Aftershock

19. Lilith

LILITH

“Mmm. Mmm,” Harold hums in an attempt to talk through the duct tape.

Wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and stained boxers, he’s shivering.

Pathetic.

Alaric, on the other hand, is fully dressed in the same worn jeans and T-shirt he had on the last time I saw him torturing Harold, plus his gloves. He seems both detached and composed as he arranges the items on the table.

I’m in awe of him. It’s beyond impressive that after such a long day, he still has it in him to slip out of bed and get down to business.

This man is a machine.

Me, not so much. High on my first oral—both giving and getting—I’m beat. So beat that I barely make it in time to stifle a loud yawn with a hand over my mouth.

Luckily, when I put my eye back to the peephole, Alaric’s posture hasn’t changed. He isn’t looking left and right. His brow isn’t furrowed either.

Phew.

I hope he stays as oblivious to the fact that his spare keys are missing as he was to my yawn. Just until tomorrow, after I make copies during my lunch break.

Stealing is wrong, but it’s not like I’m doing it to snoop. As strong as Alaric is, there’s always a chance one of those assholes could break free and hurt him.

Quoting the man himself—not on my fucking watch.

But unless that happens, the keys will remain tucked away in my backpack.

For our sake, I have to let Alaric be the one to tell me about his secret life.

If I force it out of him, I’ll never know if he would’ve chosen to be honest with me. Never get to experience what it means to be trusted.

Until then, I’m content with watching him. More than content. This front-row seat to his doctor-slash-vigilante show is so good it drags me out of exhaustion and into something hotter.

He’s a predator in his element. Every shift of muscle beneath his shirt sends a thrill up my spine. The way he pushes his still-damp hair off his forehead makes my pulse stutter.

Then there are his lips that are swollen from kissing me.

Yeah, I’m fully awake. Never been more alert in my life.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m late to feeding and helping you to the bathroom,” he says in a flat tone that shouldn’t be this mouthwatering. Except with him, it is.

I’m drawn to where his eyes drift, to the Mason jar in his hand. The green liquid is the same shade as before, one that Alaric stirs with a straw.

The one that caused what I’m assuming was an allergic reaction in Harold.

“I’d apologize, but…” Alaric looks at Harold, his eyebrows lowering. “Fuck you.”

“Mmm.” Harold’s shaking. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead. “Mmm.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Alaric grips the jar tighter. “Stop it, help me, let me go. Did I get it right?”

Harold’s Adam’s apple bobs as he sobs in earnest.

“Let me ask you this.” Alaric turns to the table, puts the jar down, and scribbles in his notebook. “When your mother begged you to leave her alone, and she must have…”

When he’s done writing, he retrieves the Mason jar and plucks a toothpick from the table. Four large steps, and he looms over Harold like an avenging angel.

All that’s missing is his wings.

“Did you listen to her?”

“Mmm. Mmm-mmm-mmm.”

“What was that?” Even from this angle, it’s clear that Alaric’s cocked eyebrow is a warning. “She deserved it? She needed constant attention? Was a pain in the ass?”

“Mmm!” Harold’s eyebrows fly up. He bobs his head frantically, as if he thinks his captor finally understands him. “Mmm!”

He doesn’t. Alaric’s tone is drenched with so much scorn that I know he’s judging Harold.

“Of course.” The sharp, angry tic of his jaw means I was right about him. He despises Mrs. Tobin’s son. “Parents can be such a burden. God knows I hate mine.”

A pang of worry slices through me. He hates them? Why?

Did they hurt him?

Is that why he’s doing this? Why he saves with one hand and tortures with the other?

The longer I picture him going through what I did, the more concern spreads through me. My chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.

Tears line my eyes and roll down my cheeks.

But a beat later, while Harold keeps up his idiotic mmms, anger takes over me, wiping out every other emotion.

How dare they?

My hands curl into tight fists, a growl building in my throat.

I’ll spend whatever it takes to hire the best hitman out there. The most vicious one alive, someone willing to inflict pain on Alaric’s parents for weeks before finally killing these motherfuckers.

“Hated, actually.” With two words, Alaric soothes me. The idea that he was abused still eats at my soul, but at least his parents are gone. “A drunk driver took care of my problem fifteen years ago.”

When he was twenty. In college. Old enough not to be passed around through the system.

