Page 41 of Scorch

It's been at least five years. Yeah, some people would call it a dry spell for guys like me. But sex with anybody else would be like licking pavement to try to satisfy my appetite. Never.

“I want to tell you that I'm sorry you saw that,” I begin. “But I don't want to lie to you, Lydia.”

She nods and swallows. “Do you think he was lying, though?”

“I do not. I wouldn’t have killed him otherwise.”

“Oh,” she says in a little voice. “Right.”

I have the sudden desire to break something.

If she's even entertaining the slightest notion that Yudin was even the least bit redeemable…

Fuck.

When I get my hands on him… I don't think she'll be able to look at me that time.

By the time we get back to my house, it's late. She's tired and I am too, but I'm fucking starving.

“I don't think we've eaten anything since breakfast, and I'm famished. You?”

She nods. “I could literally tear the legs off one of your tables and eat it with a little ketchup right now. Maybe even without the ketchup.”

I smile. It feels good to smile. It feels good to become human again.

“You like pizza?” I just told her I'm not gonna lie to her. Is this a lie? I'm trying to be polite and not freak her the fuck out. Because I happen to know for a fact that pizza is one of her favorite foods in the entire world. Especially New York style, with all the meat. It's almost unfair how much I know about her and how easily I will be able to use that to my advantage.

I look over at her. Her hair is disheveled, her face streaked with tears, dirt, and blood. She needs cleaning up as badly as I do.

“How the fuck did you get blood on yourself?”

“You did a lot of… splattering?”

I grunt under my breath but don’t reply.

“Alright, so we're gonna order food, and then you're gonna get your ass in the shower.”

She gives me a sidelong look. “Are you going to personally wash me, sir?”

Shit. What happened back there?

“Maybe I'm an old-fashioned man. Maybe I don't think I should touch you until we're married.” I pull up in front of my house and park the car. “Don't touch your door.”

I think I've earned at least this one little crumb.

I wonder if she'll push me. I watch as she sits with her hands in her lap. When I get around to her door, she reaches for the handle. I stand on the other side of it. Our gazes lock, but she doesn't open the door. She seems torn, unsure of what to do next.

Good. I want her to at least keep guessing about contradicting me.

I open the door and reach for her hand. In this short time, it's already become my thing.

I like the feel of her hand in mine. She doesn't trust easily, but it's the slightest gesture and gives me no small measure of comfort. For this one brief moment in time, when her hand is connected to mine, her fingers entwined, she's not going to get away from me. And no one's going to take her away.

It's quiet here, set apart from everyone else. My little sanctuary in the city. From my front door, I can see the bright lights of Manhattan in the distance.

My family owns this area of New York known as The Cove. Businesses pay us to keep them safe, and we employ over two-thirds of the residents. It's a power move that has served us well.

I wonder what it's like being back in New York for her.

---