Crowed (Team Zero #2) by Rina Kent

I wouldn’t forget that face even if it meant my death.

That man, the one smiling down at Eloise, like he has a fucking heart, is one of the founders of The Pit. The man who injected us with Omega until most of Team Zero died.

Doctor fucking Johnson.

Now, I have his daughter under my mercy.





Eloise


A loud thud pulls me from sleep. Or a mimicking of sleep; the phase where my eyes are closed but I still sense and hear everything around me.

I sit up in bed and hug Charlotte’s chubby body to my chest. She whines but continues her slumber as if nothing has happened.

My attention drifts to the ceiling as if it can magically become see-through.

Whatever I did today was such a bad idea. Who the hell rents their house to their potential killer?

I don’t even know his name.

But Papa’s house is at stake. I can’t just let that man destroy it. Judging from how he escaped from the hospital while practically delirious with fever, I have no doubt that he’ll fulfil his threat.

I don’t want to find out.

Besides, what do I have to lose?

He already paid me. I can start clearing my debts. If he changes his mind and kills me, then so be it. It’s not like I have any reason to cling to life aside from Papa’s house.

No relatives I’m close to either.

Except for my dad — who could be well and truly dead by now. Not that I care. That bastard was never a father to me.

Oh, merde.

Dad!

All my father’s stuff is on the second floor. How could I forget about that?

I jump out of bed, Charlotte’s tiny body slips from my hands to the bed with a huff. I shove my feet into slippers and put on a robe while stumbling out of the room and up the stairs.

No one is supposed to know about my father, especially not a shady, nameless stranger.

Chest heaving, I stop in front of the second bedroom door and knock.

No answer.

I try again, louder.

More deafening silence greets me.

Strange. There was a thud a few minutes ago. Surely he’s inside.

With careful fingers, I push open the door. It gives a slight squeak in protest. When it’s ajar, the dark room comes into view.

I remain rooted at the threshold, trying to make out any shape. “Hello?”

No answer. Instead, a cool scent of leather drifts my way. What is he doing? Playing hide and seek or something?

I reach blindly to the wall on the right until I hit the light switch.

The room bathes in yellow light. A half-naked man comes into view. He’s huddled beside the bed. His large muscles on full display. More of those intricate bird tattoos swirl along his toned abdomen.

Lips pursed in a sign of pain, he clutches his head in both hands as if attempting to stop it from exploding. A painful-looking crease settles between his brows. Sweat beads on his forehead, dampening his blond strands and trickling on the side of his right cheek.

“What’s wrong?” I carefully advance towards him. One hesitant step after another. When he shows no response, I crouch by his side.

A low sound drifts from the back of his throat. Something between a whimper and a groan.

The sound lures me closer like a moth to fire. The pain and suffering written all over his face are disturbingly close to Maman’s. Even when she tried to hide her pain from me, to let me bathe in the stupid hope I drew for myself. Deep down, I knew she didn’t have much time left, yet I chose to ignore it.

I shake my head and focus on the English Patient.

My hand automatically goes to check on his wound. I don’t see a nameless stranger, a fugitive, or even a killer. I see a person hurting. My life could mean nix, but other people’s lives are a different story.

I would never leave someone in pain if I could help. No matter how monstrous they might be.

My fingers clasp around his wrist to check his pulse. It’s skyrocketing. I remove the bandage. I expected an infection – a possible reason for his delirium – but the wound is clean.

Bizarre.

The man still whimpers, a low haunted sound that soon turns into a deep-throated growl. Primal and animalistic and with so much pain.

He thrashes in place, shoulders quaking until they hit the bed with brute force, I instinctively push back. We’re not to touch a patient while they’re having a seizure unless we can handle them. The English patient would need a few male nurses to subdue him.

My mouth dries as I watch this massive man seemingly possessed by demons, tossing left and right. The veins in his biceps and his rigid muscles contract with every move. The intricate small tattoos shine with the sheen of sweat. Then I peek a glimpse at a large tattoo covering his back. Its beak is open in a wide shout, releasing countless little birds. There’s no sound, but the design is so vivid, I can almost hear the gut-wrenching scream.

A raven.

The tattoo darkens with the man’s twists. The shadows become as eerie as the stranger.

Just when I consider calling an ambulance – and possibly exposing him — which means getting my house blown up, the seizure subsides.

He remains perfectly still except for the twitching fingers and his harsh, heavy breaths. His eyes stay closed, but a cloak of peacefulness covers his face as if he didn’t just go through a seizure.

“Hey...” I say, tentatively reaching a hand to shake him. “Are you all right?”

The moment my fingers connect with his shoulder, a large hand clasps around my wrist, and my whole body is yanked forward.