Page 12 of Assistant to the Assassin

God I really am a hussy. All that’s going through my head is how adorable he looks in my avocado shirt and how nice his butt looks in my pants. I totally get why guys love seeing their girlfriends in their hoodies. It’s sexy as hell to see the person you have feelings for wearing your clothes.

Focus, Reed. Focus.

“Are you feeling any better?” I ask, approaching him cautiously.

He nods, his throat bobbing. “A little.”

Henry is usually so hard and cold. Even in his times of vulnerability, there’s always this brick wall surrounding his heart, unwavering and unbreakable. But right now, that wall is rubble at our feet, and instead of looking like a killer who is physically and mentally untouchable, he looks like a lost boy.

“Come here, H.” I extend my hand out to him, and he slowly grabs on to it, letting me tug him towards my bedroom.

I know he’s not in his right mind because he makes no comments about my posters. One Direction, Justin Bieber, Harry Styles, and the Jonas Brothers line my walls, making my room look like it belongs to a fifteen-year-old girl’s. He just ignores them and collapses into my bed, like the weight of gravity is too much for him to bear.

Without thinking it through whatsoever, I crawl into bed next to him, positioning myself so I’m spooning his back. “Get some sleep, H.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“Sorry in advance if my receiver and pump make a lot of noise,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at my nightstand, where my receiver and a bucket of snacks—for low blood sugar—lies on the surface. It can get loud when it buzzes against the wood.

“It’s nothing,” he assures me quietly.

I snuggle into him, hoping the pump attached to my shirt isn’t digging into his spine. If it is, he says nothing. “That’s what I’m here for. I’ll do whatever you need me to do and be whatever you need me to be.”

“I just need you,” he whispers, and my heart does a somersault.

“You have me,” I assure him, tightening my hold on his body.

“I can never have you” is his reply, and I’m too scared to ask him what he means by that. I just let those words linger between us as he swiftly falls asleep, and I along with him.

I Have Heavy Heartstrings

I jolt awake, reality bringing me away from the horrors of my past. My hands are clammy, my breaths are shaky, and you’d think I’d run a marathon by how sweaty and exhausted I feel.

It’s an anxiety attack, Henry. Completely normal for someone with CPTSD, Dr. Bennett would say, and I hate that she’s right. Ever since I started going to therapy and getting shit out of my head, I’ve been at the mercy of my emotions more and more. For years, I ignored everything: my pain, my worry, my anger. All of it. I could go into situations that would remind me of my mother and not freak out like I did last night. But now I’m in a place where I can’t ignore my problems, and those problems are apparently hiding in the recesses of my mind.

I’m currently lying on my back, with my arm hugging on to a passed-out Beth, who is using my stomach as a pillow and is snoring incredibly loud. It’s cute, and as much as I don’t want to leave this position, she and I have work to do.

I shake her gently a couple times, then I watch her eyes peel open and her throat catch on a snore, making her choke and jerk awake. “Wasat?” she asks, stuck between sleep and wakefulness.

“It’s nine-thirty in the morning,” I inform her, glancing at the neon-colored clock on her nightstand. “We’ve got to prepare for my next assignment. I leave tomorrow.”

She rubs her eyes and sits up, letting out a big yawn. “Are you sure you should go? After last night—”

“Last night won’t happen again,” I say with conviction. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Are you really, though?” Her eyes search mine, and for the first time in three years, I hate how well she can read me.

“Leave it alone, B,” I beg, trying to convey with my eyes how badly I want to forget the last twelve hours. She nods, but I know she isn’t happy about brushing this under the rug.

“I’m going to drive back to my apartment and get changed,” I tell her, slipping out from under her multicolored blanket. “I’ll meet you at the office?”

She nods again, her expression still one of concern, but she holds her tongue. “Will do.”

Unable to help myself, I lean down and kiss her forehead, turning her expression from worry to shock within a blink. Her face is akin to the one I wore when she kissed me, and I hope she spends hours wondering what it means like I did.

“About my clothes from yesterday?” I start, running a hand through my mussed black hair.

“Yeah?”

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