A Lock Of Death by Beena Khan

17

It had been six days since Nine had lost consciousness.

Six days too late.

They should have reached their destination already.

He shook his head and texted his brother.

Dimitri:She had an allergic reaction.

The reply came instantly.

Alexander:What the fuck happened?

Dimitri:You didn’t tell me she’s a nut case.

Alexander:I met her a couple of times. She seemed innocent.

Dimitri shook his head in disapproval.

Innocent? There was nothing innocent about that wildcat.

Dimitri:She’s recovering. We will be delayed for a couple of weeks.

Alexander:Boris is blowing up my phone.

Dimitri tried hard not to roll his eyes.

Dimitri:He still wants her?

He peeked a glance at a sleeping Nine.

I hope he refuses.

His body stilled.

He came up clueless on why’d he thought that.

Alexander:Yes. He said he does.

Dimitri sighed internally.

Dimitri:Tell that Russian fuck, he can wait.

After a moment, he texted again.

Dimitri: The President of the MC club where Nine lived. I need his whereabouts.

That President was the same man who had lived that day when Alexander came.

The same man who had kept Nine as his slave.

Alexander: He’s dead.

Dimitri stilled.

He hadn’t expected that.

Dimitri: ?

Alexander: Let’s just say, someone went back for him.

Dimitri’s upper lip twitched.

By ‘someone’ his brother obviously meant himself.

Alexander had returned to the club and killed that twisted fuck.

Dimitri:Henry Stevens. I need him too.

Alexander:I’ll find out.

Need coiled in his body, a need to hunt and kill.

He wished that president was in front of him so he could have done destroyed himself.

With a deep sigh, he stopped texting and he waited for Nine to wake up. He glanced at her.

Sometimes, she slipped in and out of consciousness, whimpers leaving her mouth. The side of her cheek, forehead, and eye had been swollen and pink, and now the swelling had lessened. He wasn’t sure if it would leave scars behind.

It just might. The outer layer of her skin had been burnt. He glanced at her arm, the front of it was pink too. She’d lived through the nights and survived. He bought a burnt ointment that could help her out. He avoided touching her unless necessary. Skin on skin contact only fueled the burns on her skin. He’d thought about going to a local hospital, but it wasn’t safe.

She was always full of surprises.

He’d thought she was a good girl.

He’d assumed her soul was bright and soft the day he’d seen her painting the sun, but she had that drive that turned her into a bad girl overnight. And now, she had transformed into someone unrecognizable… or maybe this was who she was all along.

Maybe she’d just hidden the dark wings and shadows that roamed around her. Her mask had fallen off, and he wanted to see that woman again.

So unpredictable and violent.

Pretty and damaged.

It was like she was the female version of him.

That thought startled him.

He hadn’t ever met someone he could call his equal. Most females he’d come across had a softness to them that he lacked. No one thought like him. They always second-guessed themselves and he always went with his first thought.

People hid their darkness deep in their souls. They craved the same desires he did, but those were the same people who judged others openly for acting on theirs. His darkness was on the surface, and he was transparent about who he was.

Nine had a little softness to her, but her exterior had hardened over time, leaving the girl she used to be behind.

She was a closed book before, but now he could see right through her.

The Ace Outlaws Motorcycle Club.

The place that had destroyed the innocent girl she used to be, leaving a hard shell behind. He didn’t crave an equal… but then he looked at her again, still fast asleep. He wanted that one.

She was his equal.

For the first two days, she had mainly slept.

By the third day, she was functioning more and ate some of the food he’d brought her. She didn’t meet his eye though, and she ignored him the entire time like she was working hard to forget his existence. He guessed she was giving him the silent treatment. He wasn’t offended by it, and he’d expected it.

Perhaps, she was still ruffled about her burnt hand. He stared at the injury sometimes. It had pinkened, and as days went by, it was darkening in color. He didn’t know what to say to her, so he kept quiet.

One night, she fell asleep before she took her ecstasy.

He hadn’t questioned it and went to sleep himself.

He didn’t know what time it was when he’d woken up.

Cries filled the air, and his eyes snapped open.

He stared straight ahead at Nine’s back.

Her body trembled and shook. He propped up his head on his elbow and realized she still slept. Her mouth made audible sounds, none he could understand. Frowning, he moved forward and wrapped his arm around her waist, and she didn’t flinch. A week had passed, and her pink marks had turned red.

