Chapter 4 #2
Hunter is no Prince Charming. He’s not even a Shrek. He’s the Darkling from that fantasy book by that author, Leigh Bardugo. What was the name of it? Shadow and Bone, if I remember correctly.
It was the last book I’d listened to before the dead rose. The narrator had a great voice, and the story was more realistic than anything Disney had to offer.
And now I’m in a situation where I’m being held hostage, just as the girl from the book was.
But my Darkling is far different.
“Now that you have me here, what will you do?”
He hunches forward, placing his forearms on his thighs and tenting his fingers together. “I don’t know.”
Suddenly, I feel like a cat toy. A shiny little object that caught Hunter’s attention. One wrong move and he could pounce. If I don’t move at all, he still might.
I think back to the time we’d spent together so long ago. “I’d like to lick your cunt,” he’d said, then he told me he’d never done it before.
That wasn’t the only thing that was new to him. He’d never had sex without torturing someone first. Which is…a heck of a confession.
I must have been the only normal-ish sex he’s ever had, and apparently, he must have liked it because he’s been searching for me.
This is good because it means he doesn’t want to kill me. He wants to bring those feelings he had back. But from the looks of it, seeing me isn’t doing the trick. I haven’t seen a man so uninterested in me before.
I could flirt with him, but something tells me he’s not into that. It wasn’t flirting that got him interested in me on Salem Street. I’d asked to go with him, and that interested him. Perhaps it was because he thought I was brave.
At the time, it didn’t take any amount of courage. I knew I couldn’t make it on my own, and things would only get worse for me on Salem after they found Madam Levy.
Asking to go with Hunter was an act of survival. It was taking a risk on an unknown.
I clear my throat as my plan begins to coalesce.
“Would you make a deal with me?” I ask. I know better than to act sugary sweet or blink my big, innocent eyes at him. Hunter is smart, and he’d see right through any act I put on.
Bluntness will earn his respect.
“A deal?”
“You make me a promise in exchange for something.”
“What is this deal you have?”
“You can touch me, fuck me, take me in any position you want, but you can’t hurt me. At least not intentionally.”
He looks at me for a long minute as though he were going over the fine print of a contract.
“Can I do whatever I want to you?”
“Within reason. As I said, you can’t hurt me, but I don’t mind you being a little rough.”
“Deal.”
HUNTER
I knew Fiona would be exactly what I needed, even if I didn’t know why.
Speaking with women in general is a fucking chore. I have to wear my mask, say things expected of me, being careful to never let my real self show through.
With Fiona, I’ve never had to wear a mask. The feeling I get from being able to be my true self is freeing. It’s like shedding a ball and chain.
She pours shampoo into her palm and works it through her red tresses, but her arms move sluggishly. She’s in pain.
“Would you like me to help?” I offer, not so much out of kindness. It just makes sense for me to.
And making sense matters. Since my emotions are so limited, logic is comforting. Cold, calculating logic.
I understand hard decisions and what it’s like to sacrifice to the greater good. I could make decisions that would destroy most people and sleep soundly afterward.
Or as soundly as I could sleep any other night, which isn’t soundly at all.
Fiona tenses, afraid. Which is understandable. She’s seen the good work I do. That she can be so calm in front of me is commendable.
“If you want,” she finally says.
I don’t know what to make of that, so I say, “I’d prefer you be blunt.”
“I’d like help, but please don’t kill me.”
“I won’t.”
I’m annoyed by how many times I have to say that.
I move to her back, kneeling by the side of the tub as she settles into a relaxed position.
She’s in rougher shape than she was when I’d first met her, but the bath is doing wonders, and her bruises will eventually heal.
I massage the shampoo into her scalp, careful to avoid the injured area. There are several knots laced throughout her hair, and I wonder if I should just shave it all off. Something tells me she wouldn’t like that, though. And I probably shouldn’t either. Men like long hair.
But you aren’t like most men…
And I never will be. It’s something I’ve known since I was a teenager, and I’ve never once doubted the truth of what I am. This interest I have in this girl doesn’t change me. Not at my core.
I will always be a killer. A hunter in search of prey.
She is just a different type of prey.
A small moan escapes her lips, which my cock finds interesting. It’s the first time it’s stirred since I found her on top of the dumpster. What’s notable is that I haven’t been thinking about killing anyone.
“May I touch you?” I ask.
“It’s part of the deal.”
“I typically always ask first.”
“Why is that? I mean, you have no qualms with torture and murder.”
I slide my hand over her collarbone to her small breasts, deciding not to respond. Her areolas are hardly the size of a quarter, her budding nipples reactive to my touch. I tug gently at one, studying her response, which is minimal.
“So tell me about this job you had during the apocalypse. What were you and Caspian doing?”
“Dropping a whole lot of dead.”
“Did you drop the living, too?”
“When I had to.”
“So you had to kill Madam Levy?” she says in a teasing voice.
“I meant that when I killed on the job, it was because I had to. Madam Levy was recreational.”
“Some do recreational drugs. Others do recreational murders.” She giggles, like she’s made a joke. But it’s the truth and I don’t find it so funny.
“You didn’t seem to complain.” I roll her nipple between the pads of my thumb and index finger, tugging harder. She sucks in a breath but gives no indication whether she found the sensation pleasurable.
I know what she did like, though. I still think about her thighs closing around my cheeks as she ground her pussy against my face. It was primal and urgent and it got me hard.
And with our deal, it’s mine for the taking.
I rinse her hair and take out a brush. Dragging it through her mane is worse than dropping the dead, and I yank her head back more often than I intend to, but she doesn’t complain.
Afterward, I scrub the places she couldn’t reach and drain the tub.
She lets me towel her dry, keeping an expressionless look on her face.
At least she’s not disgusted by me.
She stretches, grimacing when she moves into certain positions. A few days of rest should have her good as new.
“So, now what?” she asks, biting her lower lip as her eyes flicker with anxiety.
“First, I’m going to dress your wounds. Then I’m going to eat your pussy.”