13. I Dont Care
I Don't Care
Eamon
Drinking Isla's blood and finger-fucking her until she cried was definitely a terrible idea.
But I can't really bring myself to give a shit.
She was acting like a brat, snooping where she didn't belong. And on top of that, she was doing it in those tiny little pajamas that make me fucking stupid.
The second I saw her bent over the desk, staring at one of the monitors, roaring started between my ears. A mix of anger and undeniable lust at the tiny sliver of ass cheek hanging out the bottom of her shorts, so plump and round I almost took a bite out of that instead of her neck.
And the way her blood tasted was unlike anything I've ever known. I've fed from my share of people over the years, and no one has ever tasted like they were made just for me. Like every drop was crafted to be my own sick version of paradise. The closest I'll get to it.
Of course, it pumps inside the one person on this earth that is a walking hell to me.
She's been uncharacteristically quiet and obedient since it happened. Eating, training, working without any complaints— or any words at all, really. I know I should be happy with this change in attitude, but honestly, it scares the hell out of me. She's not one to give up that easily. I know it's just a matter of time before she lashes out, and I've given her an entire room full of weapons to do so.
"You're still just trying to punch the dummy; you need to try to punch through it," I correct her, willing my racing thoughts to quiet long enough for me to focus.
She nods, trying again. Better, but not quite right. She's not in this fight. Just going through the motions. "Harder, Isla. You're strong enough to knock this thing over and you're not even trying."
Her eyes flick to mine for only a second before she tries again. The dummy wobbles but remains upright.
"Try a kick."
Her form is nearly perfect, but she's pulling back instead of following through. "You're not going to hurt it. It's a dummy. Come on."
She mutters something to herself before trying again, infinitely harder, rocking the dummy until I correct it to keep it from tipping over.
"Again."
She kicks again, followed by punches. Over and over until sweat glistens down her skin, sparkling in the bright light and drawing my attention away from the technique altogether.
"This is pointless," she pants after a few minutes.
My brows scrunch, "What do you mean? You're getting better."
"Yeah, but this," she gestures at it, "isn't what fighting is going to be like. No one is just going to stand still while I hit them."
"Well, yeah, but this is just about learning how to hit. Where to hit. Learning to throw punches without injuring yourself."
"I know all that," annoyance colors her tone. "But it should at least be a moving target so I can learn how to watch for and anticipate movement instead of only knowing how to hit something completely stationary."
"Isla," I tease. "Are you just looking for an excuse to hit me?"
Her eyes narrow, "No, but if you're offering, I would much rather punch and kick you."
"Let's go, then." I lift the dummy and move it a few feet out of our way, anticipation lighting up across my body. If Isla wants to hit me, hell yeah, I'm gonna let her. "I don't have hand pads or anything for you to hit, so you're just aiming wherever you can to hurt me, got it?"
"Absolutely." The first smile I've seen in days brightens her face, a sardonic pleasure filling her at the prospect of causing me harm. It doesn't matter that she can't really hurt me; we're both going to thoroughly enjoy how much she'll try.
I smile back, holding my hands up and gesturing for her to start.
And she fucking does. One punch, already harder than anything she's thrown before, comes right for my face. I manage to swat it away, moving out of its path with ease. She doesn't slow down, another punch aiming for my jaw, and I dodge it again.
A swift kick lands on my side, the soft flesh beneath my ribs stinging from the impact. "Good job, keep going."
She tries a few more kicks here and there, most of them landing. But the punches still aren't quite fast enough, like she doesn't really mean it yet. After another missed blow, I shove both her shoulders, sending her stumbling backward with a shocked and pissed look on her face.
I wiggle my fingers for her to come back and try again. Her face reddens, and she launches herself forward, effort reigniting as she aims a hard blow to my stomach. I move to dodge it, only to come perfectly in contact with her other fist against my nose. The hit startles me for a second, but I shake it off with a smile.
I didn't think I could ever get a hard-on from being punched, but there's a first time for everything.
Isla's victorious grin makes me smile brighter, too. "That was a good hit. Let's see if you can land any more."
She shakes out her shoulders, contemplating her next move. I can feel a small trickle of black blood falling down from my nose, but I ignore it. It'll stop before too long, and I want to focus on this moment of Isla's hunter instincts, the way they make her seem so much more vibrant than when she's pretending they don't exist.
Now that I know her strategy will be to distract with one punch and land with another, sparring becomes a constant back and forth. She throws two hits, or one hit and a rapid kick, and I slap her hands and feet away, both of us moving faster and faster, falling into a rhythm that feels more like a dance than a fight.
Nothing but the sounds of impact and our panting breaths surround us, no need for any words right now. She's so in the zone I would hate to break her concentration or her stride. We can discuss minor tweaks in technique later. Right now, she needs to get this out of her system, she needs to hit me as hard as she can a couple times.
I definitely should have seen the hit coming, but she broke the rhythm, her first punch landing hard and fast instead of the lobbing she's been luring me into. The blow hits me across the jaw, definitely the hardest anyone has ever managed to hit me.
