Chapter 3 Emery #2
Usually I don’t. I kill them like I’m meant to. Mark them up how I like so as to fulfill that aching part in my soul that was stolen from me. But I’m not heartless like Reed is or Cameron seems to be.
I’m just trying to fucking survive.
Slowly, I start inching closer to him. Both of his eyes are closed. His lashes are long and dark against his pale skin, his hair mussed from the scuffle.
“Hey, you’re not dead, are you?” I whisper, nudging his shoulder with my foot. When he doesn’t move, I inch closer, only to notice that the blood is coming from his mouth and not his skull.
Oh, crap.
Cameron’s eyes flash open. He grins, blood covering his teeth.
I jerk back and land on the mattress that’s splayed out over the floor.
He sits up slowly and leans against the wall with one leg bent up and the other splayed out carelessly.
Blood drips down his lower lip and smears across his chin as he wipes it away with the sleeve of his hoodie.
He looks at me with weary eyes and a loose smile. “You’re spunky. I like it.” He chuckles and lets his head dip like he’s drunk. Wait. I was right, those were drugs that he took from Nolan. Is he intoxicated from them or something?
In the long moments that I watch him in silence, I realize that I feel more pity for him than I do fear. I hold my gaze on him for as long as I can, but being awake for over twenty-four hours on the train and boat ride to get here has taken its toll on me.
I narrow my eyes as I stare at him, letting my head rest against my knee as I wait for him to stir and try to attack me again. My thoughts slowly begin to hush before I’m pulled into a fitful sleep.
Someone’s tapping my forehead.
My eyes fly open.
I try sitting up but am weighed down by a strong arm. I glance to my right and find Cameron staring down into my eyes. Even with his face half smeared in dried blood, he still looks like a god. He’s lying on his side in a relaxed state, propped up with one elbow, hand dangling over my head.
He taps my forehead again, making me flinch and remember myself.
A grin pulls at his lips, revealing canines that are sharper than they should be. Did he file them that way? Jesus. Every inch of him might as well be a weapon.
Wait, not every inch. A blush flashes across my cheeks before I can rein my thoughts back in.
“It’s about time you woke up,” he says almost playfully. I can’t tell if it’s his accent that makes him sound more jovial than he really is, or if he just enjoys toying with me.
My brows pull together as I try to sit up again.
He lays his arm across my stomach, firmly keeping me in place.
I let out a breath. “I thought you were going to kill me,” I say sardonically, even though I know I’m playing with fire.
I force my eyes away from him and toward the door.
It’s pitch-black beneath it. The cell is dark too, only lit with pale moonlight from the bars far above us.
I must’ve been asleep for a while.
Cameron hums in thought, the sound somewhere between a growl and an exhale. It’s deep and draws my eyes to his tattooed throat, where a sea of black misty trees rings the entirety of his neck. He’s what I imagine chaos would look like, and I’ve never pictured anyone to look that way besides myself.
Mom always hated the way I wore my hair in messy, loose braids.
She didn’t like that all my clothes were black either.
“You look like an assassin,” she would tell me constantly, but I was one.
She knew that. Even if she hated the family’s line of work, she allowed it.
“Chaos” she’d called me when I’d leave the house wearing my long pink braids, combat boots, and vest. Off to kill another one of Greg’s marked targets.
I’m a reflection of what I see before me—something wicked and unfairly damaged. Chaos. I think of the word fondly as I entertain the mischief in his eyes.
“I’m going to try as hard as I can to save you for later. It’s a promise, I’m afraid. I’m not exactly in control of when I’ll kill you, but it’s inevitable,” he states matter-of-factly before releasing me and rolling onto his back, his gaze set on the tall ceiling.
“What a cruel thing to promise.” My voice is unamused.
I don’t waste the moment; I move on top of his chest and press the balls of my thumbs into the crux of his neck.
My hair spills over my shoulders and falls to his collarbone.
Did he untie my braids? The thought sends a shiver up my spine.
A chuckle gurgles from his throat, and to my utter dismay, he fucking smiles.
