Predator - A Stand Alone Suspense Romance (4 page)

Damian~

I watch as she slowly comes to. I’ve done this so many times, it should be second nature by now – but it never gets easier.

Most of the people I’m sent to extract from shit holes, like the one I found Cara in, lose their shit instantly. They cry, they rage, they puke. Fuck, they puke a lot, but you can’t blame them. It’s their body’s way of dealing with the shock.

I usually only stay with them for a day, before I hand them over to the person who sent me in to get them. But not this one – I have to keep her for a while, make sure she’s safe. Her uncle sent me and I’ll have to twist the truth a little so she never finds out why.

I have to teach her how to be a ghost so she won’t get caught again. That should be the hardest part if everything goes according to plan.

Her eyes flutter open and they look foggy with confusion. She has ginger hair that’s dirty and all over the place. Her eyes are green and the red of her hair only makes the color stand out more. But it’s that face that makes her easy to spot. I can see she’s a real beauty, even under all the bruising. She has a fragile kind of beauty, the kind that wants to make you protect her, but still they beat the shit out of her.

It’s easy for me to kill, I just point and shoot. It’s either them or me, but I’d never be able to hit a woman, especially one who looks like Cara. I feel a wave of satisfaction, almost like I’m on a high for killing those fuckers.

I used to get the high every time I saved someone, with every bullet I fired, and with every dead body that dropped to the ground. But after doing this for years the high went away and a coldness took over. It became a clinical thing to do. Go in and get the target … and leave no witnesses alive.

Sometimes, I have to call on Jeff to help. He’s old and looks harmless, but that man can still hold his own in a fight since he’s been retired from the FBI. He loves to get his hands dirty, to dig his way right into the heart of the hell hole. He checks things out; like how many men, the layout, how hard it will be to extract the target. When he has all the info, he gets it to me and then I go in for the kill.

I only trust Jeff because he was the one who gave me my first job. We’ve been working together for twelve years. Fuck, it feels like a life time.

She clears her throat, grabbing my attention. They did a real number on her. Her face is busted, swollen jaw, black eyes. I cringe when I see the burn on her cheek. That bullet was way too close. I take solace in the fact that she’s alive, and that the fucker who was coming up behind her is dead. The burn will heal.

“You’re awake. Good,” I say. I keep my voice neutral as always. I can’t give the target a sliver of emotion to latch onto. It’s one thing if I only have them for a day, then I usually prepare them for when whoever hired me comes to claim them. But if they have to stay with me for longer than a day, which is rare, I keep things neutral. It’s easier for everyone if there are no emotions involved.

Her eyes dart around the room. There’s nothing but two beds and a table. The motel looks like shit, but the worse it looks, the better for us. It’s easier to hide that way.

“You’re the man…” She clears her throat again. “You helped me?” She frowns and it looks like she’s in a world of pain. I don’t know the extent of her injuries yet. I wanted to let her rest, but now that she’s up, we’ll have to look at her wounds and get them cleaned properly. “Predator?

Oh yeah, the nickname I’ve been given. I don’t use my real name anymore. She’s going to be with me for a year and I can’t have her calling me Predator while she’s staying with me.

“Damian,” I say the name I’ve been using for the past few years. I watch a look of confusion flash over her bruised face. “My name is Damian Weston.” I watch her closely and then understanding crosses her features.

“Damian,” she whispers, testing the name on her dry and bruised lips.

“Great, you’re talking today. That’s very good.” I slap my hands on my thighs and then get up from the chair I’ve been occupying in the corner for the past fourteen hours. “It’s time to get you clean.”

I move into the bathroom to open the faucets. When I walk back into the room, she’s struggling to sit up. It’s important for her to do most of this herself, no matter how hard. I can’t have her becoming dependent on me.

Women especially are like wounded birds. You have to let them heal on their own, or they will never leave. They won’t be able to fend for themselves if you baby them. They tend see you as the hero in their nightmare, and then they want you to keep fixing them. Once you let that happen it’s over, emotions get involved, and hearts get broken.

She whimpers and slumps back to the bed, closing her eyes.

“No. No sleeping. You need to get cleaned up first,” I say with a little more force this time.

I grab the painkillers and a glass of water and walk over to her. “Lift your head, Cara,” I snap and her eyes fly open on my command. “You need to work with me here,” I demand.

She listens and lifts her head. I drop two tablets in her mouth and then move my hand behind her head to help her keep it up. No use if she chokes, then this will all be for nothing. I bring the glass to her lips and she takes a few sluggish sips.

“It’s going to hurt when you shower, but if you don’t, you’ll get an infection and we don’t need that kind of shit. You’ll feel better afterwards. I promise,” I say while placing the glass back on the table.

I throw the covers back. Her whole body tenses and the little color she has left drains from her face.

She’s so scared I can almost taste her fear.

I take hold of her arms and I pull her into a sitting position. “A little help, Cara.” I pull her to her feet and this time there’s more strength in her body. She sways on her feet and I quickly place an arm around her waist.