Reflexes are a hell of a thing, and mine have Isla pinned to the floor before either of us can even think. All the air whooshes out of her lungs, the full weight of my body on top of hers, pinning her to the floor as she stares at me with wide eyes.
Realizing what I've done, I quickly apologize, "Sorry. Didn't mean to. Just… instincts."
"It's all good," she nods, eyes still trained on mine. "Are you gonna… move?"
Now that I've got her beneath me, I honestly don't think I will. She's so gorgeous right now. Always, if I'm being honest. But this is my favorite version of her so far. Red-faced with exertion, sweaty, flat on her back.
"Can you fight me off like this?" I ask.
She shakes her head, "Hell no."
"Try."
Her version of trying consists of her just wiggling, trying feebly to push at my chest. Mostly all she's managed to do is rub her body against mine and make my dick even harder. She writhes, trying to scoot out from under me, and I look down to watch her face fill with frustration.
Part of me wants to laugh, but her being unable to escape this when I'm not even trying is actually a concern. I need to ignore the throbbing in my pants and teach her how to get out of this.
"Okay, stop." I can't let her rub against me any longer, or I'm going to embarrass myself. I gently tap her left foot. "This is your weaker leg, so use this one to trap my ankle— yeah, just like that, good girl." She ignores the praise, but the blush across her face proves she's definitely not immune to it. Something to explore later. "Now plant your other leg on the floor, knee up, and use all your strength to lift and roll us."
I don't try super hard to keep her pinned, letting her twist us on the floor until she's on top of me and able to stand.
But she doesn't.
She stays there on top of me, not quite straddling me, but a very intimate position nonetheless. Her eyes drift to my lips, and I swear to fuck, if she kisses me right now, I won't have it in me to stop her.
Every time we kiss, the madness inside my chest burns hotter. Neither of the steamy moments we've shared have been nice or intimate, but they've been so fucking good it's making my brain short-circuit. I'm trying to break her, and yet, it seems the opposite keeps happening.
My hands land on her hips, hoping that small gesture makes it clear that I'll take this wherever the fuck she wants to. If she wants me, there's no way I could stop myself from giving her the best fuck she'll ever have, even to my own detriment.
I don't like her at all, and I know it would be a mistake, but Jesus Christ, I crave her. So wholly that every other thought empties when I think of the sounds she makes when she comes or how wet and hot she was around my fingers, clenching around them and riding out her orgasm.
Her eyes light up with mischief for a second, and I plead to all the gods that she'll rub her pussy against me so I can make good on my promise to stuff it full.
Instead, she stands, slow and languid, knowing I'm going to watch every single inch of her body as she raises up to her full height. She looks down on me like a queen surveying her lowly subject, gazing down her nose at me where I'm still lying on the floor like a dumb ass waiting for her to come back down.
"Are we done here?" she asks, looking at her watch.
A hot and slimy feeling builds in my chest, "What, you got somewhere to be?"
"I have work, remember?" The words are punctuated with little taps of her foot on the ground.
"Fine," I answer, finally standing to go move the dummy back to its spot. "Tomorrow we'll start with weapons. You need to learn to use a gun. You know, in case there's no acetone nearby next time."
A beaming, almost crazed smile lights up her face at the reminder of how she dispatched the Sanctum. She wiggles her eyebrows, "I'm sure I could get creative with whatever I have at my disposal."
Of that, I am also sure. Which scares me a little bit.
She struts off, the exhaustion from these workouts no longer leaving her almost unable to move, leaving me behind to just watch her walk away, my eyes glued to her backside. Still half-hard, I remember the way that ass felt in my hand, the way the flesh melded to my firm grip as she clung to me.
Wiping my hand down my face, I groan, willing the thoughts to subside. But I know better, and they won't. Hopefully, I can get Isla trained well enough to defend herself and get the Sanctum off her track before she realizes just how much control she holds over me.
But I know better, and I won't.
Fuck.
At dinner, Isla shows up a few minutes later than usual, dressed to the nines.
A gorgeous dark blue dress that shows far more of her cleavage than even her sluttiest pajamas. The dress ends mid-thigh, showing me every inch of the muscle she's packed on since arriving and making my fucking mouth water to taste her all over. The only things out of place are the ridiculous socks, such a contradiction to the dress and overall beauty of Isla tonight.
"Wow, is all that for me? I'm flattered," I place a hand over my chest, trying and probably failing to keep my perusal subtle.
She laughs, flipping her perfectly curled hair over one shoulder. She even has makeup on, including some shiny, glittery bullshit over her collarbones and shoulders, drawing my attention to her tits every time I manage to tear it away.
"No," she bats her lashes. "I had a date."
A date.
"Oh?" I force my tone to stay light, wondering what in the actual fuck is happening right now. "Have the deer managed to return and one of them got your attention?"
She glares at me, as she does every time the extinct populace of this island comes up in conversation. "It was a virtual date. An acquaintance from back home who finally had the courage to ask me out."
The muscles in my jaw tick. I really shouldn't give a fuck. If someone had a little video chat with Isla for an hour or two, what business is it of mine? She needs something to keep her occupied besides the day to day of work and training.
I clear my throat, "How'd it go?"