That, too, brings me a sense of comfort. I was lucky with the Griggs and Hope. Plenty of other kids aren’t.

“They, unlike your mother, deserved to die.” Alaric’s icy tone has Harold’s head rearing back in fear once he realizes he was wrong about his captor. “According to you just now, Mrs. Tobin is guilty of what? Getting in the way of”—Alaric’s disgusted snarl twists his features—“your drinking?”

Harold stares up at Alaric and lets out one miserable, “Mmm.”

“You could’ve sold her home. Could’ve used the money to pay for a decent assisted-living facility for your mother, where she would’ve been taken care of.”

The loser’s eyes widen, eyebrows flying up.

“Yes, I know she owns that apartment.”

Harold blinks, visibly stunned.

“Oh, sorry for getting the tenses mixed up again. Owned.” He takes a step closer to Harold.

Another one. Alaric bends at the waist, his toothpick ready to strike.

“I overheard the nurses saying how happy they were for her. How lucky she’d been to hire a realtor who managed to sell her home fast and at market price.

That it was quick, even for New York’s real estate market. ”

“Mmm?”

I’m willing to bet it’s a she did?

“She did. Does that piss you off? That your plan failed?” Alaric’s voice drops to a whisper, somehow making it more dangerous.

“Yes, I figured out you were after her inheritance. That you’d been trying to speed things up while dodging those ridiculous facility fees.

My guess is, all the times she was brought to the hospital were because a neighbor called 9-1-1 while you were waiting for her to die. ”

A smirk tugs at the corner of Alaric’s mouth. A cruel one.

“Anyway, the money’s gone. But on the upside…”

Without warning, he prods the duct tape harder than necessary with the toothpick. Harold’s blood paints it red. His muffled screams leak through the tiny holes Alaric carves into the gag.

“At the bottom of the Hudson River…”

Alaric drops the toothpick and discards the straw. My jaw drops when his chest heaves with barely restrained rage. When he presses a hand to Harold’s forehead and pours the contents of the Mason jar all over his mouth and face.

My prince.

“…you won’t have to worry about money.” Green liquid soaks Harold’s chin and chest. “Your inheritance.”

Before Harold starts reacting to the liquid, Alaric is already at the table. He does this strange tap again, and then returns to Harold.

“Or your mother. Ever again.”

Satisfaction swarms over me at the sight of Harold’s face swelling. He’s in agony, struggling to suck in air through his nose and the tiny hole in the duct tape.

The bastard is wheezing, thrashing, coughing. The skin on his throat strains, pulling tight.

My own skin tingles with glee.

Alaric must be enjoying this too, but he doesn’t let his feelings show.

Rooted in place, arms crossed over his chest, his gaze is narrowed and impersonal.

He’s making sure that the last thing Harold sees is the face of a man who couldn’t give a fuck about him but wants him dead anyway.

He doesn’t get to look at Alaric for long, though.

His eyes roll to the back of his head.

Color drains from his face.

I’m at the edge of my seat, heart palpitating, then—

“There you go.” Just like last time, Alaric sticks the unrecognizable brand of epinephrine pen to Harold’s outer thigh.

The fucker snaps back into consciousness, his body shaking, rattling the sturdy chair.

His obvious distress means nothing to Alaric, whose expression remains impassive as he taps the table again, then scribbles more secrets in his notebook.

That’s hot. What’s hotter is Alaric grabbing another Mason jar when he’s done.

Same size. Same liquid.

Yes, sir, Dr. Lockwood.

“Pwease.” Harold’s please is as frail and pitiful as he is. “No mow.” No more.

He should’ve thought about that before he laid a single finger on his mother.

Ignoring his pleas, Alaric presses a hand to Harold’s forehead and forces his head back. The greenish liquid lands on his face, into the hole in the duct tape, and everywhere else.

Harold’s already swelling when Alaric places the jar on the table, taps, and watches him intently.

If not for his captive going through what seems to be a terrible anaphylactic shock, I would’ve been jealous of the attention Alaric gives him.

Then again, I don’t want him to torture or kill me.

Don’t be silly, he won’t.

I frown at myself.

Of course he won’t.

My doctor is a vigilante. There’s plenty of proof of that.

And now that I suspect he’s a survivor like me, that he truly understands…I’ve never felt safer.

“Ready, set.” Alaric picks up a new epinephrine pen. “Here we go.”

Bam, it goes into Harold’s other thigh.

