Page 15 of Stained Protector

A logical part explains love needs patience and cultivation, a safe foundation to establish a deeper connection, and, most importantly, it needs commitment and honesty.

Some things are not meant to be forced, they’ll wilt and perish, but lies have been one of the greatest aids in success.

“What if…”

I steel my resolve at her hesitation. My patience chips at the corners, but perhaps it’s not meant to be intact.

“He’s taking single women,” I state taciturnly, “women who look like you.”

Something gnaws under my skin, and it prances dangerously above the steady pulse in my neck. I wait and stare; the sham of benevolence writes off its own existence, and in replacement are a pair of white fangs from an evil incarnation.

“Okay,” she whispers, and a sense of normalcy returns to her eyes.

Then she says it again—for the sake of clarity or confirmation. I can’t get a read on her, and there’s an invading force of frustration.

I don’t like the way I’ve become. Uncontrollable. Reckless.

Levicomes and goes, an hour or days, and leaves with melancholy as if he came to vacation for the holidays. I, someone I can’t distinguish, take over the same body and zealously set backdoors to return at any time.

The voices get louder and more demanding than they used to be when I was alone and hurting people for amusement. Now, they’re angry, understandably upset. They don’t like change because I don’t, and they’re a part of me.

But this is Anya, I hiss back—so shut up.

“Nice to meet you, my wife.”

The silence crickets and floats like a piece of corroded wood in the ocean.

She laughs; the corners of her eyes are a little red, but it suits her. This time, I don’t fight the unusual sensation roiling with the cadence of heartbeats.

Anya places her hand in my extended one. Two puzzle pieces from different pictures miraculously fit together.

Her hand is small, delicate fingers intertwining with mine and curling them. Her nails graze my knuckles, and the strokes also teasingly brush my heart.

“For how long?” she asks, her lashes fluttering warily.

“Until he’s caught.” I take her hand in mine and help her off the couch.

I think about holding on forever. Or letting go and watching her run toward me, crying amid frantic pleas to never leave her behind. Whatever it is, she’s here, and it’s bidding on a countdown.

I tighten the grip, and it feels right, so the tension in my back stops. Go with the flow. Just us and the peculiar glass of tenderness.

Does she feel the pulses in my palm? I do, and it’s everywhere.

No words are spoken when we leave the studio, closing the doors on paintings that somewhat mirror the horrors in me. But they don’t compare to the severity of the commissioned pieces.

As the elevator descends the floors, her attention sticks to a section of black ink peeking from my sleeve. I pull it down, not from shame or to appease her apprehension, but to blend into the crowds.

“We’ve met before.” She patches together stumbled words and wrings her fingers, the tips of her ears turning pink from jitters.

“Once,” I concur. “I had just caught a suspect when you showed up.”

She nods with pursed lips. I used proper force and procedures to immobilize the man, so her reaction is a bit bizarre. Even the department approved of the arrest process, although that place reeked of corruption.

I blended in flawlessly.

“I must have frightened you. I’m sorry,” I say, thrilled as her stiff shoulders relax.

“You were doing your job.” Her lips stretch into an adorably wide smile.

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