CHAPTER THIRTEEN
An assassin.
A hired killer.
A fucking hit man.
That was what he wanted from me.
I could feel my life slipping through my fingers like grains of sand as I hurried through the house on my way to the door with Dean on my heels. Everything I was, everything I knew, had been as good as terminated the moment I agreed to Gerald's terms.
He would reach out when he needed me, and I was to report to him and accept my orders with no questions asked. If I refused, he would anonymously hand me over to the cops, and once I was within their custody, he would be free to approach Isaac and Shawn.
Kill or be killed, was what I’d heard, though he hadn’t said it quite in that way. He might as well have though.
I reached the door, desperate to escape this side of hell, knowing I'd be back soon enough. I was ready to leave—I needed to—when Dean surprised me by pressing his palm to it before I could twist the doorknob.
"It gets easier," he said, keeping his voice low. "When you stop remembering all their names … it does."
"How can I forget a name I was never given?" I fired back.
He swallowed, and there … I saw it. That little flicker of humanity flashing across his eyes. There was a good guy in there. A soul. He just didn't let it show around Gerald. It was his weakness, and I bet I could use it against him someday … if I had to.
"David," he whispered. "The waiter you killed. That was his name."
It was a startling gesture, one that reached into my chest and twisted against my heart. He lifted his eyes to my face, searching for mine beneath the mask, and I accepted the proverbial olive branch with a single nod.
He fished a flip phone out of his pocket and held it out to me. "Gerald or I will call or text when you're needed."
I took it from him and tucked it away without a word.
"Don't let anyone else see that phone," he warned. "And if they do, I'd suggest you don't let them answer it."
Then he walked away toward the dining room, where we'd left Gerald eating his third slice of pie, and I opened the door and stepped back out into a world that had no clue I’d just signed my life away.
I headed toward the hearse, parked in the driveway.
Déjà vu struck like a hammer to the brain, and I remembered, just a handful of nights ago, peeking through the drapes and seeing Leonard's wrapped body in the back.
Tonight though, it was empty. He was still gone, far, far away, in a place I was certain I'd never go.
Do any of Gerald’s get into Heaven? I wondered, retrieving the keys from my jacket pocket.
Friends. I shook my head at the thought. It was a tough pill to swallow, a capsule made of broken glass and splinters, and maybe it was the denial talking, but I still wasn't sure I believed such a friendship between Leonard Llewellyn and Gerald Crowley existed. I needed more proof.
But that's the whole point of this, I reminded myself.
Because my life had ended the minute I dumped poison down that guy's throat.
But I could spend the last days, weeks, months—maybe even years, if I was so lucky—of my freedom finding answers and destroying my father in the process.
I just needed to keep that in mind, stay focused, and—
"What is your name?"
I closed my eyes to the sound of her voice and muttered, "You're making this a habit now."
"What?" I could hear the smile in her voice.
"Stopping me from getting the fuck away from here," I answered, turning to lean against the side of the hearse to stare at the vampiric vision of Analise, standing amid the moody glow of strategically placed lights.
"Well, I'm going to be seeing more of you, so I figured we should at least be friends."
She’d been listening. Waiting.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I shook my head and replied, "You don't want to be friends with me."
"Why?”
I nearly laughed at the innocence in her voice as I said, “I’m not a good man, Analise.”
“Because you’re a murderer? That’s why you think you’re not good?”
The way she said those words with her pouty lips was nearly condescending, and I swallowed and clenched my fists, digging them deeper against my sides.
"Not sure if you’ve put it together yet, Doctor, but I'm surrounded by murderers. I live with them," she went on, moving her feet slowly, approaching. "That doesn't scare me."
"Oh, no?" I tipped my head to the side, eyeing her with curiosity.
She shook her head with nonchalance. "Nope."
"Then tell me, what does scare you?"
She stopped within a few feet of me and wrapped her arms around the middle of her black robe as she looked off into the darkness surrounding this land. "Probably, um …” She shrugged a single shoulder as she said, “Probably the dark, honestly."
"You're afraid of the dark," I repeated, enunciating the words as if to better understand them.
It seemed childish, coming from a grown-up woman who carried herself with such elegance and poise.
But her head bobbed with a nod as her throat moved with a deep swallow before she whispered, "Yeah," her dark eyes glossing over with a faraway look.
I wondered what she was thinking about, where she went when her stare became blank and her lips parted softly and her brows tipped with worry. And if I wasn’t so hell-bent on keeping her at a great distance, maybe I would ask. I wanted to ask. I wanted to know everything about her.
I can’t.
Analise lifted her chin, collecting herself, and looked back at me as she asked, "What about you?"
A smile curved my lips as I realized that maybe—maybe—she wanted to know everything about me too.
And that made this game all the more dangerous, didn’t it?
Us, toeing the line between what we should and shouldn’t do, testing the limitations on the forbidden binds that held us back from this thing that felt so natural.
"Me?" I answered.
"Yeah, you,” she replied with a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she nudged her chin in my direction. “What are you scared of?"
I shook my head, looking away to stare off into that same spot of darkness she'd claimed just moments before.
What am I scared of?
Funny, I'd never thought about it much before.
Never had the time in childhood, never had a reason when my life had been nothing short of a living nightmare.
And as an adult, it'd felt silly to focus on trivial things like made-up bogeymen when I knew the worst evil lurked among us in everyday reality.
"Come on. There has to be something the big, bad man is scared of," she coaxed teasingly.
Then she took another step and moved onto the driveway. She was getting nearer, closing in, and there was no space for me to take a step back.
What am I scared of?
The question was even more loaded now as the wind blew and the subtle scent of sweet florals wafted through the air holes, penetrating the mask.
I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs and wishing I could rip this damn thing off and be done with secrecy.
I would grab her in my arms, and I'd hold on so tight that she'd know there was no getting away even if she tried.
I would kiss her, again and again and again and again, and I wouldn't stop until I was certain the flavor of her lips and tongue was carved so deeply into my brain that not even a thousand-year sentence in Hell could make me forget.
I would take her breath away, and I would give her mine.
I would carry the memory of her touch, her taste, her scent all the way to the underworld, and I would replay them on a loop to keep me company through an eternity of torment. To remember that I’d once held something good within my shackled arms.
But right now, I knew the risks outweighed the reward, and the safety of my brothers was more important than a few minutes of personal pleasure.
I'd never forgive myself for getting caught, for getting them hurt—or worse—and it was in that moment that I realized I'd always had the answer to that simple question.
What am I afraid of?
I turned toward Analise, a beacon of alabaster skin and untouchable hope.
Her dark gaze held onto me, dancing across my mask and chest with wanton interest. I had never ever understood what it was to want sex until I met her, and now, I was grossly aware of the fact as my desire for her settled low and swelled until it brought an uncomfortable ache and a need almost too intense to contain.
Almost.
But before I had the chance to cave beneath the pressure of lust and stupidity, I took a step toward her, nearly closing the gap between our bodies, the energy of our physical connection cracking in that sliver of space.
My hands itched at my sides as I bowed my head, the lenses of my mask aimed straight toward her eyes, and in that low, gravelly tone I was becoming accustomed to, I muttered, "Failure. That’s what I’m afraid of. "
Then, before she had the chance to speak again, I turned, climbed into the hearse, slammed the door shut, and sped away.