Page 13 of Stained Protector

“You fell asleep,” I say, laughing under my breath as I make a fresh drink.

“What?” Her rosy lips press tightly together when her brows furrow deeper with uncertainty.

“We were talking, and you fell asleep.” While waiting for her to make another tongue-tied noise, I take the kettle and pour the coffee into the mug.

“I did?” she slurs, scratching the back of her head.

She fits well in this illuminated place, dressed in clothes I bought her and trusting enough to sleep in the presence of a man who has one string of control left. I extinguish the candle with two fingers and watch delightfully as the ash-gray smoke twirls through the air.

Not bad for a new product made with natural chemicals to aid sleep; I’m satisfied with this trivial investment that was disregarded as a flop.

Davis calls me insane for quitting the partnership and throwing away the gun for a fountain pen. The adrenaline of chasing after criminals helps to curb the need for breaking bones, but it’s the complete access to Anya’s life at my fingertip that really does it.

But I realized that a cop's pay would not be enough to provide her with what she deserved.

I took some time to build myself up and create a resilient foundation for my company. Businesses are rarely profitable during their first year, so I decided on a better strategy. With some convincing and blackmail material—maybethere was a life-threatening accident to the previous CEO—I secured an executive seat at a mid-sized company.

It was embarrassing seeing how incompetent the standing CEO was at running the business.

Davis doesn’t call me a snake for nostalgia. We grew up together, and he saw how I behaved when I wanted something.

Proving my worth took six months, bending those old bags of executive bones to my will took another month, and sitting in the CEO chair fell into line right after that. Gradually, with a systematic plan to multiply the company’s annual profit, my work and patience wore off.

I sold the company to the biggest rival for three times its worth, and the betrayal on everyone’s face was spectacular. They cried about foul play, and the new boss had the pettiest grin as he wished for a great year with them.

As if luck wanted to reward my efforts, a string of kidnappings happened. I caught wind of it when the fourth woman was gone because the newscaster showed a picture that looked like Anya. I wanted to put a protection detail on her, but given her wariness, she would have noticed.

Then, the number increased to eight, and I knew I had to keep her under my protection.

“You’re laughing,” her sweet voice grumbles, “I look messy.”

She’s beautiful with tousled hair, drowsy eyes, and pouting lips. She has been stunning since the day I saw her in that deserted, putrid alley.

It’s fate pulling on strings, just like the devotion of her name carved on my sinned soul. Why else would love at first sight be a favored concept?

Plenty of married couples swear on it, betting on vows and bonds.

My experience is not unique. I’m certain there are people out there, much crazier and less tactical, who meet their beloved half and feel the universe explode in their eyes.

I want to fall in love with cotton crammed into my brain and hands of denial around my throat, our names beside each other, sealing the love with a signature and a wedding ring—but the feverish taunts, so diabolical, plead to rip her heart to shreds and swallow the life in her eyes.

A middle ground, I ponder.There must be one.

“What do you have planned today?” she asks, straightening her posture.

Not much different from yesterday. This week’s public artwork is done for the week, and the custom piece has been shipped. That part of my life will not come to light, not before I have her wrapped irrevocably around my fingers.

I’m pleased with the process; she blindly trusts what I say, lowers her guard to sleep in my territory, and accepts the flitting touches on her fragile body.

She said her sister has a toxic taste in men, and Anya shares it, too.

We have common qualities, but she retains the sweet innocence, so we’re also the opposite.

Opposites attract, and similarity lures.

“It’s a slow day,” I suggest, pausing to think of a tactful way to express my concerns.

Anya nods, concentrating on the left and most likely pinpointing what the responsibilities are. I grip her jaw and direct her gaze to me, silently chastising the shock in her eyes. When I speak, I should have control of her mind, not some filthy brushes.

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