Page 8 of Bleeding Blackheart

We get to the bottom of the stairs, and she waits in the entryway for me. I like this quiet and obedient side of Montana. It’s my favorite version of her so far. I wonder what else I could get her to do. She did promise to do whatever I asked if I helped her.

I step closer to her until I’m a foot away. Her shoulders shake a little, but she doesn’t move. I lean down until my lips are right beside her ear. I want to touch her hair again, but I don’t have enough restraint to allow myself to. Turning my face toward hers, I keep my voice low. “Turnleft and go in the kitchen. Get a water out of the fridge for yourself, and grab me a beer.”

Her sassy side resurfaces while she shakes her head, scoffing, but she does what she’s told. I give her a little breathing room and follow behind her slowly.

When I arrive in the kitchen, she’s got my beer on a coaster on the table. Good manners. She grabs her water and tries to walk confidently to an empty seat, but I don’t miss the slight limp she has while she moves through my kitchen. Part of me wants to let her suffer. See how far I can push her until she breaks.

But I can’t help it. I’ve always had a soft spot for helpless injured beings. It was what my father hated most about me. I remember saving a little bunny once. It got caught in the barbed wire fence behind my backyard. I took it to the garage and doctored it. As soon as I brought it inside, my father looked me in the eyes, ripped it from my hands, and cut it in half with a butcher knife. I didn’t speak to him for a month afterward.

Montana is an injured little fox. Caught in a trap and needing some care.

After my father killed my bunny, I still helped injured animals. But instead of bringing them back to life, I shotthem dead.

Looking at my little fox, I don’t know what would serve her better. I wanted to kill her for the money, but now I want to do it to protect her. If she ends up back in her father’s hands, who knows what’ll happen to her? I can make it quick and painless.

Her weary eyes look up at me, and I see my bunny all over again. Letting my nurturing side win, I head to my medicine cabinet and grab some ibuprofen for her, handing her three caplets. “Take these.”

I wait for her to mouth off, but she doesn’t. Desperate, she swallows the medicine quickly, and my dick twitches watching her tiny throat bob. I loved wrapping my hand around it. So soft, delicate, and crushable.

I take a seat across from her, opening my Sam Adams and sipping it slowly. “You hungry?”

The little fawn rolls her eyes and grits her teeth. “What the fuck do you think?”

“I think you need to be bent over my knee and get your ass beat a little more, little girl.”

Her nostrils flare, and she pushes back her chair. “I’m not a little girl.”

I reach under the table, pulling her chair legs back to the position they were. “You are to me.”

An emotion flashes across her face quickly, so quickly that I’m unable to read it. She takes asip of water and wipes a spilled drop off her plush pout with the collar of my shirt. “How old are you, Mr. Blackheart?”

“Not mister. Just Blackheart. And I’m thirty-eight.”

Her eyes widen, and she gulps. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

She smirks. “You look older. Like forty-five. Or fifty.”

Goddamn. I knew I’d been looking a little rough lately but I didn’t know it was that bad. I think it’s time I finally get rid of this beard. It’ll be fall soon, but it’s too hot for it right now. Especially heading to Arizona in the morning. “Well that hurts.”

She raises a brow, chuckling. “Who knew you had feelings?”

I finish off my beer. “I don’t. You got allergies?”

Her smile falls. “No.”

“Good. Get up and make us some sandwiches. Bread’s in the breadbox. Cold cuts and everything else are in the fridge. Serve me some of the pasta salad in there too.”

She bats her long lashes and smoothes her hair back. “Did your mother raise you to be such a fucking dick?”

Shit, she is a bold one. I don’t know how I feel about that. I’m torn between wanting to clap her on the back for standing up to me or smack her for her tone. I decide to do neither. “No. It was my father. My mother’s dead. My father killed her.”

She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “Mine’s dead too. Also killed by my father. Looks like we have something in common.” She turns away and starts getting things out to make sandwiches.

“We don’t have anything in common. And the last thing I want to do is be your fucking friend, so don’t try and be mine.”

At that, she freezes and mutters to herself before resuming her chore. I keep an even closer watch on her while she makes my meal, slightly fearful that she may try and poison me.

---