But that’s fine.
He doesn’t deserve that.
By the time he’s not moving, I’m panting, and my arms are sore from exertion. My clothes are ruined, drenched in blood, and my face drips with it, courtesy of the arterial spray from Dale’s carotid. When I finally sit back, the box cutter goes skidding across the floor, and I run my bloody fingers through my hair, head in my hands.
“You weren’t supposed to force me,” I whisper, frustration building like an icy dam in my chest. “This was supposed to be for me, you stupid, pathetic little man.”
Chapter
Seventeen
When his blood starts drying on my face and hands, I shove myself back and away from Dale until my back hits the wall. I’m shaking, and I draw my knees up to my chest, arms wrapped around them as I ignore how much of a fucking mess I am.
This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
This was supposed to be a choiceImade, because I either wanted to or didn’t. I was meant to discover what I am, instead of being forced to defend myself.
Fuck,Dale really was a piece of absolute shit. My fingers flex, and I close my eyes, trying to remind myself that this wasn’t a total waste and that this wasn’t my only chance.
The basement door opens, and I hear Larkin’s steps on the stairs, then when he pauses, unmoving.
“He attacked you.” The man’s voice is empty, devoid of anything that would make him human, and I don’t look up from the circle of my arms.
“This wasn’t how it was supposed to go,” I snarl, frustrated and hoarse from Dale’s hands around my throat. “Heruined it,Larkin. This was supposed to be for me. I was going to get to decide.” I lift my head enough to glare at Dale’s ruined body, and look up further when Larkin’s shadow falls over me, signaling his proximity even though I hadn’t heard him approach.
I don’t expect the look of sympathy in his gaze, or the slight frown on his lips. He surveys Dale, from the broken cuff still around his ankle to the chain snaking along the concrete floor by the bathtub. “Ah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, Tova.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Sort of is.” He kneels down in front of me and reaches out, though he pauses with his fingers close to my face as if to let me know I don’t have to accept his touch. When I don’t spit on him or pull away, he pushes my bloody hair back from my equally bloody face. “I know what you wanted. I was trying to give you that.”
My nose scrunches up in irritation, and I meet his eyes as he presses his hand to my cheek.
“But pouting won’t do anything to change it,” he adds, his smile a little less kind and his eyes dancing with their usual, private amusement. “Give me a moment.”
As I watch, Larkin stands with a sigh and heads over to Dale. For a few seconds he just surveys him, and more than any other time, I wish I could read Larkin. Yet, as per usual, he’s completely unreadable. His dark eyes remain trained on Dale, from his face to his bloody chest and arms, before he bends to sling the man over his shoulders, carrying him to the tub and dumping him unceremoniously into it with a hollow sound. Somehow, he barely gets any blood on him, other than a streak across his face that gives him a savage, dangerous appearance when he turns to hold a bloody hand out to me.
“Come on, silly girl.” He doesn’t force me to take his hand. Doesn’t reach down and pick me up like I’m expecting himto. Larkin just waits, his hand outstretched in invitation, and a complete certainty in his words that I’ll take it.
For some reason, I do. I don’t knock his hand away, or snarl, or ignore him, though all three options flicker through my brain. I reach out with fingers that tremble to press my palm to his, allowing Larkin to pull me to my feet. Not letting go, he leads me upstairs, stopping when we get to the mat in the kitchen, already taking off his shoes and pointing at a small tarp secured to the floor with tape. “Shoes and clothes,” he tells me while taking off his own shirt and shoes, though he doesn’t remove his jeans. He doesn’t really need to, I realize. I can’t see any blood on the denim, so I doubt he’s going to make a mess of it anywhere.
Without thinking, I take off my shoes and socks, leaving me in my leggings and hoodie. But then I pause, giving him a look. “You want me to strip in your kitchen?” I ask dryly, my voice full of quiet disbelief.
“Well, it’s that or you can hang out in the basement with Dale until you change your mind,” Larkin answers cheerfully. God, I hate the stupid, arrogant smirk he pulls out at times like this, and a low, murmured,“Fuck you,”leaves me as I yank down my leggings and toss them on top of my shoes.
Larkin’s hand catches my chin, pulling my gaze up to his as his eyes narrow. “Would you like to repeat that, silly girl?”
With the way the words come out, and the warning behind them, it occurs to me that I really, probably don’t. I break our staring contest first, dropping my eyes and shaking my head. I won’t stoop so low as to apologize, but I can at least admit my mistake.Silently.
He drops his hand without another word, and I peel out of my hoodie, though I don’t go any further than that. My long-sleeved tee is clean, and so is my underwear. I curl my fingers into my palm and look up at Larkin, prepared for him to argue asI stand there, feeling small and uncomfortably vulnerable under his gaze.
“Good girl.” The praise sends a shiver down my spine that chases away a bit of the frustration, though I don’t understand why. “I appreciate you listening to me so I can get this cleaned up efficiently for us.”
I don’t expect that, either. He doesn’t owe me an explanation when I’m here in his house, having fucked up a murder for which he provided me the tools to achieve on my own. The frustration comes rolling back, and I look away. But Larkin onlytsksunder his breath and grabs my hand once more. Now that I can’t track blood across his floors, he leads me to the bathroom, turning on a small, dim light instead of the ones above the vanity.
When he lets go and moves to the tub, I take the opportunity to look around. Though I wouldn’t call the bathroomrusticby any means, it matches the cabin’s aesthetic with warm shiplap walls and lights that glow golden, rather than white. A noise catches me off guard, and I look over as Larkin turns the tub faucet so water sprays out to hit the porcelain of the slightly oversized tub hard, though he keeps his hand under the flow so the red staining his skin is washed away within seconds.
It hits me that at this point, I should stop trying to guess his next move. Nothing he’s done tonight has been predictable, and staring at him as he waits for the water to heat up in the bathroom of his private cabin is even less so. A softer part of me craves to comb my fingers through his soft black hair, while a more feral, frustrated side wants to wrap my fingers around his throat.