He hoped they would slowly fade over time and turn white, but it seemed highly unlikely. The sun had scorched into her skin, and he knew the wounds on her flesh wouldn’t fade for months. Her eyes were slammed shut, and he wondered what monster beside him prowled in those eyes and haunted her.

Only his face should be in her nightmares.

Wrapping his arm tighter around her, he pressed closer to her. Her floral scent wavered under his nose. Her hair was once again in a braid. He blinked in the darkness and after a few moments, her breathing steadied, her breaths no longer came out ragged. She sighed in her sleep, and his tired eyes grew drowsier, his mind lulling him.

Tucking her safely underneath him, he fell asleep.

The next afternoon, Nine sat on the carpet with her painting utensils and canvas out.

She’d started painting now that they were cooped up in the room together. His eyes fell on her bruises. The darkness in her scars had faded but they were still present. She didn’t wear makeup anymore, the corners of the side of her face were still red. She didn’t wear any of her sequin dresses either.

He kind of missed those dresses now. They shone bright like her aura. Now her aura was… dimmed. She wore blue jeans and a simple, white cotton blouse. He’d never seen her wear white.

It was a color of purity, but her soul was corrupted like his, just differently. He killed others and she was hell-bent on murdering her own damn self. He had no idea why she wore white when she painted. It sounded like a terrible idea.

Dimitri tried to catch her eyes a couple of times, but she refused to meet his gaze. It was a dagger every time to his soul, and he didn’t understand why he ached.

He stared at her sometimes, and he was sure she could always feel him looking at her too. He noticed the way her upper lip curled up in satisfaction when she had gotten a color right.

She hummed under her breath when she swirled and made a mixture on her color palette. Sometimes, his footsteps moved forward to catch what she painted but she always hid her artwork from him. It must be the sun again.

Didn’t she have enough taste of that?

Nine always picked the same spot on the floor with her back against the wall.

One day, he sat in front of her, right on the bed with his elbows resting on his thighs and his feet planted firmly on the floor. Nine wrinkled her nose at him without even looking up. Her little perky expressions grew on him. Her long braid fell on the floor, and a few brown tendrils had sneaked out and fallen on her face. Her eyebrows furrowed and she chewed on her lip as she concentrated. He wanted to bite that lip instead.

He stiffened and lifted a hand and grazed it across his lower lip. Her doe-like eyes jerked up, perhaps, sensing it. Her cupid lips parted, and her gaze went toward his lips before she fixated her gaze back on his face.

He waited for her to say something, anything at all, but she refused to let him hear her melodic voice again. The same one that his ears were thirsty to hear for the past week and a half. Only she could quench his thirst and the hunger that lurked in his soul. It was a miracle they’d made it this long in a room without killing each other.

“What are you painting?” Dimitri asked at last.

She pressed her lips together.

“Answer me,” he murmured in a low voice.

Her eyes narrowed but she didn’t reply.

“Goldie…” he chided under his breath.

Her eyebrows creased.

He tried to peer at her painting, but she had her knees pulled up and rested them against her thighs. That wouldn’t be good for jeans, but she didn’t seem to care. Observing her, he tilted his head. “I don’t like to be ignored,” he continued.

She rolled her eyes and stayed mute.

His tongue snaked out and licked his teeth.

Guess she wants it the hard way then.

In a quick movement, he lifted himself from the bed.

Nine’s eyes jerked up at him and she frowned.

Like a predator ready to lunge at his prey, he moved toward her. She had nowhere to go, and she was trapped right where he wanted her. She couldn’t escape him even if she’d wanted to. She gritted her teeth, but her eyes no longer held the same fear he’d seen once upon a time. She looked ready to sink her claws into him, and he would let her if she tried.

Crouching next to her, he placed his hand against the wall, invading her personal space.

Tilting his head, his eyes stayed on hers.

He liked how her eyes widened every time he came close to her. Her pupils dilated almost turning black. Her golden flesh turned pink, and her cheeks flamed. Her breaths came erratic, uncontrolled, and unpredictable.

Her lower lip jutted out, and he found it fascinating. It was thicker and lusher than her upper lip. It was nice to know that he affected her. After everything she’d been through, she still blushed. Averting his eyes, he looked down at the painting she’d been hiding from him.

Dimitri had expected the sun.

Her obsession.

It wasn’t the sun.

Blue.

The sky greeted him instead.