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.”