“You’d be doing me a favor, love,” he rasps, sucking in a short breath when I add pressure. The sound of his strained words makes my body warm. His Adam’s apple rolls beneath my palms as he swallows, and the sensation of it draws chills across my arms. His dick swells under my ass.
My expression shifts into amusement. Jesus, he really does enjoy the idea of dying.
I look at his mouth, blood still trickles from his lips, and some smears on my hand.
My eyes narrow at him. I can tell by his nefarious smile that he knows I don’t actually want to kill him.
It’s not my favorite thing to do, although I’ve grown to enjoy the way I create something thought-provoking in the aftermath of death.
Leaving the police running circles also makes it a bit entertaining, crumbs for them to find me.
But it’s not like I had grudges against the victims. I was just doing my job.
The manila folder that General Nolan flipped through on the train flashes through my mind along with the ten people in body bags inside it.
My fingers loosen and I blow out a breath. All I’m doing is giving him a fucking boner. He’s not afraid of me. I wish I could say the same. I release him, standing up and moving to the sink to wash his blood from my hands.
“So cute. Your hands can’t even wrap around my entire neck,” he chimes as he sits up and massages his throat with a blank expression, almost like he’s searching for something there. I roll my eyes and dry my hands on my pants.
As uncomfortable as it is, I’d rather sit up against the wall than be anywhere near him. He watches as I firmly plant myself at the other end of the room.
“You can take the bed. I don’t sleep much.” He stands and shoves his hands into his hoodie pocket.
“I’d rather not sleep where you have,” I snipe, turning my head away from him.
“Oh, petty are we?” he shoots back, winking at me.
My cheeks burn. He knows exactly what he’s doing by teasing me.
I rise to my feet as he circles the cell toward me.
“Either you sleep in the bed, or I’ll just keep fucking with you all night,” he states nonchalantly as he lifts a shoulder and drops it.
I’m finding it hard to believe this guy is capable of killing anything. I’d have to see it to believe it at this point.
“Okay, fine, just stay away from me.” I sit on the edge of his bed and he keeps to his word, stopping across the room and letting his body slump to the ground.
As I watch him, I notice his mouth is still heavily bleeding. He keeps licking his lips and swallowing.
I’m no saint, but I don’t like the idea of him bleeding for so long. After a few minutes, I relent and grab some paper towels from the sink. He watches me curiously as I lower to my knees between his sprawled-out legs and sit on my haunches.
“Open,” I order.
Cameron lifts a brow but opens his mouth obediently. I locate the source quickly and shove the balled-up paper towels into his mouth. He grunts and gives me a bewildered look. He actually manages to keep his palms against the ground.
“Is there a medical kit in here? You need staples.”
He nods, and I follow his eyes to the mirror above the sink. I find a supply box in the cabinet and rummage through it until I find some. These should work fine.
Cameron watches me prep the clawlike staples with a calm demeanor. Clearly, he’s no stranger to pain.
“Does it hurt?” I ask as I slowly pull the blood-drenched paper towels from his mouth. He shakes his head and sits motionlessly as I place three staples on the inside of his cheek. They pinch together and should allow the cut to heal relatively quickly.
“There.” I stroke my thumb gently on the outside of his cheek. Then I realize what I’m doing and pull my hand away.
To my utter horror, he noticed the gesture. His hand rises to his cheek where my hand was a second ago. Curious eyes flick up to mine. “You didn’t need to do that.” His voice is free of sarcasm. I’m surprised that he seems sincerely grateful.
“I didn’t want you to be in pain all night,” I retort like I wasn’t worried about him.
He lets out a smooth laugh and looks at me. “You know I can’t feel pain, right? Damn, he really didn’t tell you anything.”
My eyes widen and I regard him for a few moments to make sure he isn’t pulling my leg. “Not at all?” I ask incredulously.
“Nope. Pressure, sure. Touch, yes. Pleasure, especially. But not pain.”
My cheeks flash with heat. Ignore the pleasure comment.
“How?” My curiosity draws me closer, examining him like he’s inhuman. He tips my chin gently, bringing those eyes back to mine. Our noses are a mere inch apart, locks of his pale hair fall over his forehead and brush against mine.
