my soul is so tainted.
By the time Hawk decides I've had enough, I'm on my knees, blood dripping from a cut above my eye, my ribs screaming in protest with each labored breath. He stands over me, shaking his head.
"Whatever demon you're fighting, brother, this isn't the way to beat it."
I spit blood onto the mat. "Works for me."
"No, it doesn't." He tosses me a towel. "It really doesn’t."
I press the towel against the cut on my eyebrow, watching as it soaks through with red. "Did I ask for your fucking opinion?"
"No, but you're getting it anyway." He crouches down to my level. "This thing with Rose?—"
My head snaps up. "Who said anything about Rose?"
"You didn't have to. The whole club sees how you look at her.
" He sighs, running a hand through his short hair.
"Look, whatever you think you don't deserve, whatever you're punishing yourself for—that's between you and your demons.
But dragging an innocent girl into your self-hatred? That's not right, man."
After he leaves, I remain on the mat, letting the pain wash through me in cleansing waves. My body is a map of old and new injuries—the scar tissue from captivity now joined by fresh bruises and cuts. External manifestations of internal damage.
Eventually, I drag myself to my feet, retrieving my shirt and cut from the bench. Each movement sends fresh pain shooting through my abused ribs. I welcome it, focusing on the physical discomfort rather than the deeper ache that's taken up residence in my chest since I walked away from Rose.
My room is dark when I finally make it there, collapsing onto the bed still in my jeans. I should clean the cuts, check for serious damage, but exhaustion pulls me under before I can summon the energy to care.
Sleep brings no relief, only the familiar nightmares—enhanced tonight by fresh guilt and self-loathing.
"Tell us about Operation Blackbird," The Professor’s voice is clinical, detached, as he selects a tool from the tray beside him. The metal instruments clink against each other.
I remain silent. Naked. Tied to a metal table.
He nods to his assistant, who places electrodes on my chest, my genitals, the soles of my feet. The cold metal sticks to my sweat-slicked skin.
The first jolt of electricity tears a scream from my throat that I can't suppress. My muscles contract violently, teeth clamping down on my tongue. Blood fills my mouth.
"Everyone breaks eventually," The Professor says as my body convulses against the restraints. "The only variable is how much permanent damage occurs before that happens."
Another jolt, longer this time. My vision whites out from the pain. I can feel my heart stuttering in my chest, the rhythm disrupted by the current. When my vision clears, the Professor's face has changed—morphed into Richard Hartley's sneering visage.
"She's mine," he says, but it's still The Professor's cultured voice coming from Hartley's mouth. "You can't protect her. You can't even protect yourself."
The scene shifts, and suddenly Rose is there, strapped to a table beside me. Her eyes are wide with terror as Hartley approaches her with a scalpel. The blade gleams under the harsh lights, polished and deadly.
"No!" I try to scream, but no sound emerges. I strain against my restraints, feeling them cut into my flesh, warm blood trickling down my wrists.
"This is what happens to things you care about," The Professor says, pressing the blade against Rose's pale skin. A line of crimson appears, her blood spilling over white flesh. The contrast is beautiful and horrifying. "Everything you touch, you destroy."
But then it's my hand holding the scalpel, my fingers covered in her blood. The blade feels right in my grip, an extension of myself. Rose looks at me with the pain of betrayal in her eyes as I cut into her, her flesh parting easily under the sharp edge.
"You said you'd protect me," she whispers as her blood pools beneath her.
I wake with a violent jerk, a strangled cry tearing from my throat. Sweat soaks through my sheets despite the cool air. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to erase the image of Rose's blood on my fingers.
The cuts on my knuckles sting, the pain from my ribs a dull throb with each breath.
My body is a symphony of pain, but it does nothing to drown out the voice in my head repeating the truth I've always known—the kindest thing I can do for her is keep her far away from me.