Home > Beautifully Cruel(10)

Beautifully Cruel(10)
Author: J.T. Geissinger

 

6

 

 

Tru

 

 

I dream I’m running through a dense forest at night. Moonlight streams down through the boughs of tall trees, dappling the forest floor ghostly white between patches of dark undergrowth. Massive roots twist through piles of fallen leaves that I kick up as I run, my hair flying out behind me, my heart pumping hard in my chest.

Howls come from all around, rising up to the canopy in eerie echoes through the cold evening air.

All is silent except the howls, the sound of my labored breath, the thud of my feet pounding against the earth, and the dry crunch of dead leaves. I’m naked but unashamed, my body more comfortable than if constrained by clothing, my mind as free as the wind.

I’m trying to catch up with the big, dark animal loping through the trees far ahead of me.

It turns its head, looking back with eyes that flash quicksilver through the shadows. It bares sharp white teeth in a wolfish grin, then lowers its big muzzle near to the ground and lunges forward, sprinting away, leaving me calling out in frustration as it disappears into the darkness.

I awaken with a gasp and jerk up in bed, wincing at the pain that shoots through my body from the movement.

“Bad dreams?”

Liam sits calmly in the chair beside my bed with a book in his hands, one leg crossed over the other, so handsome he can’t be real.

I swallow, wanting my heart to stop being a jackhammer. “No. In fact, I was dreaming of you.”

He gazes at me steadily. Very softly, he says, “A nightmare, then.”

It’s evening now: beyond the window, all the world is dark. The lights in the room have been dimmed, too, and the noisy buzz of the daytime hospital has turned to a hush.

Either Liam left while I was asleep or someone brought him new clothing, because the telltale red dot on his shirt collar is gone.

“Do you always wear a suit and tie?”

His lips quirk. I think he enjoys my random changes in conversation. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“I’m only asking because your crime fighting would probably be a lot more comfortable if you invested in a pair of sweats.”

He snaps shut the book and gives me a stern look. “Do I seem like the sort of man who would wear sweats?”

The answer is so obvious, I don’t even bother with it. “But what about the tie? Doesn’t that get annoying?”

“No.”

“What about at home? You can’t sleep in that suit. What do you wear to bed?”

Holding my gaze, he says, “Nothing.”

Holy shit. Inside my body, muscles I didn’t even realize I own have clenched.

He sets the book on the nightstand and folds his hands in his lap, resigned to the fact that I’m going to start grilling him about his wardrobe. But I don’t want to be predictable, so I change the subject instead.

“What were you reading?”

“Proust.”

I think for a minute. “I know that’s a person, but that’s about it.”

He silently hands me the book. The cover is worn. Inside, the pages are yellowed, and many of them are dog-eared. I lift it to my nose and sniff, flipping through the pages to get that good book smell. Then I turn to the front and look at the title page.

It’s in French.

“It’s called In Search of Lost Time,” says Liam.

“What’s it about?”

His pause is reflective. “Life. Death. Love.”

“Hmm. So nothing too deep.”

He presses his lips together. I get the distinct impression he’s trying not to laugh.

“That’s the fourth volume of seven.”

“Seven?” I stare at the book with new respect. “That’s a bit intimidating.”

“It’s only six in the English translation, if that makes you feel better.”

I scoff. “Oh, much. I’m going to run right out and buy them as soon as I get out of this backless gown.” I set the book onto the nightstand, then look at him again. “Speaking of which, I want to go home now.”

His face darkens, losing all the amusement of moments before.

“Hospitals remind me of suffering,” I say softly.

When his eyes sharpen, I look away, swallowing. “Long story. Anyway. I want to go home.”

Silence takes the room. I feel him looking at me, feel his keen inspection of my face, but I don’t give him my eyes because I know how clearly he sees things.

He says suddenly, “When I take you home, that will be the end of it. Understood?”

By “it” he means “us.” Not that there is an us, but he’s obviously determined it’s not even an option.

I don’t want to feel hurt by that, but I do. I don’t want to be so intrigued by this dangerous stranger, but I am. I know in my heart there isn’t a future with him, that I’m better off staying far, far away…but he’s a puzzle I’ve been trying to solve for so long, it’s disappointing to walk away when the pieces are finally starting to come together.

“Tru. Look at me.”

Instead of obeying him, I look down at my hands, almost as pale as the scratchy cotton sheets they’re resting on.

I need a manicure. What a strange thing to notice at a time like this.

“Tru.”

“I heard you. You don’t want to see me again.”

“That’s not what I said. Look at me.”

His voice is too seductive to ignore for long. When I glance at him, he’s sitting forward in the chair with his forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped, staring at me with that blistering intensity of his.

“I wouldn’t be good for you,” he says, his tone soft. “I don’t lead a normal life.”

He means he’s not domesticated, as if it isn’t obvious. He only wears those beautiful suits to distract people from the vicious fangs and claws.

I say crossly, “I’m aware. Did you think I missed the part where you smashed two guy’s faces in and snapped another one’s neck like a twig?”

A muscle flexes in his jaw. “So we’re in agreement.”

Parroting him so he’ll discover just how irritating it is, I say, “That’s not what I said.” When he narrows his eyes, I feel vindicated. “But while we’re on the subject…” I lower my voice. “Did you…are all three of those guys…you know.”

His answer is matter-of-fact. “Aye.”

I try to work up an appropriate emotional response to his casual admission that he killed three men right in front of me, the logical horror or shock that should be forthcoming, but all I produce is curiosity, which even in my injured state I know is all wrong.

“With your hands.”

He does his impression of a sphinx and stares at me, his gaze turning from blistering to coolly impenetrable. The man has perfected being enigmatic to an art.

Hoping he’ll give me some clue as to how he came to be proficient in the ass-beating, neck-snapping, and life-ending sciences, I prompt, “I mean, you didn’t even need to use a gun.”

“I hate guns,” he says instantly, his voice hard. “And stop sounding so impressed.”

“Sorry, but I am. I can’t even twist the top off a pickle jar without help.”

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