It's a question I shouldn't ask, especially not to a man who killed four people just hours ago. But I need to know if the cold emptiness I saw in him during those moments is natural or learned. If violence can become normal, or if some people are just born with it in their blood.
To my surprise, he doesn't shut down the question.
"No," he says finally. "Not always. The first time I killed someone, I puked my guts out after. Couldn't sleep for days." He looks down at his hands, flexing them slowly. "But it gets easier. Especially when you're good at it. And I was very good at it."
"In the military?"
"Before that. Foster care wasn't exactly summer camp."
"I had a foster father who liked to use his fists," I say quietly. "Especially when he'd been drinking. Amy tried to protect me, but she was just a kid herself."
"What happened to him?" he asks.
"We ran away. Lived on the streets for a while until the cops found us and put us in the group home." I wrap my arms tighter around my knees. "What about yours?"
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "He won't hurt anyone else."
The implication is clear, and I should be horrified. Instead, I feel a twisted sense of justice. Some people deserve whatever they get.
"Good," I say, and mean it.
Something changes between us then. An acknowledgment of shared darkness, of understanding that goes beyond words. Two survivors of systems that failed us, of adults who should have protected us but didn't.
"You should try to sleep," Blade says after a moment. "Tomorrow will be a long day."
I nod but make no move to lie back down. The nightmare still feels too close, the basement room with its camera and needle waiting for me if I close my eyes.
"I can't," I admit. "Not yet."
He stands. "Come on."
"Where?"
"Kitchen. If you're going to be awake, might as well eat something."
The unexpected suggestion catches me off guard. This hardened killer is offering me a midnight snack like it's the most normal thing in the world. But my stomach growls at the mention of food, reminding me that I haven't eaten much in over twenty-four hours.
"Okay," I agree, sliding off the bed.
He hands me a pair of sweatpants from his dresser. "These will be huge, but better than walking around the clubhouse in just a t-shirt and boxers."
I pull them on, having to roll the waistband several times to keep them from dragging on the floor. He watches with what might almost be amusement in his eyes before opening the door and checking the hallway.
"Clear," he says, motioning for me to follow.
Chapter 7 - Blade
"Clear," I say, motioning for her to follow me into the hallway.
She moves like a ghost beside me, barefoot and silent in my oversized clothes. The sweatpants bunch ridiculously around her ankles despite being rolled at the waist, and my t-shirt hangs to mid-thigh on her smaller frame. She should look absurd. Instead, something primal stirs in me at the sight of her wearing my clothes, carrying my scent.
I shove the feeling down, burying it with all the other shit I don't let myself think about.
The prospect is exactly where he should be, watching the front entrance. His eyes widen slightly when he sees Kelly, but one look from me has him snapping his attention back to the door. Smart kid. He'll make it to full patch if he keeps learning that quickly.
The kitchen is dark and quiet. I flip on the small light over the stove rather than the overhead fluorescents. Less jarring, less likely to wake anyone else who might be sleeping in the clubhouse. The last thing I need is an audience for whatever the fuck this is.
Kelly slides onto a barstool at the island while I open the fridge, surveying our options. Not much. The club's been focused on the war with the Vultures MC, not grocery shopping. I pull out bread, turkey, cheese, and mustard. Simple, but it'll do.
