Ripped Veil

Chapter 4 Episode 4

There’s no denying that the dark-haired man is a devil. It’s radiating from every inch of him—raw, brutal power. The way he spoke to me, the way he grabbed me, the pure fury in his eyes when I first opened the door.

And yet, of the two, he’s the less threatening one. Because even though his words—“I asked who the f**k you are”—hit me like a whiplash, there was something almost like concern dancing on the edge of them.

“You going to shoot me, Ozol?” my dark-haired protector asks. “Before we’ve even discussed terms?”

“Discussed terms?” the man called Ozol asks. “Something tells me that you don’t want to discuss terms at all.”

He looks at the gun in Ozol’s hand without the slightest trace of fear. It may as well be a toy for all the effect it has on him. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I know you’ve been keeping tabs on me for a while now,” Ozol says. “Did you really think I wouldn’t be doing the same with you?”

“Find anything interesting?”

Ozol smiles. I shiver automatically. It’s a disgusting, sinister smile. He makes my skin crawl, without reason or explanation.

“I’ve discovered a vendetta you’ve decided to lay at my feet. Unjustly so.”

“You’re going to stand there and deny it?”

“That is exactly what I’m doing,” he snarls.

My protector looks furious. But even in his state of fury, he contains his reaction. He doesn’t give into hysteria like I would have. He’s the kind of man that Father Josiah would have been impressed by.

Father Josiah. Just thinking about him sends me into a tailspin of guilt.

I glance down to my bloodied fingers, and I have the sudden urge to rip them from my hand.

My vision blurs, but I’m not crying. Truth be told, I don’t think I have any more tears left to cry. On top of that, the fogginess keeps draping over me in waves at the most unexpected times. Sometimes, I feel as though I’ve got my bearings, and just then, my body seems to quit on me.

It’s his voice that pulls me back from the horrific truth of my sins—of what I’m running from.

“You may have everyone else fooled, Ozol. But I know who you are. I know how you make your money.”

“My dealings don’t concern you.”

“They have in the past.”

“I had nothing to do with their deaths. You ought to run a tighter organization, Kovalyov.”

Deaths? I seize up, caught between wanting to know more and wanting to never hear another word either of these men speak.

“I’ll ask you again…” Ozol begins, his tone twisting into darkness.

For some reason, it reminds me of Father Josiah when he was angry. That didn’t happen often. But when it did, it was like a rolling storm that sent bolts of lightning down in every direction. Purposeful and merciless.

“…Who is the girl?”

His light blue eyes land on me.

I duck back behind the sleek leather armchair, but I don’t quite manage to make myself small enough to disappear completely.

“I already told you,” my protector growls. “She has nothing to do with this.”

“I find that hard to believe. You came here to kill me,” Ozol says. “Is the girl meant to be a distraction?”

“The girl is what I said she is,” he replies. “Just an innocent bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time. But you’re right about the first part—I’m exactly where I intended to be.”

I scream when the first gunshot pierces through the relative silence.

All I can register is fear.

Not for myself—but for the dark-haired man who decided to protect me when he could’ve fed me right to the beast.

I scramble forward, ignoring the voice in my head that’s telling me to stay put. I expect to see him on the floor, blood pouring from his body.

But I realize he hasn’t been hit at all.

He’s feinted to the side, his body moving with a grace that belies his massive stature.

“Mikal! Vlad!” Ozol screams as he fires off another round of bullets.

I look up in time to see my protector fling the knife in his hand. It twists through the air, with an aim so true that I marvel at the technique.

The knife bites into Ozol’s gun-wielding arm. His weapon clatters to the floor a few feet from me. My first instinct is to recoil from it. I’ve never held a gun in my life. I don’t intend to start now.

But fear is not an option. And despite the pounding in my head, I’m not naïve enough to believe that doing nothing is an answer.

I can’t bring myself to pick it up, so I kick the gun towards my protector. It spins across the floor, dragging in the carpet but still managing to get to within his reach.

His hand lances out so fast that by the time I’ve blinked, he’s grabbed the gun and bounced up on his feet.

I grip the broad back of the armchair and use it to pull myself upright. My legs are still weak and wobbly. The two guards that Ozol yelled for come hurtling in at the door. But Ozol has disappeared, leaving behind only a few droplets of his blood.

My protector shoots three times. The first bullet misses, but the second two both strike the first guard in the chest. He plummets to the ground immediately, leaving the path clear to the second guard.

The man’s features go slack with fear. He acts to survive, not to attack.

Unfortunately for me, I’m part of his plan.

He lunges to the side and grabs me, forcing me in front of him. My back is pressed against his chest, and now I’m facing my protector. Somehow, despite all the chaos erupting around me, that’s what keeps me calm.

Until the haze kicks in again. My vision blurs behind another bout of dizziness and his features swim before me for a moment.

“Let her go,” I hear him growl. “Or I will kill you slowly.”

“Let me go and I won’t hurt her,” the man behind me bargains.

My protector’s eyes narrow with dangerous promise. “You’re f*****g with the wrong man, mudak.”

“Spare me and I’ll let her go,” he practically yells in my ear. “I swear it!”

“Very well,” my protector nods. “Let her go now.”

The bodyguard shoves me forward into the man’s arms. My cheek collides the hard muscle of his chest as he clutches me close. I have long enough to register his smell—a dark, swirling cologne mixed with the faintest hint of whiskey—before another sound erupts just inches from my ear.

The sound of a gunshot.

I scream. Then, trembling, I look up at him.

My protector’s face is impassive, his eyes hooded. It’s his darkness that makes him so beautiful. In my delirium, I think about telling him exactly that.

But a question comes out instead.

“You killed him?”

He nods. “Yes.”

I start to turn, but he wrenches me back towards him. One hand on my jaw, forcing me to look at his eyes and not at the bleeding corpses behind me.

“But… he let me go,” I whisper in a tiny voice. “You promised you’d spare him.”

“Some promises are not worth keeping,” he rumbles. “Come.”

I don’t look down when I step over the two bodies lying on the stained carpet. I just walk blindly, allowing myself to be pulled by my protector.

I know I should be scared of him. But I’m not.

Then again, I’m not myself at the moment. I’m someone else.

A woman who set a fire to cover up a murder.

A woman who ran without a backward glance.

A woman without a home or a family or a name.

So when he opens a door and pushes me through, I go willingly.

It takes me a moment to recognize where we are. It looks like a bathroom, but it drips of opulent luxury. The taps and faucets are gold. The tile is marble. The high ceiling bears clusters of glittering stars, hundreds of them. It reminds me of the candles in the bedroom I left behind and I almost vomit at the thought.

CLICK. I glance behind me to see that my protector is locking the door.

When he turns to me, I freeze, suddenly aware of the fact that we’re strangers. Just because he hasn’t hurt me so far doesn’t mean he won’t do it now.

“Should I be scared of you?” I ask, my voice trembling.

His eyes flash. “No.”

He doesn’t offer me any evidence, but I don’t need it. For some godforsaken reason, I believe him.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“I… I wish I knew,” I say, a tear slipping loose from the corner of my eye.

It’s a stupid answer, but an honest one. Who am I anymore? I’m no longer Elyssa Redmond. I’m a killer in the night. A ghost in the desert.

“You don’t know?”

“Not anymore.”

I stare down at my hands, wondering when my fall from grace really began. There’s so much I can’t remember. And at the same time, there’s so much I wish I could forget.

He moves closer to me. This time, I don’t back away. I don’t want to. There’s something comforting about his presence. Something that soothes the jagged edges of my anxiety.

“You’ve been through something,” he guesses.