Night Fury: First Act
Read Night Fury: First Act Online
Authors: Belle Aurora
Tags: #Assassins, #willing captive, #hitman romance, #belle aurora raw, #Friend-Zoned, #night fury, #Belle Aurora
Night Fury
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C
hildhood memories.
What purpose do they serve?
To oblige a comfort for the weak of mind? Perhaps a reminder of better times? To assist as hope on dark days?
Memories are subjective and one-sided.
They are a double-entendre.
My childhood memories are not like others.
I don’t remember my mother...or my father, for that matter.
My first solid memory comes from when I was five years old.
It is frequent.
It is repetitive.
It is a lesson. One I have not forgotten.
This memory serves me well.
I’m awoken with a start. Panting, sweating and angry. A growl sounds from deep in my throat; it hurts, but the pain is comforting.
I can’t remember the dream.
I hear her voice—my mother—but her face is dim. This makes me angry. Furious. My growl turns guttural; my face beads with sweat. I shake with rage.
They taunt me—the dreams.
I hold my balled fists by my temple. I don’t need anyone to tell me my knuckles are white. I fist them so tightly; they’re numb.
She’s in there; I know she is.
Why can’t I remember her?
The nuns tell me it’s not possible for me to have these memories, and they are merely nightmares. My mind is playing tricks.
Sister Francis opens the door to my bedroom. It’s always her. She is the only one with the patience to deal with me. Everyone else has given up.
I like Sister Francis.
Continuously growling until my throat burns, I avoid her worried gaze. She coos at me from across the room, arms open, but something stops her from providing the comfort I so desperately need.
My growling stops. Instead, I listen.
Father Robert holds Sister Francis back. They argue quietly. I’m not sure what is happening, but Sister Francis...her face crumples. She places her hands up in prayer, her face pleading as she begs. He shakes his head, his expression firm.
She dips her chin, covers her mouth and sobs. Father Robert’s expression remains unchanged. For a second, he looks almost apologetic. As he moves to enter my bedroom, she cries out, muttering and mumbling, trying in vain to hold him back.
My heart stutters even now, in the present.
His face.
The anger.
Oh, the rage.
When he pushes her back harshly, she stumbles.
My body turns cold. Pressure builds in my ears.
I don’t like that. I want to scratch his eyes out.
I don’t even realise I sit here, statue-like, watching.
Without checking on her, Father Robert enters my room, and Sister Francis calls out over and over, “I’m sorry, little one. I’m sorry.”
For the first time in my life, I’m no longer angry.
Fear courses through my veins, pulsing through my temples with every beat of my racing heart.
He locks the door behind him.
“It is time you are taught, Catarina.” He pauses mid-step and stands in the middle of my bedroom. “You were sent to us, a gift from God himself. You will aid us in our cause.”
I don’t understand what he’s saying. My mind is too young to comprehend what it is he is telling me.
Pulling his shirt out of his pants, he walks towards me.
“It is time you are taught.”
My lesson that day was simple.
I am a gift and this is God’s will.
I take a moment to look around my room from my place on my cot.
Bare. My room is bare—just the way I like it to be. I have no need for material things. Material possessions mean nothing to a person like me. They are wasted on the humble-minded.
I slide off my cot and kneel by my bedside. My eyes flutter closed. I grip the rosary beads, place my hands together, and begin my silent chant of morning prayers.
Father Robert did as he said that day.
He taught me. Taught me things a child should not be taught.
But I’m different.
Don’t feel bad for me. God’s will must never be questioned. This is my lot in life.
I will tell you one thing, so listen carefully and heed my warning:
Things are not always as they seem.
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“D
ammit, Catarina,” he pants.
I puff out my own unsteady breaths. Sweat trails down my temples. Exertion does that to a person.
His hold on me is too hard to get out of. He grits his teeth and snarls, “Fight me.”
He likes when I fight him. It makes him happy.
So I do.
I do whatever Father Robert tells me to. He calls me his good girl, even though I’m anything but good. I’m constantly reminded of this fact.
I struggle in his hold and puff out, “I’m trying.”
He pulls me further into his body. “There is no
try;
there is only
do
.”
Dear Lord, please give me the strength I need to fight.
I need to fight. He’ll be so disappointed if I don’t.
His heavy breathing turns harsh. He’s angry at me, at my lack of trying. One arm clamps around my middle, the other around my neck.
I am not to submit. Not ever.
He pulls his forearm tightly around my neck and I begin to wheeze. The pressure on my throat becomes unbearable. Father Robert does this purposely. I have issues with people touching my neck. He knows this. I know what he’s doing: he’s forcing me to fight.
His coaxing works.
My anger builds, a slow burn in my stomach, searing my insides, turning me into exactly what he wants me to be.
A growl starts low in my throat.
Father Robert’s cruel laughter follows, “That’s it, Cat. Get angry.” I bring my knee up, and then slam my heel down onto his foot as hard as I can. He snarls, “Fuck.” His arms loosen a moment before he quickly recovers, “Good.”
Rage sizzles in my veins. I don’t want to hurt him. I want to kill him.
Baring my teeth, I snarl right back. My elbow connects with his ribs. He makes no move to show its hurt him, apart from the breath that escapes him in a whoosh. My rage continues to build quickly, boiling into fury. Body thrashing, head whipping from side to side, I let out an animalistic roar.
And he laughs.
He laughs at me.
I become frenzied. My anger so potent, my body shakes. I suddenly want to cry. I feel helpless, like a tornado being contained in a small box.
