Chapter 6
six
I’ve killed men for less than the way that asshole looked at her. If I hadn't stepped in, he would’ve kept pushing. Asking questions, prying, angling for a crack in her armor.
He would've gotten one, too. Because she’s kind.
Because she’s not like me. And now that I’ve seen that softness up close, I know we don’t belong together.
But, we do fit together. The proof is in hours of texts that feel like oxygen.
In the store her eyes said yes and I know I didn’t invent that.
I almost wish I had. If she didn’t respond, I could protect her by walking away.
I think I could walk away. If I knew she didn’t want me, if this was all make believe, I think I could do it.
But she’s willing, and I’ll never stop on my own.
I slide on my sunglasses and walk to my Harley, the desert sun already baking the seat.
I toss a leg over and sit there, motionless, watching the automatic doors.
Just in case. If he follows her out, I’ll tail him home and put a bullet in his spine before he hits his front step.
I’d drag his ass inside by his throat and make sure he knows exactly why he’s dying.
I’d let him feel every second of what it means to stare into the eyes of a man born to end life.
I’d leave his body out in the open, mouth stuffed with fucking oregano.
I can’t not kill him now.
Just so the next asshole thinks twice before looking at what’s mine.
Even if he never speaks to her again. Even if he crosses the street when he sees her.
Even if he fades into the background like a coward who knows he got too close to something sacred.
Doesn’t matter. He made eye contact with the sun, and men don’t get to walk away from that kind of heat.
Unless they’re me, apparently. She's my sun, and I'm the planet that won't ever fall out of her sky.
And her light? I kneel to it. It's the only thing I'll ever answer to. It's mine alone to live under.
But, she looked at him.
Smiled at him.
Because she’s kind. Because she still believes the world isn’t full of men like me.
She doesn’t know what that smile is worth. How far I’ll go to protect it.
But he will.
I saw her.
Heard her laugh.
Touched her skin.
That should’ve been enough. But it isn’t. It’s never going to be enough.
I ride home without music. Helmet on, visor down, her name echoing through my skull.
Melinda.
My Lindy girl.
I want her name on my tongue again. I want her in my house, in my bed, in my life, carved into my ribs. I’ve never had a craving like this, and I’ve fed some twisted appetites in my time. This is worse. Better. Both.
As soon as I step inside, I lock the door behind me, more out of habit than necessity. The security system could hold off a small army. Adrian made sure of that.
Still wired, I pace to the office and pull up her file again. The PDF of her résumé. Her credentials. The sanitized bullshit of a life.
None of it mentions the way her voice makes my spine go taut.
I drag my hand down my face and lean back in my chair. Stare at the ceiling like it’ll whisper some kind of divine logic. Then I grab my phone and text Adrian.
She needs her windows tinted.
Adrian:
Jesus Christ. You kissed her on the cheek once and now you’re accessorizing her car?
First of all, prick, stop watching me. Second of all, I saw a man look at her like she was prey. Her windows are fishbowl glass.
Adrian:
First of all, technically I wasn’t watching you. Caleb was. Exactly as you told us to. But whatever, you got it, Romeo. Anything else while I’m at it? Bulletproof glass? Ejection seat?
That only applies when I am not watching her myself. Just the tint for now.
Adrian:
Are you sure that man wasn’t just looking at her?
I know your eyes don’t work, but mine still do.
Adrian:
Cool. You have eyes. I have instincts and ten terabytes of dirt on people. Wanna compare superpowers?
I drop the phone on my desk and spin the chair slowly, staring out the window like I’m some tragic motherfucker in a noir film.
I’m a killer. I’ve seen things that no one should, things that, if there were a God, wouldn’t be allowed to exist. I’ve been through shit that should have broken me, killed me, or made me kill myself.
My father planted the seed, Uncle Leven made sure it flourished.
I was literally made for this life. But she looked at me like I’m the good guy. And for a second, I wanted to be.
That’s the problem.
She makes me want to be a better man. Makes me want more than I ever thought I could have. And I can’t afford that, because it’s too late for that man. I’m not a string of choices in the shape of a man. This shit is in my DNA, and you can’t unwrite DNA.
The walls feel too close. My skin too tight. I need the ache. The sting. Something real to hit. I head for the basement. I don’t tape my hands. Never do, not even at my office. Pain keeps me sharp. Keeps the noise at bay.
