Dark Savior: A Dark Bad Boy Romance (13 page)

I sit down next to her and let go of her arm. She relaxes instantly, rubbing the place where I grabbed her.

"How did you get the key?" I ask.

She frowns at me. "Why is that—"

"Because I asked!" I snap at her.

She's right, it shouldn't matter this much, but it does to me. I hate to be outwitted and it rarely ever happens. The fact that she managed to take something from me without me knowing about it makes me seething mad. It proves that I've been inattentive. Things like this are not supposed to happen to me, and especially not with a girl like her.

"I took it while you were in the bathroom," she says, lowering her eyes. "Yesterday. You know, after we..."

"Of course," I say. "How very cunning."

She casts me an angry look, but doesn't say anything.

"Why?" I want to know next. "Don't you have other things to worry about?"

She shakes her head. "I was curious, and you wouldn't tell me anything."

"Did it ever occur to you that I may have good reasons for not  telling you?" I want to know.

She shrugs her shoulders, her eyes still lowered.

"Look at me," I command.

As always, she obeys like a trained puppy. I expect her eyes to be watery, threatening to burst out in tears at any moment. But she just looks at me with that stony fear, a mixture of someone who's both scared and determined at the same time.

"Whatever you saw in there wasn't meant for your eyes," I say. "You should forget about it, for your own safety. Forget about everything you saw and any conclusions you may have drawn from it."

She shakes her head. "You can't honestly believe that it's going to work that way."

Of course I didn't believe that. But what am I supposed to do here? Lie to her? She may be naive and innocent, but she’s not stupid. I don’t know much about Meadow, but I’m pretty certain that her life has been no walk in the park so far. She’s no spoiled princess who simply got bored with life. But whatever she went through probably doesn’t measure up to the things I’ve been involved in. Or so I hope.

“It’s for your own safety,” I repeat. “The more you know, the more you’re in danger.”

“In danger?” she asks. “What should I be afraid of? You? The police?”

She huffs. “Trust me, whatever danger you say I might be in, it can’t be worse than the things I’m imagining right now.”

I clear my throat and turn away from her. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

She’s not going to let it go. I have to come up with something. A lie, a story, something that will satisfy her for the time being.

“Your name is Kaden?” she asks in a soft voice.

It is. But no one ever calls me that. No one ever did — except for her, the person who gave that name to me. My mother never understood why I didn’t like to be called Kaden by anyone but her. She didn’t have to understand. The name sounds soft in my ears. Every time I hear or see it, I can hear her voice, my mother’s loving tone as she called for me, consoled me, lectured me. There’s an undeniable weakness to the name, a weakness I had no use for out on the streets, or even in business.

Hearing Meadow say the name out loud stirs the kind of emotion I’ve been so careful to get rid of, avoid. It’s a sense of home, of warmth and intimacy that didn’t have a place in my life for so long.

“It is,” I say. “But most people call me Kade.”

“Okay,” she says, and that’s that. I expected more follow-up questions, but instead she skips to the next topic and another set of questions.

“What do you do?” she wants to know. “For a living, I mean. What’s your job?”

“Nothing at the moment,” I reply truthfully.

She sighs. “Do you work for the police?”

“Why do you ask?”

I decide to give her a chance. In the end, it may be better to let her ask her questions instead of coming up with my own story. After all, I don’t even know how much she’s seen and what she thinks. If I let her ask the questions, I can steer the conversation in the direction I want it to go.

“There were photos,” she says. “Of a man, taken from afar. The kind of pictures a stalker would take.”

“A stalker, hmmm,” I repeat. “Do you think that’s what I am?”

She shakes her head. “How should I know?”

Our eyes meet and I see hers are pleading with me. A silent plead for the truth.

“Did you take those photos?” she asks.

I didn’t. “No. A friend of mine did.”

“Why do you have them?”

“We were working on something together,” I say, knowing how cryptic that must sound to her.

She arches her eyebrows. “Working on… what?”

“Dealing with a problem.”

She gulps audibly. “Was… the man a problem?”

I nod. “He was.”

