Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Watching Ava open her gift was thrilling. True to her name, she scurried around the house like a frightened little bird. She flitted between rooms, crouching under the windows to hide from me. But I saw her.
And fuck, was she perfect. Her eyes were wide with fear, the tears streamed down her face leaving pink streaks in their wake. The innocent soul inside of her cracked and crumbled at the first sight of gore.
With a little incentive, a little fear, she obeyed almost all of my commands.
I’m not surprised that she didn’t want me to come inside and clean up for her, so I let her have that little bit of rebellion.
Even her partial obedience had my cock straining against my pants.
The urge to stroke myself was nearly unbearable when I received her panicked texts, when I heard her little gasps and sobs through the thin windows.
Unsurprisingly, she threw up soon after she saw the deputy’s mangled hand.
I’m not unfamiliar with the experience. Even I threw up my first time seeing true horror.
Of course, that was a long time ago, but I’ll never forget it: the heavy smell of copper that burned in my nostrils and traveled down my throat; the way the room spun and my stomach churned as I stared down at the corpse that used to be my mother.
I’ll never forget the day that turned me into a monster.
I rattle my head from side to side, as if the memories will fall away like raindrops on a shaking dog. Some things are better left in the past, existing but not thought of.
Some part of me hates to watch her clean up a mess I caused, but I let her.
I suspect she’s had enough for tonight. My presence in her kitchen might break her.
I won’t let her break, though; not until she’s ready for me to put all of her pieces back together.
When she breaks, the shards of her former self will fit snuggly next to the broken bits of mine.
Our damaged pieces will fit together to form a whole—a twisted puzzle that only we understand.
Watching her through her kitchen window, my fingers twitch.
They ache to reach out and touch her. My fingertips tingle with the memory of her warm, soft skin.
I find myself wanting to comfort her. It’s a foreign feeling, wanting to hold someone.
A dull pain that presses and pulls inside of me, like a string being pulled taut, only loosening when I’m close to her.
A few yards away, I watch as my little bird panics.
On her knees, she cleans the remains of our interaction.
Her delicate hands scrub furiously against the hardwood.
Every so often, she pauses, her body head falling onto her thighs as the sobs shake through her core.
When the floor is shimmering and streaky with disinfectant, she stands.
Her head turns back and forth, examining the room, as if she expects it to tell her what to do next.
Pulling the hood of my sweatshirt over my head, I approach the door.
I press the discarded lid back on the box and pull it under my arm.
My lips curl into a proud grin as I wipe the speckles of blood off of her doorstep with my sleeve.
A gentleman always cleans up after himself.
I may have frightened her tonight. I may have made her sick, and sad, and afraid.
But I would never make my woman clean up after me.
And of course, I didn't do any of this without reason. She needs to understand that she's mine.
And no one touches what's mine.
Just as I move to step away, she looks up.
When she sees me, her eyes widen in shock and she lets out a shriek.
The shrill squeak that bubbles out of her mouth echoes through the kitchen before she throws her hand over her mouth to stifle it.
If it wasn’t dark outside and my face wasn’t hidden by the shadow of my hood, she’d be staring at me right in the face.
She throws her body to the floor, landing with a loud thunk that vibrates through the wooden door.
I press my lips together, suffocating a laugh against my teeth.
While I do love the idea of my little bird shivering on the floor, I'm less than thrilled about it happening when I'm not there. I send her a text, coaxing her out.
You can stop hiding now. I’m leaving.
I step away, walking back to the woods where my car is tucked away behind rows of trees. Standing in front of the tree line, I glance back just in time to see wisps of brown hair pop up above the windowsill.
I ball my hands at my sides, forcing myself to keep moving into the woods. Her sudden obedience makes this very difficult. The desire to see her submit to me fully claws at my mind, scraping and scratching. In spite of my need, I keep walking.
