Night Fury: First Act (6 page)

He cups me, rubbing softly, slowly, as if he savours the feel of me. Pleasure floods my hot, needy body.

His mouth releases my nipple with a pop as he grunts, “You’re soaked.”

Wasting no time, he tears my panties down my legs. He quickly kicks his jeans off, his boxers following. “You want this sweet?”

My eyes snap open, and I look up to meet his heated stare. “Fuck, no.”

The smile that appears on his face is glorious. Beauty defined.

“Get on your hands and knees. Face the end of the bed.”

Breathing shakily, I quickly turn over onto my hands and knees. I crawl to face the foot of the bed. And my heart skips a beat.

I can see myself. I can see a very naked, very built, very
aroused
Marco.

A wall-length mirror faces us. My war-painted face and stunned gaze meets Marco’s in the mirror.

We look feral. We look like a pair of animals. Barely human.

He smirks.

I bite my lip to contain my whimper. My head spins. The room goes fuzzy. A sudden flashback of Ari confronting Marcel greets me. My chest seizes.

Marco positions himself behind me. Reaching down, his fingers lightly graze my slit.

My vision swirls. Another flashback. Marcel on his knees praying for mercy.

The reflection in the mirror shows Marco fisting himself. The tip of his cock kisses my entrance. He runs himself up and down slowly, coating himself in my arousal.

Pleasure assaults me.

My heart stops.

Pressure builds in my ears as a final flashback appears right before my eyes. Marcel’s shuddering body being held up by the neck. Koneko piercing his throat.

Without warning, Marco thrusts into me harshly. As my maidenhead tears, I lift my head to the ceiling and let out a miserable cry, pain throbbing violently between my legs.

Marco stills.

Panting, I lower my head and open my eyes to look beneath my body where we are joined.

Gently pulling out of me, he reaches down to gently stroke my sore pussy. For a moment, my mind plays tricks on me when I look up to the mirror. Marco’s face is replaced with Marcel’s.

With Marcel’s face on Marco’s body, Marco’s voice fills the room. “You let me mark you. It’s my turn to be marked.”

Reaching up, he smears my virginity onto Marcel’s face, covering both cheeks.

My heart races, so much that I feel like I’m about to pass out. My body trembles. I begin to sweat.

I’m frightened.

Marco’s hand is lifted to Marcel’s lips, where Marcel pokes out his tongue and tastes me.

That’s about the time I wake up.

––––––––

I
wake with a gasp, mind scrambled and chest heaving in my cot. Eyes wide, I sit up and shake my head¸ trying in vain to clear it. What the fuck was that dream?

Dream? More like nightmare.

Clutching the covers to my chest, I sit trembling, waiting for myself to calm down. I run a hand down my damp face and shake my head once more.

Really. What in the ever-loving fuck was that dream?

***

T
he garden called my name from the moment I woke a second time this morning. After last night’s psycho dream, I tossed and turned until my mind was sick of fighting my weary body and I fell back asleep. It was a fretful sleep, but it was still sleep.

Regardless, today I feel as though a bus ran me over. Then stopped and reversed.

The second time I woke, it was well past ten a.m. Too late for me to do kitchen duties, too late for me to take on any of the day’s rostered duties, but the garden needed tending. The garden
always
needs tending. And that’s why I love the garden.

It needs me as much as I need it. I provide it love and care, and it provides me a place to get away.

Having picked all the ripe rewards from the bountiful vegetable patch, I decide it’s time to weed. One of my most hated garden jobs. Alas, it needs to be done, and if anyone else comes close to my garden, I start to hyperventilate.

Bob caught me on the way out this morning. He was sipping coffee in the kitchen when I came bounding in searching for bread to nibble on before I started my day. As soon as he saw me, a look of pride covered his features.

I’ll admit it—it was nice. It felt good.

I lost that look for two whole years, and I’ll be damned if it’s taken away from me again.

Smiling, I cut a piece of bread and half-filled a mug of coffee. Bob watched as I added three sugars and vanilla creamer to it. He winced, although smiling, and asked, “How you doing this morning, Cat?”

