Shit, what was I doing? I should be up there taking what I’d paid for. I should be plunging deep inside her and searching for some resemblance of happiness. I shouldn’t have run like a fucking pussy.
I picked up hammer, squeezing the wooden handle in my fist.
Do it. It will help.
The enabling voice inside coaxed—like it did every time—promising sweet relief.
Splaying my hand on the bench, fingers flat against the well-used surface, I stared at it for the first time in a while. Crisscrossed with tiny scars, punctured with small holes of silver, my hand looked ancient and brutal. The urge to slam the hammer onto one of my knuckles consumed me until I shook with need for pain and a droplet of sweat rolled down my temple.
Breaking the spell, I slowly lowered the hammer and turned my hand over to look at my palm.
The moment I found freedom two years ago, I spent days with a scouring brush and abrasive soap washing off the mark.
Washing, sandpapering, scrubbing to remove the three small symbols of what I was. Only a fellow operative would know what they meant; would know I was a creature whose only purpose was to fight and destroy.
Faded now to a few indistinct lines, they filled me with bone-deep hatred and fear. Both palms held the mark: the Roman numeral III.
My body tensed, wishing Mount Everest had done a better job of hitting me tonight. It meant I’d have to service that need before fucking Hazel.
The reminder of why I was down here pulled me from my thoughts, and I surveyed the shelves and barrels full of metal to use.
I had to solve the problem of her touching me, but how?
No matter what designs or solutions I came up with, the outcomes I envisioned all ended badly. I couldn’t trust her to obey. That meant I had to restrain her. Put her on a leash like a pet I’d bought to use. But if I restrained her, the neurons in my brain would think she was prey.
She is prey. Dobycha.
I’d slipped and used a word from my mother tongue. I’d called her prey in Russian. The intensive dialect classes I’d crammed when I first arrived in Sydney abandoned me for a moment. I couldn’t use my first language anymore. It wasn’t safe.
My heart raced thinking how easy it’d been to fall into old languages—how imperfect my life was.
Shit, at this rate I’d probably end up paying her tomorrow to get her the hell away from me. I didn’t like these thoughts. These weak as fuck thoughts that dragged up my past.
You’ll never be naked around her.
You’ll never feel her hands on your cock.
You’ll never be able to have full body contact.
You’ll end up snapping her neck.
I was a fucking idiot.
I wish I never set eyes on her.
Prowling to the crucible with a lump of previously melted bronze in the centre, I cranked the furnace and set the tool into the licking flames.
Deliberately throwing myself into work, I ignored thoughts of how fucked-up my life was and flicked switches for sanders, drilling equipment, and buffers. Unravelling a length of silver chain I’d been using on an intricate custom piece, a concept came to mind. A blueprint to somehow keep Zel safe—or as safe as possible from me.
Minutes ticked by as I worked. It calmed my mind, granting a small illusion of peace.
Hours inched past as I toyed with metal and fire and sweat. Working with such unforgiving materials was a reminder that no matter how set in stone we seemed, we could always change. We could mould and adapt and become something new, even a hunk of iron.
I had to hold faith.
I could change.
Over time.
Settling on a stool under a large halogen, I turned my thoughts off and proceeded to turn a piece of chain into a prison.
The sun tinged the horizon with its pink and golden welcome by the time I’d finished. Climbing the stairs from my lair, my creation tight in my fist, I sighed heavily with relief.
Through the glass roof along the central spine of the house warm rays of sunlight spilled. The familiar tension left my body.
Night was over. Day was back.
With every step toward my room, I clutched the silver harder. I hoped like hell this worked. Opening the door quietly, I made my way across the carpet, deliberately walking in bright patches of morning sun. There were no curtains on the massive bifolds. No way to block out the glare.
That was another thing Zel would have to get used to. I never slept in the dark.
Night had been work hours—full of terror and terribleness. Day was my one chance to be in the light—the small window where the memories were forced to leave.
The night belonged to my past. The day belonged to my future.
The form of a sleeping woman lay burrowed under my sheets. Blankets tugged up over her shoulders, her hands shoved under the pillow beneath her cheek.
My heart thudded hard. She was in my space. Smelling my covers, sleeping on my side of the bed.
I wanted to tear the protection off her and touch her. I needed to find that spark, the energy that existed between us. Remember why I was insane enough to try this.
But I couldn’t. Not yet.
First, I needed purging.
Entering the bathroom, I shed my clothes and left them on the floor. Placing the item I made on the vanity, I stepped into the black-tiled shower. Turning on the tap, hot water rained instantly. I twisted it on as far as it would go.
It hurt. It burned. It scalded a layer of skin. But I didn’t mix the temperature with cold.
The raining fire did something for me that nothing else achieved. It was my drug of choice.
I’d read somewhere that self-harm was a cry for help. A sure sign an individual needed counselling. And they were right. However, I wasn’t crying out for help when I forced my body to stand under a torrent of boiling water. I found salvation.
Pain helped. Inflicting agony gave me a tiny bit of peace. It erased a little bit of badness. It was my version of meditation or relaxing music. It stopped me from exploding.
My skin turned lobster-red, and I shuddered with the urge to dart from under the pinpricks of agony, but I stood and accepted the punishment.
Five minutes passed eternally slowly, but I never once looked down. I never once ran hands over my flesh, or touched the new ridges of injuries and scars. I knew every inch of my violent past and wished it wasn’t so evident on my skin. I never fisted my cock or sought to find a quick release.
I’d been conditioned to feel nothing but the will to obey.
My body wasn’t mine to touch or look at. It had belonged to them; it still belonged to them.
With a shaking hand, I wrenched the cold water on and groaned as icy droplets soothed my burned flesh.
It layered the pain with two intense reactions, doubling the relief.
After blasting myself with ice, I turned off the water and stumbled from the shower.
Avoiding looking at myself in the mirror, I wrapped a towel around my waist and entered the dark bedroom. Making sure Zel was still asleep and wouldn’t catch me naked, I slinked soundlessly through the sunlight.
Entering the walk-in wardrobe, I let the towel fall and quickly yanked on black cotton pants, followed by a black t-shirt. Even on my own, I never slept naked—never ran the risk of being unprepared.
The moment I had clothing on again, I relaxed. Along with hiding certain things, my scars were cloaked, too. Hazel didn’t need to see self-inflicted injuries as well as ones earned in duty.
She didn’t need to know anything about me.
Padding over to the bed, I watched her sleep. Her long brown hair fanned the black sheets looking as if she’d become one with the mattress.