Chapter 7
Angel
Wasted time.
Wasted energy.
That’s all the last two weeks have been.
A solid fucking waste.
Much like the way I have to stay in this fucking town.
I know how William Varon thinks. I’ve trained myself to be him without crossing certain lines unless absolutely necessary.
I know he’ll somehow convince himself that Sylvie Davis is responsible for his actions, that Cerberus is the reason Greta was brave enough to blow his cover and take that injured girl to the hospital.
He’ll never be able to reconcile that she mustered enough bravery to defy him. He’s too narcissistic for that, too convinced that he’s the ultimate educator, to ever admit his own faults.
That means he’s coming after her. He’ll never be able to get back to normal until she’s wiped from the face of the earth.
It also means Cerberus will realize the same thing.
I noticed Sylvie back at the clubhouse. If she stays there, it doesn’t exactly make things impossible for me, but it does complicate the situation.
Being caught watching the clubhouse will bring on trouble I don’t need. It would be much easier to watch her from her own house in town. I can only hope for the best outcome at this point.
Meaning, I have to stay in fucking Farmington, New Mexico until Varon is brought to his knees. It’s his punishment for losing control, his sanction for making me lose a paycheck.
I can’t leave until he’s taken care of.
I hardly register the cool temps of the water as I shower because my thoughts are focused elsewhere.
Lauren fucking Vos.
My skin itches as I scrub at it, but the images of her standing, looking shocked when her eyes first landed on me, just won’t dissipate.
I vowed to never see that bitch again because doing what I wanted if I did makes my stomach twist.
Darkness and the stench of rancid sewer infiltrate my mind.
Slices of a knife.
The poking and prodding.
The sinister laughs of Satan and his minions in the flesh.
The things I had to do to prove I was just as evil as them.
All of it washes over me, taking up the dark corner of my mind before I can shove it all back down.
She did this to me.
I was a saint back then compared to the man I am today.
I remember how your lips felt on mine.
The woman doesn’t have a fucking clue.
Kiss her? I’d rather use my teeth to rip the fucking flesh from her bones.
I toss the thin towel to the floor before making sure my gun is on the bedside table.
I’d prefer sheets that weren’t itchy, but nicer hotels don’t let you pay in cash. They require a credit card for incidentals and shit. It’s not possible to stay in the shadows if you’re using your American Express card all over the fucking place.
It’s not the irritation on my skin keeping me from sleeping. It’s not thoughts of putting an end to William Varon or wondering what’s going to happen to that little girl.
FBI Agent Lauren Vos has once again sunk her fucking claws into my subconscious, and it’s getting more and more difficult to shove away the thoughts of revenge that kept me alive after getting pulled from that house in El Salvador.
A shadow cast by the streetlight outside passes in front of the window, but it doesn’t alarm me. I know despite it being after two in the morning, crackheads keep irregular hours. It’s nothing new to see people wandering around at all times around shitty motels like this one.
It’s the attempted twist of the doorknob that makes me narrow my focus.
The click of the lock being disarmed sets my senses on fire, but I don’t budge. I’m always up for a challenge. How close can I let them get to me before I reach for my gun?
Will they be faster this time?
It thrills me to find out.
I turn irrationally angry, as the scent of her skin, the same spicy smell that invaded my nostrils in my truck, washes over me.
The woman has a lot of nerve and not nearly as much common fucking sense breaking into my room.
I don’t move a muscle as I anticipate her coming closer.
I don’t flinch when the bed dips and her weight settles on my lower body.
I don’t pull away when I feel the cool blade pressed to my throat.
She’s an FBI agent after all. Maybe she thinks she can arrest me, have me tried and convicted for the things I’ve done.
There’s not much she can use against me as far as El Salvador is concerned.
The red tape involved in extraditing criminals from foreign countries is usually a deterrent.
It’s why I don’t usually take jobs in the United States.
Not to mention the fact that everyone and their fucking mother has a phone with a camera these days.
They’re more likely to record someone getting hurt or abducted than having the balls to step up and take actions.
Americans live for that type of drama. It’s hard to stay out of trouble, under the radar, with everything getting uploaded and going viral on social media these days.
But I did sell one of the Cerberus members old ladies here in the US recently, and earlier tonight, I’d abducted a little girl from the hospital. Maybe Cerberus sent her to do their dirty work?
I ignore the thickening of my cock as best I can.
“Are you going to kill me, arrest me, or fuck me?”
She chuckles, the sound sinister as it floats around us.
“Do I get a choice?” I growl, wondering what it will take to force her hand into action.
The first time I saw Lauren Vos, she was getting pulled off the back of a covered truck along with a handful of other women. They were captives, women with dollar signs, things to purchase and sell.
I was working that job because I knew one of the buyers coming for them was the man who also had the woman I was hunting for. It was a means to an end.
Thumper was challenged by the man selling them to us. He was forced to prove he was a sadistic fuck, and he did so easily, bending her over a vehicle and fucking her for the guy to watch and record for his own boss.
I was disgusted, enraged, and even more demented, it fucking turned me on a little. The sound of her screams, her pleas for help, got me hard.
I tried to convince myself it wasn’t so bad after discovering they were both undercover FBI agents that had a sexually violent relationship years prior. That was back when I still took the time to justify my actions and reactions to certain shit.
The men who pulled me bleeding from that house in El Salvador beat that out of me.
With one hand gripping the knife at my throat, Lauren lifts just enough to slide her hand between us.
“Feel familiar?” she hisses, her hand stroking the thick length of me like she did in the hallway of that house years ago.
It is familiar. It does take me back.
“That’s it,” she whispers, her lips against my throat. “Come.”
I smile up at her, my eyes opening for the first time since she broke into this room. I can see the fear in her eyes, but I don’t give her time to prepare.
A pinch of pain at my throat drives me, gives me what I need to finally get my own fucking revenge. It clatters to the floor as wetness drips down my neck and I shove her back on the bed and pin her body under mine.
“Is this what you fucking want?” I hiss.
“No. Please don’t.”
A shadow of the man I was forces my hands off of her and I climb off the bed.
She scrambles to get away, but before she reaches the door, she looks back, the gleam of a grin on her face.
It’s the biggest mistake she ever could’ve made.
I’m on her in the next second, uncaring of the way her body crashes to the door.
The cops won’t be called. Crackheads don’t give a shit what’s going on next door. They mind their damned business because they want others to do the same.
I press every inch of my naked body to hers, crushing her until she’s taking ragged breaths.
“Your safe word is El Salvador,” I growl into her ear.