I knew he has referring to the night before and what I’d done, but truthfully, I hadn’t thought about it until that very moment, having been distracted by my fitful night’s sleep.

Wow. Are you so cold that you don’t even take a second to think about committing murder?

I lifted my head in thought, and mentally responded to myself with,
Call me an ice queen, brain, ‘cause my care factor is zero.

And that was the absolute truth.

Marcel was a bad man doing horrifying things. If I hadn’t stopped him, who would? With a wife too scared to speak out, and a son who had been threatened with death on multiple occasions, chances were, Marcel would’ve been active in his crimes for years to come. The likely people who would’ve stopped him eventually would’ve been his wife or son, and quite frankly, I’m glad it was me, rather than one of them. I prefer to take this responsibility than have either of them pay for vengeance on a man who had it coming.

Chances are being responsible for his death may have haunted them. And I couldn’t care less about Marcel Dupont.

The only time he’ll be missed is when he isn’t there to help Father Robert with Sunday Mass by handing out Holy Communion and collecting donations to the church.

Marcel Dupont: parishioner by day, demon by night.

Trudging out of my heavy thoughts, I answered Bob truthfully with a small shrug, “I’m fine.”

His eyes trained on my face a long time, searching for deceit before he smiled again. “Good girl. Proud of you, Cat.”

On his way out of the kitchen, he hooked his hand behind my neck and pulled me forward to plant a fatherly kiss on my forehead.

The loud rumbling of an engine pulls me from my thoughts. Standing, I remove my gardening gloves and place a hand above my eyes to block out the midday sun. My brow furrows as I realise the thundering noise is coming from the barn.

Surely, there isn’t a job during the day. We never do jobs in daylight.

The large barn doors open, and out speeds a sleek, black, sporty motorbike. Even though I can’t see the driver’s face due to it being covered by a helmet, I don’t have to guess to know it’s Marco.

That body was in my dreams last night. It’s hard to forget. I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.

My eye roll is subtle.

Of course, he has a motorbike.

The bike speeds up, and I expect it to careen past me, but instead, it slows.

Marco slows to a stop a few feet away from me, letting the engine of the bike idle. He slides the front of the helmet up, allowing me the view of his handsome face, and says loudly in way of greeting, “Pussy cat.”

My feet shuffle forward a step. “Afternoon, Marco.” My curiosity gets the best of me. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

His face bunches and his hand flies to his ear, letting me know he can’t hear me. I step forward, closer to him. Almost foot-to-bike, I ask again, “Where are you headed?”

Marco smirks. “I could hear you fine before, just wanted to ask if you wanted to head into town without yelling at you.”

Head into town?

With him?

I’m confused.

“Head into town...with you?” His expression doesn’t change at all, so I add, “On your bike?”

It’s then that he grins, and I have confirmation to my questions.

I quickly utter, “I’d better not.”

A flashback of last night’s dream assaults me hard and fast.

“Get on your hands and knees. Face the end of the bed.”

I fight a gasp as my cheeks flame. My shaking hand flies to my now-heaving chest.

Marco—still seated on his bike—leans closer to me. “That wasn’t a no.”

My feet step away from him in silent answer.

You killed a guy last night, but you’re scared of a man you work with because you had a hot dream about him? A dream he doesn’t even know about?

For once, my brain makes a good point. Standing taller, I step towards the bike again and announce, “Actually, I’d like to go to the library, if it’s not out of your way.”

Marco makes a stern thinking face before breaking out into a beaming smile. “Tell you what—I’ll drop you off at the library, do what I need to do, then I’ll come meet you there and we’ll get something to eat.”

“Okay. Sure.”

He stands from his still-idling bike, lifts the seat, and hands me the spare helmet. Robotically, I place the helmet on my head and climb on behind him, wrapping my arms around him. We speed away, and a final thought chills me to the bone.

Bob is going to kill me.

***

N
ever having ridden on a motorbike before, I silently curse myself for not wearing something warmer. Even though today is a nice day, I’m still freezing my butt off as Marco speeds along the dirt road to get to town.

Doing my best not to think about my arms wrapped around his taut stomach, I almost shriek in surprise when I hear a voice sound in my helmet, “Thanks for coming with me. I need an alibi for today.”

