Page 88 of Three
“I received an anonymous letter a week ago or so. Whoever wrote it—now I know it was Malcom—said he had new information about Cal’s murder.”
“And you tell me about this only now?” I ask incredulously. He still doesn’t trust me. This is the irrefutable proof. I already knew he didn’t, not completely. But after he opened up to me about his cousin’s murder, I’d hoped…
He grunts. Fuckinggrunts.If my glare could kill, Hunter would be a pile of ashes at my feet now.
“You’ve already created the worst scenario in your head about me, haven’t you?” I accuse him. “Why are you still here, then?”
He strokes his head, and then his arm drops aggressively at his side. “I don’t know what the hell to think. You act all carefree and breezy, but fight and kill like a pro, have no problem with kidnapping assassins, know your way around the dark web, and can hack into anything. That’s all I know about you.”
“All you know? You know more than most people. Do you think I go and advertise I can do those things? And look who’s talking, Mr. Closed-off. Two hours ago, you fucked me like you owned me and called me your boyfriend. And now you’re wearing that blank mask like I’m a damn stranger,” I yell.
“I do own you,” he growls, reaching me in two strides. He’s looming over me, his eyes like two blazing coals. “Doesn’t fucking matter what comes out of those red lips. That. Ass. Is. Mine.” I feel the rumble of his gravelly voice vibrating against my chest.
My heart feels too big for my chest, and a sense of belonging like I’ve never felt before washes over me, soaking my very soul until it’s absorbed deep inside of it. Until it’s become part of it. Of me.
“Then why do you look so wary?” I whisper.
“Fuck.” He cups my face and brushes his thumb over my lips. “It’s an automatic response for me. I need to work on it, but I don’t trust easy.”
“I don’t either,” I confess, all the anger leaving my body in one quick sweep.
“Why? Tell me.” His voice and eyes are pleading with me to tell him. Would I gain his total trust if I bare myself to him? Only one way to find out.
“When I was a kid, I was kidnapped by a group of scientists.” His hands slide off my face as I keep going. “I was chosen because they wanted underprivileged kids with a higher IQ and psychotic traits. And before you ask, no I’m not a psychopath. Those traits disappeared as I grew up.” Not for all of us, though.
“I was Subject Three.” I raise my hand to show him the brand on my wrist.
“They did this to you?” His voice is glacial, but the lips that lower on the brand are gentle and searing hot. I’ve spent most of my life without this incredible feeling, and I’d be ready to double the years of miserable numbness if it meant having Hunter continue to touch me.
“Why were you taken?” He moves his mouth back but doesn’t let go of my hand.
I release a long breath. “The project’s goal was to create assassins with no remorse, nor fear, and who could easily be controlled. The experimentation was unsanctioned. Only a few bastards knew about it, and it went on for…years. They kept torturing me, over and over in different ways. I’m not going to bore you with the details.”
His face has blurred. And I know it’s me. I can’t stop the tears. But I need to get all the words out, so I can be with him. No barriers. Nothing between us. I want that. I need that.
“The-the agonizing pain was too much, and my brain just shut down. The flop trauma response happens. It’s a coping mechanism for dealing with distress, sort of similar to how an animal will playdead when they feel threatened. When Meg and Linda found me, I was completely numb, physically and mentally unresponsive. I was a hollow husk, slowly dying.”
Bile rises in my throat. I swallow it down, but it's so fucking hard to relive all of that horror again. Gravity overcomes me for a moment, and then I’m wrapped in the sweet, warm, strong cocoon of my bear’s arms. He doesn’t seem grossed out by the dirt and blood on my clothes. I tuck my face into his neck, inhaling deeply his masculine, rich, comforting scent. My icy fingers are warming against his pecs, and I remain silent for a while, letting the tears run out.
Fuck, I love being hugged.
“I’m sorry,” I softly say against his skin.
“We can stop if you want.” His gentle tone, more than his words, acts like a soothing balm on my soul.
“No. You need to know. I want you to know.” I force my voice out. “It took a long time for me to realize I was safe. My ability to feel emotions came back little by little, as did my sight and my hearing, but the other senses didn’t. Self-preservation through dissociation. One day when I was twelve, I tried to trigger a neuro response and pressed the back of my hand to a sizzling skillet.” I fist my scarred hand on his pec.
Hunter curses, and his arms tighten around me.
“I didn’t scream because I didn’t feel a thing. No pain, no smell of burning skin. Absolutely nothing. The butler intervened and rushed me to the hospital. I was grounded for a month, but in that period, I discovered that masturbating—and later sex—made those senses turn on for a while. So, it did work in a way.”
I pull back to look into his bottomless, understanding eyes. My attempt at easing the mood is futile. The quivering smile on my face turns into a sob. “Those painful years fucked me up, changed me.”
“How? What do you do, Ramiel?”
“I kill evil,” I blurt out. His eye gives a little twitch, but his firm gaze stays on me, his heart continues its slow beating. “I punish the unpunished. The ones who slide between the cracks of the justice system or are too good at hiding their rotten parts.”
“Justice, vigilante style. August Baker?” He remembers the hitman from the alley.