I swing hard. The heavy bag snaps on its chain. I brace it with my forearm, breathing heavy. Everything comes back to that first cut. The one that made me. The one that freed me.
Thud. My father died gurgling on the end of a blade I held steady.
Thud. Twelve years old. Didn't flinch. Didn't cry.
Thud. Dad didn’t beg. Didn’t ask why. He knew. Monsters always know when their time’s up.
Kick. Uncle Leven finds me covered in blood and calls it a beginning.
Thud. He teaches me how to gut a man quiet. How to kill loud. How to worship pain like a religion and to never, ever hesitate. Pain isn’t real, he’d say. It’s all in your head. You can stop feeling it at any time.
Thud. London was the only softness. The only light. The baby of the bloodline. All bouncy curls and chaos and glittery shoes.
Thud. She'd sit cross-legged on the edge of the mat while I trained and give the whole gym a play-by-play. Ten for my stabby cuz, she’d grin. Zero for the mean face.
Kick. Everyone loved her. Even the worst of us. Especially the worst of us. Then she vanished. And the whole damn world dimmed.
Thud. I learned real fast that light gets stolen, and darkness survives.
Thud. Sava and I were built for that darkness. Born in it. Raised with our teeth bared and our backs to the wall. Two shadows moving like smoke. Monster and Machine. My sister in every way but blood.
Thud. We never miss a mark. Never leave a heartbeat uncounted. We make the Accord powerful. Feared. Untouchable.
Kick. And now a wide-eyed woman with too much sunshine in her voice is undoing me with a fucking text. Standing in that store, brushing my lips against Lindy’s cheek, I felt something crack. It isn’t her fault. It’s mine.
Thud. Because for the first time in my life, I regret the slit in my father's throat. Not because he didn’t deserve it. He did. But because that was the day I stopped being someone who could ever deserve her.
I throw one last punch—hard enough to rattle the chain and rip open the skin across my knuckles. Blood splatters the broken bag.
CRACK.
The bottom of the bag splits wide, sand spilling like blood, dark and slow. The hiss of it reminds me of a throat tearing open. That sound used to calm me. Now it just echoes. My hands drip. My chest heaves. I stand there, hands oozing at my sides, staring at the mess for answers.
But it doesn’t give any.
Because the answers will all lead back to her. And I was never meant for redemption.
I kill without flinching. But I don’t know how to hold a woman without shaking.
My knuckles drip red onto the floor. Sand’s spilling in slow motion like entrails torn loose. I don’t clean it. I don’t care. Let the basement bleed. Let the bag rot open like a body.
I strip off my shirt on the stairs, toss it aside, and head for the shower.
By the time I reach the bathroom, the blood is already drying, smeared across my fingers like paint.
Scalding water hits raw skin. It doesn’t sting enough.
I scrub without flinching, watching diluted red swirl down the drain.
My knuckles are raw, already swelling. Skin split in three places.
And the split across my ring finger reopens, an old wound that I can’t seem to fully heal.
My knuckles are still oozing, but they’ll crust over by morning, turn dark by day two.
Tighten and itch by day three. Four days, maybe five, and the scabs will fall off.
That’s if I don’t hit anything else. Unlikely.
I dry off, ignoring the sting. Pull on black sweats, no shirt. The ache in my hands throbs in time with my pulse, but it’s an expected pain that I’m used to. It’s the restlessness underneath that’s new.
On the counter, my phone buzzes. I thumb open the cam app to check my Lindy cameras.
Two clicks and I’m in the grocery lot’s feed.
I rewind until she steps out. Adrian hates this shit, but sets it up anyway, keeps refining the damn thing for me, even after telling me it's a horrible way to spend my time.
He'll never bless my obsession, but he will keep building it, but with guardrails, so I don't burn the city down trying to do it on my own. That's big-brother math.
She’s holding a bag of flour and a carton of eggs. She looks… content. Like the moment didn’t rattle her.
She touches her cheek. The spot where I kissed her. I zoom in on her face. She’s smiling. The footage stutters, then skips. Adrian or Atlas must’ve noticed me watching and shut it down remotely.
Smart-asses.
Still, I grin. Because I saw what I needed to see.
She liked it.
The next morning, Adrian texts me a simple update.
Adrian:
Tint installed.
Thank you.
Adrian:
You’re welcome, stalker.
You jealous I finally care about someone who isn’t you?
Adrian:
Just try not to kill anyone over it.
No promises.