This time, he doesn’t just wake up. He’s convulsing. Gasping. Eyes so wide it seems like they’re about to pop out.

“Hmm.” A small, contented smirk stretches across Alaric’s face. He lifts the empty pen, nodding at it. “Not bad at all.”

My brow furrows at that.

Is he doing more than torturing Harold? Is he testing the pen on him?

That doesn’t sound right. Pharmaceutical companies don’t—or at least aren’t supposed to—hire doctors to conduct underground human trials.

Maybe Alaric is just satisfied that whatever’s in the pen wakes Harold up so he can keep hurting him.

Either way, I have to leave and get back to bed. Every second I stay down here is a risk, and besides, I’ve had my fill of stalking Alaric for today.

I get up to leave, then I hear it.

“Nooo!” Harold’s garbled scream jolts me and sends me right back to the peephole.

While I wasn’t watching, Alaric moved to stand behind the chair. He’s wearing gloves now, his hands wrapped around Harold’s throat as he chokes the life out of him.

A part of me hopes this is just another round of torture. This asshole deserves a million rounds.

But I also have Alaric’s best interests in mind.

It’s getting late. And even though he has tomorrow off, he promised he’d walk me home in the morning. At six.

That doesn’t leave him too much time to rest.

“I’d keep you around, except”—Alaric hisses—“I need the space. Hope you understand.”

Harold’s gurgling and wheezing are all the answer he gets.

Soon after, his head drops to the side. His body goes limp.

Is it really the last time?

Though he said he needs the space, meaning he’s getting rid of Harold, it could be another mind game he plays with him.

My curiosity is dangerous. It holds me in place when I should be getting out of here.

I wait, wait, wait, and…

Nothing.

Alaric doesn’t make any effort to resuscitate Harold. He doesn’t lean over to write anything in his notebook either.

Yes. One bastard down, a million more to go.

My gaze stays glued to Alaric as he walks over to an old metal storage cabinet and pulls out a tightly rolled tarp, spreading it beside the chair.

From there, this efficient, sexy wall of a man releases Harold and places him on the tarp, leaving him there while he slips on a new pair of gloves.

Next, he retrieves a pair of pliers and industrial-looking scissors from the table.

What for?

Oh. Oh. He’s rendering Harold unrecognizable. Gone are his teeth. His fingertips.

It’s impressive, but the most awe-inspiring part is how he strips Harold of his clothes, flipping him to search for what I believe are birthmarks or other identifiable features.

I’m proven right when he carves out a mole on Harold’s back.

Alaric places it on the towel beside him, where Harold’s teeth, fingertips, and toes are waiting, then rolls him into the tarp. When he stuffs him into the biggest duffel bag I’ve ever seen, I expect him to sling it over his shoulder and leave.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he strips out of his own clothes. Being turned on in this situation is highly inappropriate. So is the fluttering in my stomach when I realize he’s gone commando.

Naked except for the gloves on his hands, Alaric piles his clothes, socks, and sneakers in one arm before heading over to a corner of the room.

A barrel is tucked in there. With too many things to focus on, I never paid attention to it.

But now…

What’s in there?

My answer arrives as soon as Alaric throws everything in his grip inside and seals the lid with a metallic click. He repeats the motion with Harold’s clothes and all the things he’s left on the towel.

Each time the seal lifts, the air changes. Harold’s light stench from peeing himself remains, but a sterile, biting edge cuts through it.

There and gone.

It must mean one thing. Alaric’s using a chemical to disintegrate the evidence.

I’m beyond impressed.

Far beyond, as in burning up. Everywhere.

I burn hotter when he bends over, wiping the floor, the chair, the ropes, and what’s left of Harold. His smooth skin stretches over taut muscles, and I have to bite back a moan.

I’ll never get tired of looking at him.

I’m still staring when he cleans any traces of blood he might have off his skin. Into the barrel go the gloves and wipes.

My tongue darts to wet my lips, wishing I could lick every inch of him instead.

Soon.

After putting on clean clothes and hiking the duffel up on both shoulders, Alaric sprays something across the storage unit from a large, white bottle once. Twice. Three times.

A fine mist settles over everything.

The smell of Harold dulls, recedes, as if shoved behind glass.

Genius.

I’m so proud of my man.

I adore him.

If only there were a way to get him to trust me and make me his partner in all things, the vigilante life included.

If only.