* * *
Standing in front of the metal security door behind Club Gara, the wind whips its icy tendrils against my cheek. I pull my jacket tighter around me to stave off the chill. The building's crumbling brick exterior leaves it indistinguishable from the rest of the block.
The chatter and giggles of patrons at the front entrance echoes from around the corner, spilling into the alley.
The club's location and modest external appearance gives the tourists a feeling of exclusivity, like they've been welcomed into some underground secret.
If only they knew what went on in the hidden rooms that sit adjacent to the bar.
I turn my body to face the security camera mounted above the back door. My jacket falls open, flashing the butt of the gun in my waistband, and I raise my eyebrows in question. A loud buzz vibrates through the door before the clink of metal hitting metal sounds as it unlocks.
Pushing the heavy door open, I'm met with a rush of warm air.
The scent of alcohol and sweat wafts around me, escaping into the alley as I step inside.
A tall man steps in front of me, the colored lights around us washing his golden brown skin in shades of red and purple.
Militant in appearance, his hair is cropped short and his face is clean shaven.
His broad chest and muscular arms are on display in a t-shirt that's two sizes too small.
Whether he wears it for intimidation or attention, I couldn't say.
His brown eyes scan me, roaming from my feet up to my face, as if he's assessing what kind of threat I may be. Seemingly satisfied in his assessment, his head bobs up and down in a short nod. His beefy hand stretches out, pointing toward a black, metal door across the club.
The violent hum and thump of electronic bass reverberates through my core as I maneuver around scantily clad, sweaty people.
Pushing through the wall of gyrating, grinding bodies that spread across the dance floor, I ignore the eyes that fall on me.
I ignore the frustrated grunts and snarky quips of drunk partiers as our elbows bump.
When I reach the door, I straighten my jacket.
My palms rub down the sleeves as if it could remove the scent of everyone in this place.
The only scent I want on me is Ava’s. Smelling her on me all day would drive me mad, making me feral with lust and pining for her.
I can’t think of anything I would enjoy more.
Another security camera whirs, rotating in my direction. With a metallic clunk, the lock disengages and the door opens. I step inside, allowing the door to close behind me with a loud bang.
The club music cuts with the close of the door, replaced by the delicate plucking of string instruments and light taps of drums. The nasally buzz of a wind instrument hums in my ears, evoking images of undulating belly dancers.
I chuckle under my breath. Given the owner’s predilection for peacocking, I wouldn't be surprised to see a few.
For a moment, I’m stuck between the door and a row of purple, velvet curtains that dangle from ceiling to floor, blocking my view inside the room. Particles of dust float around me, shimmering in the glow of an overhead lamp as I press myself between them into the room beyond.
My lips press together in a thin line as I examine the gaudy, overstated decor.
Deep purple walls loom upward and press together into a domed ceiling where lines of gold sweep inward, meeting around a crystal chandelier.
On the floor, royal blue shag rugs sit beneath short, mahogany tables.
In lieu of seating, large square pillows litter the floor.
Their colorful patterns are inlaid with sparkling gold threads.
The room would look like some luxury lounge venue—if it weren’t for the rows of weapons that line the walls. Heavy metal racks in various shades of shining purple metal are fitted with guns, knives, swords, and explosives. All untraceable and all for sale at a hefty price tag.
A booming laugh echoes around me, drawing my attention to a man standing just beyond a large archway at the far corner of the room.
His stature, at well over six feet tall, forces him to duck his head to step through.
His dark chestnut eyes meet mine with a warmth that can only be interpreted as friendship.
His long legs make short work eliminating the distance between us, and I soon find myself in the uncomfortable embrace of his muscular arms. His chest rises against mine as his heavily accented voice booms in my ear.
“Habibi, my friend, how good it is to see you!”
My eyes roll as I step away from him, putting myself at a comfortable distance.
“You’ve redecorated,” I deadpan.
“My buyers eat this shit up,” he says with a laugh. “Come, we'll have a drink.”
He steps away, gesturing to a table in the corner of the room.
