Andrei
I slammed the bedroom door closed and leaned against it, my body still shaking from the touch.
I stared down at my gloved hands. My fingers were trembling; I watched in fascination as they refused to still.
So thatâs what it felt like.
To feel human.
To touch someone and have no choice but to respond.
I willed them to stop shaking.
I pulled the glove from my right hand then slipped the other from my left. Every time I stared at my bare hands, I saw blood on them.
A therapist would have a fucking field day with me. Rationally, I knew blood wasnât there, but that didnât stop me from wanting to wash my hands a dozen times a day.
Or from wearing gloves so people didnât see the stains.
So they didnât see the death.
Hands were tools.
Mine were covered in blood.
And Iâd been tempted.
To take off one glove, to see if her skin was really as warm as it felt beneath the leather, if she would respond.
Iâd had my fair share of encounters.
But when a man feels nothing.
He stops trying.
Did it even matter?
I laughed to myself. It sounded wrong coming from my lips. Men like me didnât laugh, and if we did it was usually out of cruelty.
The one person able to touch me.
To make me feel anything other than the slippery tendrils of death as it choked me on a daily basis.
I was an idiot to think that she would be different.
Just like she was an idiot to think that this was anything other than me keeping her safe from those who wanted her blood for no other reason than it was De Lange.
I shoved my hands back into the gloves and stared at my reflection in disgust as I reared back and punched the mirror with my right hand, sending glass crashing to the floor.
Glass crunched beneath my boots as I did a slow semi-circle.
Alice.
No.
She had no name.
No names.
No names.
I felt the name in my head, though, like a drum beat: Alice, Alice, Alice De Lange.
Chase wouldnât understand. He would kill her.
Tex already wanted her blood.
I would need to find a replacement.
And in the meantime, I would figure out a way to keep her safe and keep myself sane.
This was probably one of the most suicidal things Iâd done in my entire life, keeping an enemy under my own roof, feeding her, clothing her⦠like a fucking pet.
Yeah, a therapist would just love to get in my head, wouldnât he?
A knock sounded on my bedroom door. âI heard a crash, are you okay?â
I jerked my head toward the door. Was she serious?
I stomped over to the door and jerked it open. âUnless you hear gunshots, Iâm fine, and you really only need to worry about that on August third.â
She frowned, her cheeks heating. âItâs August third.â
âAugust third at one a.m. Youâll be happy to know the reason Iâm not dead is because the gun didnât go off, so save your worry for next year when I try again. Now go be useful somewhere else.
I slammed the door in her face.
Why did she have to be so provoking?
And beautiful?
And why the hell would me being naked cause her to blush? It made no sense; so much so that I wanted to ask her what sort of girl was still able to blush after what sheâd been put through.
I stomped into the bathroom and flipped on the shower. Then I grabbed a brand-new piece of wrapped soap, discarded the paper, and hopped into the shower.
Fresh soap every time.
And no matter how many times I ran that soap over my body, I saw red. All I ever sawâ¦
Was red.