Oh, so that’s why he asked me to come with him.

Urging down the disappointment clenching my heart, I answer cheerfully, “No problem. I love the library.”

We spend the rest of the ride in a comfortable silence, and without thinking, I close my eyes and lean my helmet-covered forehead against his back. I haven’t noticed I’ve fallen asleep until Marco gently runs his thumb over the hand that grips his stomach. “Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty.”

My body—not quite wanting to separate from my portable hot water bottle—squeezes his waist tighter as I snuggle deeper into his back.

My senses finally come to me as Marco’s rough chuckle rumbles in my ear. His chuckle stops suddenly, and his body stiffens. As I begin to unwrap myself from him, he grips my hand tight. “Shit. I’m sorry, Cat. You had a rough night. I should take you back. You need rest.”

I respond a little too quickly. “No!” Realising a second too late my shout probably burst his eardrum, I ignore his subtle flinch and utter quietly, “No need for that, really. I’m fine.”

He counters with, “You can barely keep your eyes open.”

I fire back, “That’s just because you’re so big and warm.”

His body shakes in silent laughter. As soon as it dawns on me what I said, I quickly step off his bike, remove the helmet and hand it to him. Averting my eyes, I mutter, “I might’ve drooled in your helmet. Sorry.”

Without looking back, I turn and head for the entrance to the library.

I hear Marco shout, “I’ll be about an hour.”

With my back to him, I lift my hand in a wordless wave to confirm I heard him. The bike’s engine rumbles away, and rolling my eyes at my behaviour, I make my way inside.

––––––––

“A
h,
bonjour
, Catarina!” Ms Fontaine, the old librarian, happily but quietly greets me.
“Comment allez-vous?”

My rehearsed response comes out smoother than expected. With a small smile, I quietly reply, “
Très bien, merci.
”

Her subtle wrinkles crease further at the corners of her eyes as she smiles at me. “You haven’t been here in a while. I was wondering if I’d ever see you again,” she sniffs.

Oh, Ms Fontaine. So adorably dramatic. Making my way closer to the counter, I feign outrage. “And never see you or my beloved books again?” I lift my nose. “I’d rather fall into a sleep like death.”

She chuckles. “Sleeping Beauty. Charles Perrault. Very clever.” Her calm stance stiffens slightly as a mask cloaks her expression. She leans forward and whispers, “He’s here today.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand. “On his own?”

Ms Fontaine nods solemnly.

“How did he get here?”

Her small shrug tells me that her guess is as good as mine.

My anger simmers. This is unacceptable. With a curt nod, I leave Ms Fontaine to find him. I know where he is. He always sits in the same spot. He likes the view. He hasn’t told me that, but I just know it. It’s the same reason I sit there.

My feet move of their own accord, and once I spot him, a small smile graces my lips. I shake my head and bite my bottom lip to stop myself from laughing.

Oh, dear.

If anyone else attempted to do such a thing in a library, they would be asked to leave. But not Tomas.

Never Tomas.

I knock on the side of a chair, or as Tomas sees it, the door to his fort. My head peeks in, under the mountain of pillows he has taken from the children’s corner to build his cocoon of safety. “May I come in, Tomas?”

My response is revealed when his body stops rocking violently, only a moment before his rocking continues, a little softer than before. My knees hit the worn carpet, and I crawl in beside him.

Smiling, I watch him a moment. Sitting cross-legged, he continues to rock back and forth as his eyes scan the pages of the astrology book on the floor faster than lightening. His contorted left hand held mid-air next to his head, the other hand is held rigid over the page of the book. With a pointed finger that looks so stiff it hurts, he turns the pages as quickly as he reads them.

I’m not sure what makes Tomas this way. I only know I see something in him that many others can’t.

His shaggy brown hair falls past his brow, which is now furrowed in thought. His left hand flicks the locks away, but they fall back exactly as they were.

I’ve been trying to gather information on Tomas for an entire year. I’ve had to do this discreetly. I mentioned Tomas to Bob one day, asking if there was anything we could do to help him. Bob, face full of compassion, ordered me to ‘Leave it alone’.