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It’s probably bad that doesn’t faze me.

That none of this fazes me.

It’s just life.

Our lives as Misfits.

Handling this gruesome shit so that others don’t have to.

So that they don’t suffer.

So that those that deserve punishment receive it.

Placing the heated metal against the fresh wound receives additional howls of agony that have me stating, “Be grateful I’m willing to stop the bleeding, Harry.”

Tears and sweat and snot cake themselves on top of the previous rounds of fluid to the sound of sizzling skin and scents too close to bacon for most people’s comfort.

Again.

Misfits aren’t like most people.

We bathe our hands in blood so that little boys like the one we found have a chance to live a better life.

We dissect parts of people to make a point, in order for innocents in our territory to remain peacefully ignorant.

Protected.

As much as I want Emaline Owens crawling into bed, coming on my cock, and calling out my name, it’s a bad idea.

I’m a bad idea.

This isn’t her world.

And the last thing I need to do is drag her into it.

Chapter 5

Emaline

“Mow.”

“I’m fine,” I offhandedly say to Noodle, my golden Maine coon, who is now sitting beside me on my blush fabric, living room couch. “I’m not thinking about him.” Tucking one of my lumpy, yellow, fuzzy pillows between my polka dotted pajama pants covered thighs precedes me pulling my e-reader closer. “Or the sex we didn’t have.” My toes thoughtlessly curl in my mismatched socks. “Or how I almost rear-ended that Prius thinking about the way he literally licked my cum off his fingers.”

“Mow.”

“Don’t judge me, Noodle! It was a Prius!”

Which still cost more than the old clunker I’m driving, but not the point.

The point is I didn’t crash into it.

I made it home safe and sound and sated yesterday.

Okay.

Sated might be a stretch.

I wanted more.