Page 51 of Irrevocably

Acting without thinking is something I don’t do. Acting without thought of the consequences, on instinct, spontaneously… Again, I just don’t do that. Yet I did, back in that parking lot, when I beat Astrid’s friend into the ground then put him in the trunk and her in the car.

I still had no idea what I was doing when I tore out of Blackwater, only that I needed somewhere safe to store him. And as for her…

She’s leading me down the hall, her hand in mine as if we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, or something as normal, as mundane and pedestrian as that. The killer and the college girl. It’s a movie that almost writes itself.

But this isn’t a movie, and when she asked me why I punched her friend, the truth came out. It wasn’t because he was a Hellhound and my mission is to take them down. It wasn’t because he was a threat or a danger to me or to her. No, I hit him because he kissed her, because she was right, I was jealous. And that was the moment I knew I had to stop lying to myself.

I’ve been possessive of her and jealous of her friend, unable to walk away from her, all the while telling myself it was because I needed her for intel, nothing more. But it’s not because of that at all. It’s because the moment she was attacked in the parking lot by Angelo Moretti, and I killed him, she became mine.

She’s my target. My source of information. She told me her secrets and now they’re mine, and like I told her: when she let me fuck her, be her first, her body became mine as well.

I’ve never had anything of my own before, not if you don’t count the clothes on my back and my gun, which I don’t. I’ve never had a person, for example. I thought that I didn’t need one. I wanted not to need one. Not when in the world I live in, where needs and wants can be used against you.

But my subconscious disagreed, and that’s why I put her in the car, not even knowing myself until that moment when she pointed out my jealousy.

I can’t have a person who’s mine, yet I can’t walk away from her. I can’t let her go. And now I’m letting her lead me down this fucking hallway as if I was a normal man, a house cat.

Of course, I could use her when her friend wakes up the way I was going to use her with the chief. That would really be a test of the Hellhound’s loyalties if I started cutting pieces off his best friend in front of him. And maybe I will have to do that in the end, but right now…

Right now, I can’t pull my hand out of hers. All I can do is follow her.

The bathroom is small, basic, and not well lit. There’s an old wooden vanity and sink with a plain mirror above it. A toilet. A shower cubicle.

“Stand here,” Astrid says, indicating the vanity.

I lean back against it as she rummages in its drawer for God knows what. First-aid supplies likely, which we have here for obvious reasons. Not that I’ll need anything drastic. It’s just a split eyebrow.

She pulls out some cotton-wool balls and some disinfectant, which she drips on to one of the balls. A sharp, medicinal smell fills the small space, reminding me of other times where I’ve needed first aid, painful times. But I’m good at shoving those memories to the side, so I do, concentrating instead on the woman standing in front of me who’s lifting her hand to dab at my eyebrow with the disinfectant. Her brow is furrowed with concentration and despite the acrid smell, I catch a hint of her own scent, lavender and sweetness.

I barely feel it as she dabs, too busy staring at her face, faintly amazed that this little fairy of a woman is carefully cleaning an insignificant cut on my face as if it were a gaping wound. Why? It can’t be out of concern for me, surely? Not when all I’ve done is threaten to hurt her and the people she cares about.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask, even though I shouldn’t care.

“Cleaning your cut? Because it’s bleeding.”

“So?”

Her gaze comes to mine and she gives me a level look. “Why are you letting me?”

“Now who’s answering questions with questions.”

She lets out a breath and returns her attention to my eyebrow, remaining silent for a while. “You really don’t like admitting to anything, do you?”

“Not if I don’t have to,” I say, which is true.

“Why not?”

I shift against the vanity. She’s standing very close and I can feel the delicate brush of her fingertips on my skin as she cleans away the blood on my brow. We haven’t been this close since we had sex in her bedroom, and I keep thinking about it. I keep thinking about how hard her nipples were and how tight her pussy was, and how she gasped and moaned as I fucked her. How she screamed when she came.

“Because it’s a mistake in my world,” I say before I can stop myself.

She nods gravely. “And what world is that?”

“I think you know already.” I can’t take my gaze from her mouth. I know how that bottom lip tasted when I sunk my teeth into it, how sweet she was.

“Just going to take a wild stab in the dark and guess that it’s crime related.” She leans back to examine her handiwork, then disposes of the cotton ball, before picking another up and dampening it with some water.

I don’t like another person getting this close to me. It makes me tense. Yet as she dabs away at my eyebrow, there’s no tension in me at all. She’s no physical threat, of course, but I can’t deny there’s something … relaxing about her tending to me. No one ever has before. I’ve always had to stitch myself up. But now she’s cleaning away the blood with gentle fingers, touching my skin as if she’s afraid of hurting me. It’s strange to have someone be concerned with my pain.