"Fine," she shrugs, taking a bite of the food, leaning over the table, and revealing even more of her perfect breasts. "She wants to see me again. But like, in real life."
Over my dead body.
"Well, how unfortunate that you're not in a position to do that right now."
Her glare meets mine again, "Yes, I know that, thank you so much."
"What did you tell her?" I don't care. I don't care. I don't care.
"I told her the truth," she shrugs, twirling another bite on her fork with no intention of eating it yet. "I'm out of the country for the time being, but when I get home, I'd love to take her out on a real date."
I've always thought of myself as someone with morals. Someone who only wants to harm those who deserve it, but somehow I'm standing here, full of some sick need to hurt an innocent woman whose only crime is being attracted to the most beautiful person to ever walk the earth. Of course, this mystery girl wants Isla. Who wouldn't?
But that doesn't stop me from imagining dismembering any person who dares to touch her. And that's a disgusting thought to have. So I shake off the thoughts and tell her the closest thing I can to the truth, "Well, I hope you get the chance to date for real again someday."
The chance to do so, yes. The desire? Absolutely fucking not.
"Thanks." Her eyes water, not daring to look up at me, "Do you ever date? Or think about it?"
"No, baby," I chuckle. "I don't date. I fuck."
She looks at me with narrowed eyes, not taking the bait or believing me for a second.
"Alright, alright," I give in, running my hand through my hair. "The truth is, I don't really do anything but this. Much like you, I'm a workaholic. Everything else is just... unnecessary." For some reason, I can't bring myself to tell her that having people I care about feels like a liability, or else she'll pry, and I don't want to share any more of myself than I have to with her. I'm definitely not going to tell her about Arthur. I try not to think of the first year of my life anymore; the memories and emptiness in my soul are still too painful to spend any time dwelling on.
"What happened?" she asks, tearing my chest cavity open with her sincerity, her need for this connection.
My chest caves in when I think of the loss I suffered nearly a century ago. "I was distracted from being where I was needed."
Finally, she looks up at me, confused by this small piece of my past I've given her. "Where were you needed?" She must see the devastated look on my face, the one I try to never let anyone see. She knowingly nods, "That's why you were willing to save Bel for Caspian."
I've never felt so transparent. I've told her nothing, but she sees it all the same.
"For someone like us, losing our—" I clear my throat, fighting to keep the emotion out of my voice. "Our sacrifice, our charge, is akin to losing a piece of our soul. It's both physically and emotionally painful to the point where nothing ever soothes the ache. It's a torture I would never want another being to go through. So, yes. I was willing to help them get her. It's not about revenge for me, you know." I can't stop the avalanche of confessions, using these to keep the more painful ones in check. "I don't want to kill all the members of the Sanctum; I don't want them to pay for what they've done. There's no such thing as justice for them; it'll just be a never-ending cycle of pain for both sides. All I want is to keep others from suffering at their hands."
"Like you did. Or still do, I guess," she supplies.
I can't look at her and see the pity in her eyes, so I stand and go to the sink to clean my dishes, taking her empty plate and cup with me to do the same.
Thankfully, she takes the cue and disappears. The sound of the projector and TV turning on draws my attention, and I walk out to see what she might be doing. I've never seen her turn that thing on, always ignoring it and me when she walks by it.
She flips through the channels until she lands on some kind of reality TV show about vapid people who clearly have no regard for anyone but themselves. I'm stuck standing behind the couch with my arms folded, enraptured by their pure narcissism, while also wishing I could look away from it.
She looks over her shoulder and the back of the couch at me with a small grin, "Come sit and watch this stupid show with me."
"Why?"
She chuckles, settling into the couch further, "Because neither one of us should be alone right now. So come sit, and we can use each other to fill the space the cruel voices in our heads would usually take up."
As much as I don't want to watch some silly show about self-absorbed humans, sitting in isolation seems even worse. I take a single step forward, and she adds, "And watching these idiots' life choices will make you feel so much better about your own."
The bluntness of her words dulls the ache the first reason started, forcing a laugh from my chest as I take a seat on the other couch, my eyes on her instead of the TV. She grabs a blanket from the back of the sofa, draping it over herself and hiding her stunning figure from my sight, which is probably for the best. There's no telling what I might do if I look at her in that dress for too long.
A bag of popcorn and three hours later, I peel my eyes off the screen in front of me only to find Isla sound asleep, sprawled across the couch. A small sense of pride fills me, as dumb as it is. If nothing else, at least Isla knows she's safe enough here, in my home and my presence, that she can fall asleep not five feet away from me.
I consider moving her to the bed and decide against it. She looks comfortable enough, and I've taken enough liberties with her body that I don't think this one would be appreciated.
Shutting everything down, I go to my bedroom, feeling far lighter than I did earlier today. Who knew pointless TV could actually make someone feel a little less alone? I try to convince myself that the show we watched made me feel that way and not the company, but it's pointless.
There's a mirror image to me in Isla, whether we like it or not. She knows how to tame the rampant thoughts in my head and calm the regret and self-hatred for a while because she harbors the same things. If I were a better man, I would take peace in it, let it blossom into a friendship I likely won't find anywhere else.
But I'm not a better man, and I won't.
Fuck.