Page 2 of Destined for the Devil
"I don't know. I'll ask her tomorrow," I admitted, and it sounded ridiculous hearing it out loud.
Sergei took one last glance at me and shook his head, shutting the door on his way out and not saying another word.
Great. What the fuck was I supposed to do now? I had a stranger in my home who not only suffered at the hands of my men and me but would most likely remember details I didn't want her to know.
Moreover, I wasn't even sure if the fucker was dead, the whole reason for this ordeal—I didn't see him take his last breath! But just as that thought crossed my mind, a text message buzzed, and I opened my phone to see a picture of a burned corpse. Him. Too bad I didn't get to see it live.
Now. What to do about the girl? My mind drowned in various scenarios of mistakes and issues, but I followed Sergei's orders and placed a glass of water with painkillers on the bedside table next to the stranger dozing on my pillows.
Having her in my bed felt out of place and strangely exciting. I knew absolutely nothing about her and couldn't explain to myself why I brought her here, of all places.
I found her the same way I left her, but she seemed asleep, snifflingevery once in a while like a baby. Jesus fucking Christ, what a disaster. Her legs were fully covered in blood, which now stained my sheets. Her body looked weak and broken, the deep, nasty cuts decorating her otherwise flawless legs.
Silently, I approached and leaned over her to check out Sergei's work. He did great; he had the skills after all. Without a doubt, she would have scars left after this, reminding her of the night when she lost her home.
Damn. Somehow, I felt bad for her. The rest of her skin was smooth and even, but the bloodbath currently residing on the back of her legs was not a sight for the weak.
Who was this poor girl? Which one of my guys was going to get a bullet between the eyes? How did she end up on the second floor? Why did I catch her and bring her here? Why was she so resistant to pain?
One thought tripped over another.
Awesome. A stranger who, evidently, just lost her home and all her belongings due to my revenge tactics, hurt and dirty from the fire and soot, now slept in my bed. How did this happen? Who fucked up? Who didn't tell me someone else lived in the house?
2
A Dream
Isla
Searingpainradiatedallthrough my legs and feet before I even opened my eyes. My mouth was dry, my eyes could barely open, and my back and chest felt like they were on fire.
Holy shit! Therewasa fire last night; was I dead?! I lay in unknown surroundings—absolutely terrified.
I was alone in a spacious and beautiful room, illuminated with gentle morning sunlight. Oh my God, oh my God, please don't let this be some serial killer's house! This was very obviously not my place! My entire monthly salary wouldn't be able to pay for that lamp on the bedside table.
My legs were fucking killing me. I dared to turn around and look down and saw what I could only describe as a fucking horror film. Did I even have legs?! I wiggled my toes, and yes, it seemed that my body responded to my brain's instructions.
There was bloodeverywhere—all over my legs and the white sheets. Holy fuck. My eyes stung with tears, regret and fear filling up all of me, just as my mind continued trying to piece it all together.
There were two men here last night…one was sewing me up. Oh fuck, it was so painful. Goosebumps spread through all of me just from the memory.
Did I lose my apartment? I almost died! What…what happened...
My memory was so hazy. I woke up choking. There was no air, nooxygen, the heat was all-encompassing, and, in my delirium, I reached the window and smashed it with a chair, desperate for a breath of fresh air. There was someone there, at the side of the house, but then…ugh, it was so hard to piece it together...
Whoa.
My eyes suddenly landed onhim.
It must have been the same man from last night—his blue eyes almost glowed in the morning light. I remembered very faintly seeing blue eyes a few times in between my incoherence.
“Hello.” His voice was deep and uninterested. He stood in the doorway and stared straight at me. He was tall, too tall for comfort. He was big, his black t-shirt only defining his oversized muscles, and holy shit did he have tattoos galore. Who had so much ink?! A tattoo artist? A rock star? A...no...
"Hello?" He repeated, questioning me, and I realized my jaw was hanging open as I stared back and roamed my eyes over his body. He kind of looked like that hockey player whose video edits were plastered all over social media…Michael Morozik or Mrazik or something? Same dark, longer hair, same full lips, eyes that could undress any girl. A fucking dream.
Wow, okay, bring it back, bring it back to reality. Thatwas an unexpected and inappropriate detour in my mind.
"H-hi..." My tongue could barely move in my mouth.