“Oh my God,” she whispers, as I can see horror and realization travel across her pale face.

She clears her throat and nervously looks back and forth between me and her fingertips. I must be crazy, but a part of me really wants her to know. I've been living with this secret for so long. The things I've done — I wish I could be proud of them, but I'm not. It's always been due to a sense of necessity and duty, a strong will to protect those who couldn't protect themselves. Pride feels different.

Meadow's mind is working frantically. I can see that there's a question shaping behind her pretty forehead, but she isn't ready to ask it out loud. She's afraid of the answer, just like my mother always was.

"The less you know, the better for you," I say, my voice low and deep.

"I understand what you're saying," she retorts, now looking at me through big eyes. She straightens up, pulling her shoulders back and taking in a deep breath before she says, "You killed a man."

It's not a question, but a bold statement. There's no need for me to give her an answer, and she doesn't wait for one.

"You got rid of a problem by killing someone," she clarifies. There's disgust in her voice, and I can't blame her.

"What did he do to deserve that?" she asks.

I shake my head. "You don't need to know—"

"Yes, I do!" she interrupts. I'm startled by the unfamiliar volume of her voice. She locks me down with her alert stare, forming fists with her small hands as she silently demands a truthful answer.

"You've told me this much," she hisses. "You might as well tell me the rest."

I furl my eyebrows at her. All right then. If she wants to give me a chance to come clean, I'll take it. Let's see how she deals with it.

"He was a bad man," I start. "A murderer and a rapist."

She inhales audibly, causing me to pause. All the color suddenly disappears from her face and her breathing accelerates.

"See,” I say. "I told you, you wouldn't like it."

She shakes her head.

"So... how could you be sure?" she asks. "How did you know that he did all that stuff?"

"Research," I say. "He was convicted for some of his crimes, but they let him go. That happens a lot. They catch guys like him just to let them go a few months later because there's lack of evidence or witnesses chicken out or some branch of the mob is protecting them for one reason or another. Shit like that happens all the fucking time around here."

I stop my rambling, trying to calm down. My hands are clenched into fists, my knuckles white. The reality of why I felt the need to do these things always gets to me. It makes me angry, furious with rage. Hopeless. The certainty of things like this happening again and again leaves a black mark on my heart, no matter how many scumbags I kill. That's why I'd stopped when I left town years ago — only to come back now and pick up where I left off.

"Street justice," she whispers. "You just did what a lot of people feel like doing."

Her expression has changed. She no longer looks terrified or angry. She sits on the barstool next to me, her shoulders slumped and her eyes watery with tears.

"I understand that feeling," she adds. "That wish to annihilate an asshole like that."

I look at her, unsure what to say. Is she a victim herself? Did I just unintentionally strike a chord with her?

My blood is boiling at the thought of it.

"What were you doing at that bridge?" she asks, startling me with the question. She looks up at me, fighting back the tears that are already there threatening to burst out from the corners of her eyes. She doesn't want to cry in front of me because I've scolded her for it before. Yet, she can't stop the pain from taking over.

I shake my head. "You don't wanna’ kn—"

"Yes, I do!" she yells. "God damn it, Kaden, I found your notes. I know you weren't just passing by on your way to somewhere else. I know that bridge was your destination, and I know that you went there to dump something."

She pauses, breathing heavily as tears start trickling down her cheeks.

"Or... someone," she adds, her voice daunting and hoarse.

She knows. She knows, but she wants me to confirm her suspicion. Why did I leave all that stuff there out in the open? How could I think that a locked door was enough to keep it away from her — or anyone else for that matter? I've never been this careless before. I'd always erased every single piece of evidence, but this time I'd failed. I was too distracted by her presence. I've been here every fucking day, but I only went in that room to get more clothing for her, and every time I saw the notes on my desk, I'd told myself that I would take care of it later. Later never happened. The notes, the gun, the photos, everything was forgotten as soon as I walked out the door to be with Meadow again.

She clears her throat. "Tell me, Kaden. On that day, did you drive all the way to the bridge to get rid of a problem?"

