Chapter Five
Damien
T hey say obsession is a drug. I wouldn’t know. I never needed narcotics, never indulged in anything that could cloud my judgment. Weak men use substances to escape their reality. I have always welcomed the darkness, the pain, the hunt.
But this?
This is unlike anything I have ever known.
It’s worse than any addiction, deeper than any craving. It’s in my blood now, pumping through me every second of the day. It poisons me in the most exquisite fucking way.
Her.
Amelia.
My angel.
She’s hiding under her blanket as if that could protect her, as if it could keep her safe from the monster lurking just beneath her bed.
Me.
Her breathing is laced with terror.
Poor thing.
My gift scared the shit out of her.
I didn’t mean for that. Well, maybe a little. She needs to understand and know that she isn’t meant to be treated like trash by men who don’t even deserve to look at her.
That’s why I had to kill him.
I saw the way he spoke to her. The way his face twisted in disgust. How he slammed his hand against the table like she was some dog meant to cower at his feet.
I wanted to break him right then and there. But he didn’t deserve a quick death.
So I followed him.
Dragged him into the shadows and made sure he understood what it meant to disrespect her. What it meant to make her cry.
He begged.
He screamed.
He choked on his own fucking blood.
And when I took the knife and sliced out that useless tongue of his, I thought of her. I thought of how soft her voice is, how she stutters when she’s unsure, how she tries so hard to please, even when people don’t deserve it.
He didn’t deserve her words.
Didn’t deserve to speak to her.
So I made sure he never would again.
And now, she’s here. My beautiful girl, so terrified she won’t let her hands or feet dangle over the side of the bed. As if a monster might snatch them up.
Leaving her at night is impossible. I tried. Walked three blocks before something inside me snapped. I turned around like a fucking rabid dog, crawling back to her.
She needs me.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
I don’t sleep; not really. Not when she’s this close. Instead, I listen. To her breath. To the occasional soft whimper she lets out. Sometimes, she mutters words I don’t understand, the sound like extravagant prayers. I want to know everything that goes on in her mind. I want to dismantle her. Instead, I settle for reaching out from under the bed to grasp the end of the blanket. Just enough to feel closer to her.
She belongs to me now.
And very soon, she will know it. Worship it.
My angel will crawl to me in the darkness, in the trenches, and play with her monster. Her devil.
Fuck.
The vibration in my pocket rips me from my trance, from the sick pleasure of being this close to her.
A job.
Another hit.
I clench my jaw, inhaling slow and deep. Sheer fucking rage bubbles up at the thought of leaving her alone.
If I didn’t have a reputation to uphold, I’d be up her ass twenty-four seven.
I crawl out from under the bed, not caring to be quiet; she already knows I’m here. I stretch out my limbs, shaking off the stiffness in my muscles.
She’s trembling. Shaking like a leaf caught in a storm.
A faint whisper escapes her lips, and I still. What is she saying?
I take a step closer, then another, leaning in just enough to hear the soft, hurried words spilling from her mouth. She’s praying.
Her voice is raw, desperate; each word more fervent than the last. It spills from her lips like poetry spun in agony.
I close my eyes, letting the sound wash over me.
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Nothing can save her from me. Even in hell, I would seek her out.
I pull the bloody gift box off her bedside drawer, slipping it into my pocket. She’ll freak the fuck out if it’s still here in the morning, and I don’t want her losing more sleep than she already will.
Something gnaws at me. It stops me from leaving. A temptation that consumes me alive, swallowing me whole.
So I listen.
I step back to the bed, standing right beside her.
Her prayers increase, faster, louder, as if she can feel me, as if some instinctual part of her knows I’m right here, watching, breathing her in. The scent of her fills my lungs, and my eyes roll back. Slowly, I press a kiss to her head through the blanket, letting my lips linger on the woman I’ve claimed.
She screams bloody murder, hiding further under the blanket. With a sigh, I straighten. She’s not ready yet. But she will be. She will get used to me.
I turn and walk out, her frantic prayers chasing after me.
***
Oliver Miller. Clean-cut. Polite. The kind of guy mothers trust and women let their guard down around. But he’s a monster under the badge. A serial rapist.
This time, he picked the wrong girl. Her father is in the Mob, and the second he found out, Oliver’s fate was sealed. A dead man walking.
He doesn’t even get the chance to scream. I carve the blade straight through his throat, severing muscle and bone. His body twitches violently, eyes wide and haunted. Blood surges from his neck, soaking his police uniform.
I crouch down and grip his hair. His head separates from his shoulders. The request was clear: They wanted his head. So I deliver.
Knives aren’t my favorite tool of elimination, but when the client wants it, I oblige.
I wrap it up, stuff it into a duffel bag, and wipe my blade on his shirt. Gore doesn’t bother me. Nothing does.
***
The meeting spot is an upscale cigar lounge. The kind of place where men like Richard Davis sit in luxury while dealing in blood. He’s already waiting for me, a thick cigar smoldering between his fingers. His daughter, Linda, sits beside him, her eyes locked on me like I just descended from the heavens.
I drop the bag onto the table. Blood seeps through the fabric, staining everything it touches. The stench of death is heavy, mixing with the scent of tobacco and overpriced cologne.
Richard takes a drag of his cigar. “You always deliver, Damien.”
I say nothing. It is expected of me to be the best at what I do.
He pulls the bag open just enough to peek inside. A grin stretches across his face. “Perfect,” he murmurs, zipping it back up. “You do fine work. My daughter got her justice.”
Linda leans forward, her eyes shimmering with something sickly sweet. “You’re incredible,” she breathes. “My savior.”
I grunt in response, barely sparing her a glance.
Richard chuckles. “Efficient and humble. A rare breed.” He pulls out a big black bag and hands it to me. Payment. I take it without counting. His money is always good.
Linda is still staring at me, waiting for something. A smile, a thank you, anything.
She won’t get it.
My gaze drops to the diamonds dripping from her ears, her throat, her wrists. Everywhere her skin is exposed, she’s draped in wealth.
Expensive. Luxurious.
A man like Richard dresses his daughter in status. Makes sure everyone knows she is his.
My girl doesn’t own diamonds.
Unacceptable.