Page 43 of Reckoning

Yes, this will send a message alright. This will ensure those fuckers understand exactly who they are now dealing with.

As we drive away, we don’t speak. We don’t exchange a word. My head is spinning, my hands are bloody. I need to get back, to get clean, and then more than anything, I need to see her.

* * *

I knowI don’t have to hide, that I can walk right past the damned gates and up to her front door but I doubt that’ll reassure her if she checks the security footage.

No, I don’t want her to know I’m here. I want her to believe this house is safe, secure, that it’s her sanctuary.

And besides, walking up to the front door takes all the fun out of it.

So instead I quietly unlock the latch to the downstairs toilet window. My men passed me a key so it’s not like I’m actually breaking in.

And it’s not like this is my first time inside. I’ve been here, every night this week, I’ve snuck in, watched her, unable to stay away.

Back at the hotel I couldn’t even get close but now that she’s moved it’s an entirely different story. I guess I should thank her for that. God, I’m itching to give her a reward - but I won’t. Not yet.

I step inside, careful not to knock over the soap dish. The window is so small and I’m not exactly pocket-sized so it takes some effort not to rip out half the wall.

It’s quiet. Eerily so.

I oiled the hinges a few days ago so the door doesn’t creek when I open it.

Moonlight pours in, illuminating the stark almost minimalist space.

I creep up through the house, up the stairs, walking from room to room, studying her space, soaking it all in. I don’t need to rush now. I don’t need to hurry. I’ve learnt that despite her trauma, Sofia is a damned heavy sleeper, it just takes her a while to actually fall asleep.

When I get to her bedroom, the bed is empty – not that I expected otherwise. She doesn’t seem to sleep in it. She sleeps on the floor, curled up, like it’s some sort of den. I can’t say I understand the reasons behind it but right now it doesn’t overly matter.

Her eyes are shut, she’s curled up, looking so damn perfect.

And then she moans. A soft, quiet moan that practically forces me to step closer.

She curls her fists, her expression going from peaceful to anything but. She mutters something under her breath and she starts fighting, kicking, jerking, like her life depends upon it.

I know I shouldn’t do it, I know it’d be far safer to just walk away, but I can’t .

I bend down, scooping her up, holding her in my arms. The last time I carried her like this she was practically naked, beaten, completely and utterly petrified. And yet she’d clung to me then. She’d stared up at my face, with those beautiful dark eyes, pleading me for mercy as if I were the sort of man who knew of such a thing.

“Sofia,”

She doesn’t wake. Thank god, she doesn’t wake.

I lay her down on the bed and I watch her again, watch as her breathing seems to ease. As the horrific things she’s dreaming of seem to fade.

She’s wearing pyjamas but they don’t exactly cover. They’re certainly not going to keep the chill away.

I go to grab the covers and she moans again making me turn back.

I shouldn’t do it.

I know I shouldn’t.

And in my head I’m telling myself that this is to soothe her, to comfort her, that right now it’s her needs I’m putting first. But a part of me knows that’s a lie. A part of me knows that this has nothing to do with her and everything to do with me.

I’ve watched her for well over a year. I’ve stayed away, or as away as I can. Her brother has been more than clear that she is off limits but here, right now, she is mine.

So I creep back into the bed, pulling her into my arms. Her mouth opens slightly but still she doesn’t wake.