Our eyes meet and I find myself incapable of lying to her.

I nod. "Yes."

She inhales deeply.

"So, you had a corpse with you when we met?"

"That's correct."

Her face distorts in disgust. She starts shivering, fighting off another wave of tears.

"Oh my God, Kaden...," she breathes.

"Kade," I insist. "Call me Kade."

She casts me an angry look. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

That's that. Hearing her call me by the name only my mother has been allowed to use puts me in a place I don't want to be. A place of weakness that I thought I'd escaped.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Meadow

He’s a murderer. While I suspected he was involved in something scary, I didn’t want to believe that it could be this bad.

Yes, he has killed bad men, the kind of men who didn’t deserve to live.

But it’s still murder.

I’m in the hands of a man who’s capable of killing. It’s just like he said: I’m his guest, at his mercy.

However, he did say that I was free to go at any time.

I observe him, pondering my options as my unwelcome tears begin to dry. He reciprocates my look with anticipation. He looks as strong and in control as always, but there’s worry in his eyes. Worry that I might turn him in? Or worry that I might run away from him? Both options stand to reason.

But I don’t feel drawn to either. I’m pained by the revelation that Kade —— or Kaden — has a secret so dark and gruesome that it’s impossible to ignore. Yet, I feel drawn to him. I want him to be my protector, my hero.

However, he’s a dangerous man. How can I be sure that he only turns his lethal fury against the bad guys?

“I want to leave,” I tell him, trying to sound determined and firm, but my voice fails me miserably. Instead, I sound like the confused little girl I am. I don’t want to leave, but I feel that I should.

He huffs. “And go where?”

His question scares me. We look at each other like two trapped animals, the only difference being that he’s the stronger one. He’s in charge, and I know I won’t be able to get out of his reach if he doesn’t want me to.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “Away from you.”

He shakes his head and gets up from the barstool.

“I’m afraid I can’t let that happen,” he says, standing tall next to me. His stature is intimidating to begin with, but under the current situation, it frightens me even more. “Not with everything you know.”

I hold my breath as I try to come up with a possible response to his intimidating behavior. But as soon as the thought of evading his grip and running towards the unlocked door even crosses my mind, he is on to me. My eyes scurry to the door behind him, but before I have a chance to act on my idea, he has me in a tight grip, wrapping his strong arms around me in a hug that could be seen as loving if it wasn’t for the possessive control he wields.

I flinch at his touch, instinctively struggling in his embrace, but he holds me in place as if he was calming me down from a nervous fit. I inhale his smell and am immediately reminded of my infatuation with him. His touch, his smell — it still soothes me, even now.

It doesn’t change the fact that he is a murderer. A fucked up man who thinks he has the power to decide who may live or die. I’ve always been opposed to the death penalty and I don’t believe normal citizens — or even victims — should take the law into their own hands.

Although, I know I couldn’t vouch for myself had Sonya’s murderer ever stood before me. Cutting that asshole’s throat would have been my pleasure.

“You said I was free to leave,” I say, my voice muffled by his shirt, pressed against his buff chest.

“You were,” he says. “But not anymore.”

I yelp in surprise when he lifts me up and carries me over to the sofa. Normally, I would wrap my legs around his waist and place my arms around his neck, falling victim to a wild kiss while he carries me to wherever he plans to fuck me. Today, he’s carrying me like a sack of rice. My arms and legs are dangling awkwardly and carrying me must be a lot harder for him than usual. But my weight is no match for his strength, and he carries me just as easily as always. I’m nothing more than a rag doll in his arms.

He puts me on the couch and sinks into the cushions next to me. I’m free of his grip, and for a moment, I even consider darting over to the door, but two things keep me from doing so. First, I know I wouldn’t make it. He would grab hold of me before I could even jump up from the couch. Second, I don’t want to. Being so close to him has cast a familiar spell over me. The spell that binds me to this man and his dark attraction. Whatever ferocious deeds he’s been involved in, I’m pretty sure that he’d never hurt me. On the contrary, in a way his savage story makes me feel safe with him.