Dangerous Desire

26

There’s a loaded pause before he answers. “I thought you were someone you’re not.”

I sag against his arms, all the fight drained out of me. When my stomach clenches and I taste bile again, I’m helpless to stop it. I retch, my stomach heaving, but nothing comes out.

Killian murmurs something in Gaelic. His arms turn from binding to supportive as I heave, my eyes watering and my nose stinging. I flatten my bloody hands on the floor and stare at them as my empty stomach tries over and over to rid itself of sickness, not understanding that the kind of sickness plaguing me can never be eliminated.

It’s the kind of sick that goes all the way down to the marrow of my bones.

He carries me to my room. This killer. This mercenary with zero regard for human life carries me in his arms as gently as you would a child. He sets me on the bed and brings me a cup of water. I take it from him with shaking hands and drink it all in one go, focusing on a spot on the wall beyond his shoulder so I don’t fall over.

“You need food.”

He drags a chair to the bedside and sits, gazing at me with an unreadable expression, which I’m grateful for. I don’t want to know what’s going through his mind. I don’t want to know anything except how I’m going to stop Dimitri from harming Naz.

“You should send him pictures of me.” I gesture to my bruised face, distantly surprised by how shaky my voice sounds and by how hot the room feels. Hot and suffocating. “Dimitri, I mean. You should send him close-ups of my face and neck.”

Killian leans back in his chair. His tone is faintly amused. “Is that what I should do?”

I nod. How is he so calm? He must murder people a lot. “Or a video. I’ll scream and beg very convincingly.”

Now his voice is thoughtful. “I bet you would.”

The door swings on its hinges as the ship makes a slow roll over a wave. My stomach rolls with it. “Oh.” Hit with a new thought, I look up at Killian. “Or were you going to kill me first?”

Our gazes hold for an uncomfortably long time before he speaks again. “You know I’m not going to kill you.”

I sit with that for a moment before answering. Then I nod again. “Yes.”

“What else do you know?” He leans forward, sets his elbows on his knees, and threads his fingers together as he stares at me.

I look down at my hands holding the empty cup. My trembling, bloodstained hands. How did I get here? What happened to me? How is this my life?

“I know that you didn’t want to beat me, but you did. You felt you had to.” I hear only silence in response, so I continue. “I know that Raphael tried to pretend he was in charge.” My laugh is soft and hollow. “But clearly he wasn’t. I know Dimitri has something you want.” I look up at Killian again. “And I know you think bartering me is the way you’re going to get it.”

“And am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I hate to think I went to all this trouble for nothing.”

“But there are many things I don’t know.”

He tilts his head, considering me, which I take as permission to continue. I think for a moment, then decide to go with the most pressing question.

“Who are you?”

He smiles, but it’s the cruel one again. The one that makes him look homicidal. “A better question is not who, but what.”

“Oh, I already know what you are.”

The smile turns mocking. “Do tell.”

“You’re a man who’ll do anything he thinks he needs to do to get what he wants. Anything at all, including things he doesn’t want to do. Including violence. Including murder.”

“Ah. A monster with a conscience, then?”

“No, just a monster. If you had a conscience, you wouldn’t do the things you know are wrong. But you do them anyway.”

He gazes at me for a beat. “The world has enough heroes already. Idealists with pretty morals but weak stomachs, loud mouths but no grit. Even the noblest of wars are paid for in blood. What the world really needs are more monsters willing to get the ugly stuff done so everybody else can sleep safe at night.”

“Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?”

“Let me ask you this: If you had to kill one person, but it would save countless lives, would you do it?”

“It’s not for me to decide.”

Impatient, he shakes his head. “Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically or not, it’s God’s job to decide who lives or dies, not mine.”

He scoffs. “If there is a God, he got bored with us a long time ago. He moved on to other projects. He’s not paying attention to us anymore.”

I’ve heard this argument before, and as always, I’m not buying it.

Just because we don’t understand how something works doesn’t mean it isn’t working.

“I know it’s easier to be cynical,” I say, holding his gaze. “I know the world is filled with misery, and people hurt each other terribly, and it can feel like we’re alone. But we’re not alone. He’s always there, waiting for us to turn to him.”

I sense his growing impatience with this topic. He says, “Why should we want to turn to him? This God of yours is a petty little dictator who doesn’t deserve our worship. Have you actually read the Bible? It’s a horror story. God is a genocidal maniac. Your faith is wasted on him.”