I could lose track of everything if I stay too close to him. I inhale slowly and sit back on my haunches.
Cameron pokes his cheek like he can’t tell it’s a little swollen.
“I take experimental pills. We are little guinea pigs to them, so we tend to get the cool shit before anyone else does. I’m taking some new medication that the Dark Forces are testing out for the normal military to use.
It cancels out pain and makes my bones harder to break.
The only setback is the aftereffect on the brain.
” He taps the side of his temple and smirks.
Concern blooms over my expression. “But how would you know if you were mortally wounded? And who’s to say what the repercussions of a drug like that can have on you other than your mental state?
” I mutter, taking him in with new eyes.
Is that why he’s so fucked-up? Literally losing his mind because of an experimental drug?
He seems almost offended by that. “I’m different from the others down here, and Lieutenant Erik knows it.
It’s the reason why they keep a feral dog like me around.
I’m the only one who can handle the death pills so far.
And no, they aren’t actually called that, but it’s what we like to call them since they kill most of the soldiers who try them. ”
The cell feels so empty as he says those words. I can hear the purpose in his tone—he thinks they value him when really they’re using him until there’ll be nothing left.
“How long do other soldiers last before they die after taking them?”
Pride flickers through his eyes. “Forty-eight hours. Then they are as dead as doornails.”
My thoughts race. “And how long have you been taking them?”
“Three years.”
He’s resilient, I’ll give him that. But he’s also still in his late twenties, I’m guessing. How long can he push his body like this before it gives out?
“That’s a long time.” I breathe slowly and decide to garner as much information as I can out of him while I’m stuck in this cell.
He likes to read, that much is obvious with the stack of books on top of the desk in the corner.
Many of which I recognized almost instantly as they are old literature and dreary poems. Reed and I read every single one at least four times over by candlelight in my father’s library the summer after I turned thirteen.
He was my only friend. After his parents died in a house fire that year, my father insisted he live in our mansion.
Greg was always fond of Reed. He saw the potential in him.
Reed should’ve been the heir to the Mavestelli name. Not me.
My gaze skirts over newspaper clippings that are scattered on Cameron’s desk as well, many with headlines involving executions and bodies found in odd circumstances.
The pulse in my neck leaps. Does he know that’s me?
No. The press weren’t allowed to take photos of me.
Greg kept that from the papers, to protect himself, I’m sure.
But why is he collecting articles about my crimes? I worry my bottom lip.
Gathering information doesn’t have to be difficult, I remind myself.
“You speak like you’re well-educated, contrary to how you look.
Tell me, are you a tragic poet? I mean, your code name is Mori, after all.
And what’s with the old literature?” I say, letting my eyes go back to the beige-colored pages strewn about the room, aged from the mildewy air perhaps.
Three books in particular are stacked in the center of his desk, one splayed open at the center.
I’d be lying if I said his demeanor wasn’t as intriguing as his looks are.
A poetic soldier. Who would’ve known one could exist.
For some reason that thought makes me somber. My eyes return to his papers, wondering what a man like him has to write about.
He chuckles, staring at me with that hooded gaze of his.
“Those who dance frequently with death tend to have a fondness for dark literature. Are you not so different?” he shoots back, picking up the book closest to his side and thumbing through it.
The pages are worn down from use. I can’t help but wonder how many times he’s read that story over. Curiosity gets the best of me.
“Ah, so you only adore the tragedies then.”
Cameron closes his book and lets it topple from his lap to the floor. “We are all only tragedies eventually. Even the romantics.” His accent makes the words hang like a noose between us.
God, this guy is straight from the dead poet’s club, and I’m foolishly attracted to it. If we were in a library rather than a secret military cell, I’d ask to join his book club of one and exchange words from time to time over wine.
I let out a small breath and smile at him. His eyes slowly light up as I say, “All misfortunes aside, here’s to hoping we have a bit of fun before the bitter end, Mori.”
A cruel smile pulls at his lips before he sets to ignoring me, picking his book back up and reading where he left off.