She tenses again and pulls away from me. “I can walk. I’m fine,” she slurs through the pain.

I nod and step back. No matter how much I want to help her, I can’t baby her. She’ll latch onto me. I’ve had that shit before and it’s hard to make them understand that I’m a killer, not husband material.

Cara~

There’s something about losing yourself, being hollowed out and stuffed full of pain. All I have on is his jacket. He didn’t do anything but put me in the bed. It must be because I smell like a sewer and I look like shit.

I’m tired, not just physically. I’m shattered to the bone. It feels like my soul weighs a ton, dragging me under the wave of emptiness that keeps crashing over me.

I press my hand to the wall and use it to keep my balance. When I reach the bathroom, steam is billowing from inside. I walk in and immediately go to the basin so I can use it to keep myself up. There is a little square mirror hanging above it, but it’s misted over.

“This is how it’s going to work. You’re going to shower quickly. Once you’re in clean clothes you will eat. I have to look at your wounds so they don’t get infected and then you can sleep. This is all you have to do today.”

I wonder if this man has any feelings. He sounds as dead as I feel.

“Who are you?” I ask, wanting at least one of my million questions answered.

“Tom Smith hired me. I clean up other people’s fuck-ups. You’re a mess. That’s all you are,” he says coldly.

Tears burn in my eyes. Uncle Tom didn’t leave me! He sent someone for me. I cover my mouth with a trembling hand to smother the sob. I swallow hard, forcing the tears back down.

“I have two rules,” Damian says and he takes a step closer to me. He might have saved me but I feel far from comfortable around him. “Do not look down. You can look anywhere in the bathroom but at the mirror or yourself, and no locking doors.” There’s a clear note of warning in his voice and I nod. I glance at the faded pattern on the tiles. They’re peach and brown. The brown makes my stomach churn.

My eyes jump to faded peach towels. There are bleach stains on them.

My eyes finally find their way to Damian’s, and I’m met with a harsh look. “You have ten minutes.”

I wait for him to leave and when he does, he leaves the door half open. I’m relieved. I think I might die if he closes that door. I couldn’t stand small spaces before I was taken. Now, they terrify me.

I can’t bring myself to move fast. As I shrug the jacket off, pain pierces through my left side, making it hard to breathe for a moment. I hold onto the wall and step into the shower. Grabbing hold of the little rail, I let the hot water spray over me. My lower back stings where Henry kicked the shit out of me.

I turn my face up to the water and let it wash over me for a while. My cheek, jaw and mouth start to throb with pain as life returns to the wounds, and then the pain spreads down my body, relentless and raw.

My movements are sluggish. I have no energy and my body aches. All my strength has been drained from me and replaced with this harrowing nightmare that fills every part of me with an aching darkness.

I reach for the soap. It’s hard and cracked and I have to work it a little under the water to get it foaming. I keep my eyes on a cracked tile. The one corner is chipped away.

I bite my tender bottom lip as I slip the bar of soap between my legs. It stings and aches so much that my legs start to quiver under my weight. No matter how many times I wash down there, it feels as if the cum is still sticking to me. A sob breaks through my feeble barrier, and I quickly cover my mouth with the back of my soap-covered hand. One tear slips from my right eye and disappears into the water. I gulp in deep breaths, fighting for control over the devastating feelings.

I wash my left arm next, making sure to cover every inch. Even though I want to scrub my skin off, my movements remain ginger. Every brush of the cloth over my skin hurts. The pain is a sickening reminder of what happened.

Once I’ve washed my whole body, I start the process again. Every bruise is pulsing with pain. Every wound is burning as if I’m on fire.

I use the cheap soap to wash my hair. Anything is better than nothing, right? I rinse the suds out and then squeeze the excess water out. I lean against the tiles, totally exhausted.

The water starts to run cold, and I turn it off. I reach for a towel and wrap it around my tender body. I step out of the shower and when I see Damian standing by the door, my heart leaps into a turbulent battle to not let the terror drag me under.

I freeze and clutch at the towel, not sure what to do.

He points to the counter. “Clothes. Get dressed and come eat.”

He leaves again and out of fear that he might come back, I move as fast as I can. I endure the pain as I drag fresh panties up my legs. I skip the bra and grab the cotton shirt. It’s a faded brown and old, but I shrug it on. It’s a few sizes too big. Next is the brown sweats and although I hate wearing sweats, I’m thankful that it’s comfy and soft, especially between my legs.

I leave the bathroom the same way I came in, using the wall to lean on.

Damian is sitting in the corner and his eyes flick up at me for a split second. “There is a burger and fries on the bed. Eat it so I can check your wounds. You need to sleep.”

I notice that he must have changed the bedding, because it’s neat and clean. I crawl onto the bed and all I want to do is sleep, but I take two bites of the burger just to please the man.

He doesn’t say anything when I place the leftovers on the floor next to the bed. I take that as a good sign. I lie down and turn my back to him. That way I can pretend I’m alone.