I follow, knowing well enough that Malik won't do business until we've finished with the pleasantries of small talk and mint tea.
Friendships are mostly unfamiliar to me, but I've come to accept his in recent years.
Not with the openness that he shows, but with the small amount I can give.
I drop myself down to a large green pillow, partially tucked beneath the table.
Patterns of leafy vines and gold flowers stretch out beyond my thighs.
I feel utterly ridiculous. A black cloud pressed against a rainbow or color.
Malik, on the other hand, fits perfectly in the space.
He wears a bright emerald blazer over his broad shoulders.
Matching emerald dress pants fit tightly on his large legs.
His face is plainer than he is. His skin, the color of damp sand, is beginning to show the lines of his age. Wrinkles spread out from his eyes, as you'd expect from a man who laughs often. His short-cropped, black hair is accented by the small gold hoops dangling from his ears.
A young woman approaches, her silky, blue dress swirling around her feet.
The chandelier above dances over her light brown skin, making her glow.
She pays me no attention, her eyes set solely on Malik.
His lips turn up in a wide smile, causing a rush of pink to flow into her cheeks.
As she stares at him, wide eyed with awe and not just a small amount of desire, that spark of jealousy inside me zaps at my lungs.
My little bird will look at me like that someday, but for now, that ache strikes me like I've stuck my finger in an electrical socket.
The woman bends at the waist, her long dress pulling tight over her curves as she places a tray of tea and small cakes on the table.
Malik watches her with a hunger in his eyes that only dissipates when I clear my throat loudly.
The woman smiles warmly, a soft giggle bubbling past her lips before she walks away.
Malik’s eyes turn to me, the wolfish grin on his face telling me he's enjoying showing off. He waves his hand over the tray, gesturing for me to accept the offer of food and drink before he speaks.
“Tell me, friend,” he asks, “are you still working for elmar'a elshiriyra?”
My eyebrow quirks up in question.
“You know,” he continues, “the evil woman, Bianca.”
I roll my eyes, unsurprised by the question.
The bad blood between the arms dealer and the Rossi family is long-standing.
Years ago, after a deal went bad between them, Bianca took his younger sister, Rana.
A fiercely loyal man, Malik searched for Rana, but with resources that barely compare to the ruling families in this city, he's fallen short.
Even my heart, as cold and shriveled as it may be, clenches to think of Rana’s fate. She was young, barely seventeen when she was taken. The rare beauty would have caught Bianca's eye right away, even before she realized her age.
At best, she's been sold off to the highest bidder to live out her days in a gilded cage. At worst, she lives in a far worse cage, body ravaged by drugs and the most horrific desires of bad men. A shudder runs through me, making my shoulders shake. If Malik notices, he doesn’t say so.
Last year, Malik tried to broker a deal with the head of the Volkov family, whose resources are far greater than his, in an attempt to get Rana back.
But the promise of weapons and Malik's small crew for support wasn't enough to entice them into starting a war.
Not when their own resources only barely rival those of the Rossi family.
“You know I don't work for her,” I state dryly, “I take jobs from whoever can pay.”
Malik chuckles softly. “Mafeesh fur’a, my friend. There’s no difference.”
His face softens in understanding, maybe even forgiveness, as his lips curl into a smile.
“What can I do for you today?” he asks before wagging his eyebrows. “Or have you finally visited me on a purely social call?”
I scoff out a small laugh from my nose. “I have a weapon to dispose of that you might have interest in, police-issued.”
Malik's eyes sparkle as I withdraw Deputy Douchebag’s handgun from my waistband, and place it on the table. He reaches for it, turning it about in his hand.
Nodding his head, he says, “This could be of use to me.” His eyes meet mine as a dark smirk pulls across his mouth. “I'm awfully curious as to how you ended up with this, my friend.”
I stand, stepping away from the table back toward the door. Looking back over my shoulder, I only say, “It's about a girl.”
I exit the room, followed by his booming laughter and the clattering clink of teacups being knocked over.