Gripping my hair, I yelp as he pulls on my ponytail hard. His lips hit the shell of my ear. “Use what you have.”
My mind clears a second before I open my mouth and bite the arm at my neck, sinking my teeth in hard enough to break skin.
Father Robert bellows as loud as he can. I can taste his blood in my mouth, and rather than feeling ill, it fuels me like gasoline thrown onto a fire. Pleasure courses through my pulsing veins.
Not laughing anymore, are you, Father?
I smirk and lick my lips, savouring the metallic taste of small victories.
Considering Father Robert is close to 6’3, and is approximately two-hundred-and-thirty pounds of muscle, and I am only 5’6 and weigh one-hundred-and-forty pounds, perhaps this victory isn’t so small.
My adrenaline begins to fade, and with it, my anger. My body becomes weak and slumps. Father Robert feels this. I am of no use to him now. He releases me, puts a hand to my head and pushes me away playfully.
I fall onto the padded mat, huffing and puffing. Sweat drips onto the floor beneath me. Squinting, I look up at his stern face.
His once-black hair now salt-and-pepper is neatly cut. His broad chest and shoulders are heaving with every breath. Black sweat pants cover his long, thick legs, and he is barefooted. His dark brown eyes bore into mine. If he wasn’t a priest, Father Robert would be considered rather dashing.
Not that he isn’t. I’ve seen the way women look at him. Of course, I don’t see him this way. The man is the closest thing I have to an actual father.
He crosses his arms over his chest and scolds, “Catarina, what the heck was that?”
A pang of sadness pierces my chest and I lower my head.
He sighs. “You need to do better. Today’s session was atrocious. Disgusting.”
My breathing still heavy, I stand on weak legs and move to stand in front of him. “I’m sorry, Bob. I had an off-morning.”
Large hands fall on my shoulders. He bends at the waist to look me in the eye. “Get your head in the game, Fury.”
I nod.
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
I nod once more. He’s right, after all.
His voice turns harsh as he says, “If you get yourself killed, I’ll find a way to resurrect you just so I can kill you myself.”
I can’t hold back my grin no matter how hard I try. “We don’t believe in resurrection, Father Robert.”
He rolls his eyes and says, “Har-di-har-har.”
He wraps an arm around my shoulders and walks me back to my quarters. “No session tonight; your mind is preoccupied. Sleep it off and we’ll start fresh tomorrow.” Disappointment laces his voice, and I can’t help the feeling of frustration settling over me.
Sort your shit out, girl.
I whisper, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
When we reach the door to my room, he faces me, leans down and kisses my forehead. “I know you will.” His fatherly smile warms me. I smile back, albeit weakly. “May the lord be with you, Catarina.”
“And also with you, Father.”
He hesitates a moment, indecision crossing his features. Finally, he takes my hand in his and says a hushed, “I let you go unprepared last time. We all nearly paid for your...I mean
my
mistake. It won’t happen again, child. I promise.”
My cheeks flush. The heat radiates off me in dull waves.
He had to bring it up, didn’t he?
It’s not like I don’t think about that night every single day. It’s not like I haven’t lost sleep over it every night since.
He smiles apologetically, and then leaves me to reflect.
And reflect I do.
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M
emories of that night haunt me.
Father Robert always takes the blame, but the truth is—it was my fault.
I know it.
Everyone knows it.
It will forever be a thorn in my side. There is nothing I can do about that though, only live in the now.
I dress myself in a plain white, long-sleeved shirt buttoned completely, a navy plaid skirt that comes well below my knees, navy tights and black ballet flats. I attach my short navy-coloured veil to my head with hairpins, close my eyes, say a small prayer and then exit my room.
Most often, a postulant will not wear a veil, as it isn’t required, but if they choose to—as I have—the veil will be shorter than a nun’s and darker in colour.
Holding my hands together in front of me, I walk silently towards the kitchen, where I can already hear the sweet laughter of Sister Francis. I smile and enter. Sister Francis, elbow-deep in bread dough, lifts her head and beams at me. “Well, if it isn’t my little kitty Cat.” She winks and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Sister Francis—affectionately known to me as Frankie—is like a sister to me. She is sweet, kind and funny—everything I could ever want in a sister had I been able to choose for myself. She is ten years my senior and beautiful, with a natural kind of beauty. Her copper-coloured hair is long and wavy, her eyes are the bluest of blues and her skin is pale alabaster. The thing that makes her the prettiest though is her smile.
When Frankie smiles, everyone smiles. Her smile is a celebration that calls other smiles to it.
“Good morning, Frankie.”
I ignore the huff that comes out of Sister Arianne and quickly greet her too. “Good morning, Sister.”
A few years older than Frankie, Sister Arianne is rake-thin, blonde and green-eyed; she is also very proper, well mannered and mildly stern. Her French accent is awesome. She can turn any insult into something suave and chic. “Good morning,
petit amie
. I will ask you save such familiarity ‘til after church hours, no?” Her glare cuts through me like a hot knife through butter.
Feeling chastised, I respond quietly, “Of course, Sister.” Turning to Frankie, I mutter, “Sorry, Sister Francis.” I turn back to Sister Arianne. “It won’t happen again.”
Frankie’s having none of it. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ari, no one’s around! We know the drill, all right?”
Sister Arianne smiles at me. “I know, but Cat is a good girl.” She turns to glare at Frankie. “She listens to me, unlike some. Besides, any bad behaviour reflects badly on Father Robert. Understand?”