“Yeah, that won’t be happening ever again. Where’s the dump sight?”
“In Duluth,” he says, closing his eyes once again. I pull onto the interstate and into the light traffic. The middle of the night is the best time to drive in Atlanta if you ask me.
After another forty-five minutes of driving and ten to dump the body, the sun is up. I head to Buckhead, where Caleb lives, and drop his ass off. I’ll let my father deal with him. Then I head home. I stop and pick up some coffee and bagels when I get closer. I park and head up in the elevator. Immediately, I notice that she isn’t there. In the kitchen, the note and the key I left are gone and in its place is a note from her. Her handwriting is adorable.
S,
Went out to run some errands. I realized I don’t have anything. I hope you were safe at work.
-RF.
I had planned to take her shopping once she got settled, but she seems intent on being a little independent. I smile at her concern for me. It’s nice, I think, as I enter the code for my safe. I clean my gun and put it away in its proper place. Once I am done with that, I head into the shower because I’m covered in blood and mud. My dark clothes go straight into the washing machine I have tucked into the linen closet in there. It’s best to get those going immediately. Work clothes are all that gets washed in it. After my shower, I lie in bed, sleep eluding me, but eventually, I must doze off because I am startled awake by a loud noise. I jump up out of bed and run into the living room, ready to fight. I find Riley bent over, ass in the air, picking something up off of the floor. Her dress has ridden up, playing peekaboo with her ass cheeks.
“Are you okay?” I ask, making her jump and turn to face me.
“Oh shit. Did I wake you up?” Riley asks.
“No.”
“I’m fine.”
“Where have you been?”
“Was I not allowed to go? You didn’t give me any rules or anything.”
“You aren’t a prisoner here, Riley. You can come and go as you please, but you will have a guard in the future.”
“A guard? What for?”
“To protect you.”
“You want to protect me?”
“Of course. I always guard my property.” As soon as I said it, I knew it was the absolute wrong thing to say. I sounded like an asshole, even to myself. The look that passes over her face is one of sadness. If I hadn’t been looking at her, I would have missed it. She picks up whatever it is that she dropped and brushes past me.
“Right. Of course,” she says. Her voice sounds robotic and not at all like the warm one she usually uses. I watch her walk down the hallway and into her bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind her. If I know anything about an Irish woman’s temper, and I think I do, thanks to my mom, I know how hard it was for her not to slam that door.
This would be so much easier if I could show her how much I want her here. Unfortunately, that part has to wait, but I suppose there are other ways to show her.
Chapter Four
“I’m supposed to be brutal. I’m supposed to be evil. I’m supposed to be a lot of things, but when I take one look at your sweet innocence, I forget all that. I forget everything, but you and that’s a problem. How can I keep you safe from my enemies? Once they know about you, they’ll covet you. Blood will be shed over you; make no mistake. It will flow down the streets of Atlanta like a river. I am head over heels in love with you, and I can’t wait to make you mine.” -SM.
Riley
Two Months Later
I was surprised to find that Samson also has a day job. He bought me on Friday night, so I spent the weekend with him, then he went to work. He’s the manager of a hockey player, of all things. That’s his biggest client, but he has four others as well. When I asked him why he worked, he said he didn’t like the waiting between kills. I couldn’t believe how open he was with me. Ever since his property comment, he’s been working hard to show me that he was sorry he said it. We spent every waking moment that he was home together. When he has to go out at night, he swears it’s always work, that there are no other women in his life, he leaves me a note. I leave him one to read when he gets back. As time has gone on, the notes have gotten longer and more personal than they were initially. It’s late, and I am sitting on the couch writing to him. I write to him all the things I can’t say yet. This note will be the last one I give him under our current circumstances. It’s kind of a journal of my days and nights here. I look up when I hear the elevator ding and smile, glad that Samson is home, safe and sound. Except when they open, it’s not Samson.