8. Eight #3
Quietly, I unlocked the door, listening for movement, but there was none.
When I pushed the door open, I could see the outline of her body in the bed.
Moving into the room, I saw an empty bottle of vodka on the floor, next to the bed.
I stood there, watching her unconscious form in the dim light, her chest rising and falling in the shallow rhythm of alcohol-induced sleep.
Her dark hair fanned across the cheap motel pillow, and her face, for once, was unguarded.
Without the armor of hatred and defiance she wore so well, she looked younger, vulnerable in a way she’d never allow if conscious.
The room smelled of vodka and her perfume.
I moved closer, careful to keep my footsteps silent as I surveyed her makeshift refuge.
The room was sparse, with only a bed, dresser, and a TV that looked like it hadn’t worked since the 90s.
Her purse was tossed carelessly on the floor beside the empty vodka bottle.
Picking up the bottle, I examined the label. Premium vodka in a discount motel—another contradiction. She’d drunk herself into oblivion, probably hoping to escape the reality of our impending marriage, if only for a night.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. Harlowe stirred slightly but didn’t wake. Up close, I could see the faint mascara smudges beneath her eyes, the dried salt tracks on her cheeks. She’d been crying.
Reaching out, I brushed a strand of hair from her face.
Her skin was warm beneath my calloused fingers.
So soft for someone with such sharp edges.
I traced the curve of her cheek down to her jaw, marveling at the contrast between the violence in my veins and the gentleness I found myself capable of in this moment.
Her eyelids fluttered, and I withdrew my hand. I didn’t want her waking to my touch, because that would only reinforce her fears. Instead, I moved to the worn armchair in the corner of the room and settled in to wait.
The cemetery across the street was visible through the parted curtains, gravestones like crooked teeth against the night sky. I wondered if that’s why she’d chosen this place—to be close to death without embracing it.
I stayed there the rest of the night, waiting for her to wake up. When sunlight was filtering through the thin curtains, she stirred, and when she saw me sitting in the chair, she sat straight up and stared at me with wide, horrified eyes.
“What the fuck?” she whispered, her voice hoarse from sleep and alcohol.
Straightening in the chair, I rolled my shoulders to ease the stiffness. “Good morning to you, too.”
She scrambled backward until her spine hit the headboard, pulling the cheap motel sheets up to her chin as if they could shield her. “How did you find me?”
“Did you really think you could hide from me?” I asked, keeping my voice deliberately calm. “There isn’t a place in this city where I couldn’t find you.”
Her eyes darted to the door and the window, calculating escape routes. “How long have you been here?”
“All night,” I replied, watching her expression shift from shock to fury. “You were unconscious when I arrived.”
“You watched me sleep?” Her voice cracked with disgust. “That’s not creepy at all.”
I stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my slacks. My muscles protested after hours in that uncomfortable chair, but I kept my face neutral. “Would you have preferred I wake you by force?”
She ran a hand through her tangled hair, wincing as her fingers caught in the knots. The hangover was clearly settling in; her skin was pale, and her movements were hesitant. Good. Pain would make this conversation more productive.
“Get out,” she demanded, though we both knew it was an empty command.
I moved to the foot of the bed, close enough to touch her but maintaining just enough distance to keep her from lashing out. “Do you know what I was doing last night while you were here, drowning your sorrows in vodka?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t care.”
“I was killing people,” I said simply. “Men who thought they could encroach on what’s mine.”
She flinched, almost imperceptibly, but I caught it. The reminder of what I was—who I was—still affected her, despite her bravado.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” Her chin lifted in defiance.
“It’s supposed to educate you, Harlowe,” I responded.
“I’m not in the mood for any more education from you,” she snapped.
I’d been up all night, and really wasn’t in the mood to argue with her.
“Get dressed. I’m taking you home.”
“Fuck you.”
“You have five minutes to get dressed and come with me willingly, or I’ll dress you myself and carry you out.”
She laughed. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Manhandling me in front of everyone?”
I smirked. “There’s no audience here, Harlowe. Just you and me. And I don’t need witnesses to do what needs to be done.”
She threw the nearest object in her reach, which happened to be the TV remote, at my head. I caught it easily. “Four minutes,” I said, glancing at my watch.
She threw back the covers and stood. “Fine. Turn around.”
“No.”
“I’m not giving you a peep show,” she snapped.
“Get dressed, Harlowe. You’ve tested my patience enough for one day.”