He smiles and turns the safety back on before sliding the gun into the back of his waistband.“You have to learn the rules before you can break them.”His eyes remain on me.“Like I said, not a good role model.”
We make our way back into the house as I remind myself that he’s my bodyguard, here to do a job, and I can’t let any attraction I may feel get in the way of that.One thing’s certain: I felt things I usually only experience when reading my smutty romance books when Fenrir stood behind me, holding my arms, his breath licking my skin.I felt things that I never have with any other man before today.
After everything he’s told me, after everything he’s done, after knowing what kind of man he is, I still feel this bewildering attraction to him.But whatishe?
A scarred beast or a broken human?
Or maybe he’s both?
TWENTY-FIVE
FENRIR
PRESENT
My eyes areweary as I watch Hayami settle in the large chair, a book in her hand like a shield.The heaviness in them isn’t purely from lack of sleep.I’m not sure how many glasses of whisky I drank last night, but however many it was, it wastoomany—my mouth had no restraint, unburdening my soul to the woman I’ve sworn to protect.
The whisky wasn’t just to blame.I’d have done anything,saidanything to rid myself of the image of her standing under the camera, fingers shoved into the sides of her mouth, pulling at her cheeks as if she were trying to stretch her face beyond all recognition.Then to have charged up the stairs to find her sleeping in her bed with no signs of the hideous show was enough for any man to question his sanity and push him to drink.
It’s no wonder I ended up unloading my past on her and confessing my sins.When I returned to the surveillance room, I wondered if I’d done the wrong thing, shared too much, but I felt lighter somehow.I’ve spent too many years keeping everything to myself—never opening up to anyone.It’s only fair for her to know what kind of man she’s locked herself away with now that Willa is gone.She needed to know who I am and what I’m capable of.
I didn’t expect her to run from me.I’ve known her long enough to see that she doesn’t frighten easily, but she needed to know I’m no hero.I’m not her saviour, and I never will be.Only she can take up that role.
This morning, when she arrived in the kitchen, she looked at me differently.She sees the real me, and I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.I guess only time will tell.
After sending Markus an update from Willa’s work phone, we grabbed some lunch and headed here to the library, Hayami insisting I get some shuteye.
“I’m fine,” I tell her as she curls her legs under her body, adjusting herself in the oversized chair.
“You haven’t slept at all.Just get an hour or so.I’ll be fine in here.How can anyone not be safe surrounded by books?”She eyes the shelves as if they’re a fortress.
“Fine, but I’m not leaving this room,” I say, last night’s vision still playing in my mind.Lowering myself into the chair opposite her, I cross my arms and close my eyes.
“You look about as comfortable as a gay man on a date with a woman.”Hayami’s voice lands in my lap as I open my eyes.
“I’ve told you, I don’t need sleep, just rest.”
She tuts, picks up her book, and brings it up to cover her face.
I close my eyes, rest my head back, and relive the moment in the garage when she’d had the gun in her hand and my arms around her.I thought I’d felt something—a heat, a reaction, a fluttering of her body—but I’m sure it’s just wishful thinking on my part.Instead, I try to shake it off and recall all the things I was taught in the army when I first held a gun.
Miraculously, I doze lightly.I drift in and out of a restless sort of sleep, the kind where you feel like hours have gone by when in fact it’s been mere minutes, before my eyes open.My brain refuses to shut down, and my legs feel like they’re going to seize up.
I stretch, levering myself out of the chair and perusing the bookcases.Hayami’s too engrossed in her book to even notice.
Various titles adorn the shelves.Nothing grabs me.Nothing screams out to be read.I’m about to give up on her suggestion that I find something to read when a spine catches my eye.
It’s dark blue, with a soft texture, but the thing that stands out is there’s no title.
I pull the book from the shelf and turn it over to reveal a blank front cover.One word’s embossed upon it in silver font.
Journal.
Flipping through the pages, I note the journal has been written in.The first half is filled by simple penmanship that looks almost childlike in its heavy print.The words feel almost like Braille with the pressure that must have been applied whilst they’d been written by a heavy hand and a basic ballpoint pen.
Returning to the front, I open it to the first page and read:
Journal of Junko Devall, Winter 2003 — Belial House
