Chapter 2
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She ends up kneeling in his hotel room, a penitent seeking absolution.
She wants the fight, needs it.
She wants to be taken down, to be beaten, to be conquered. To be forced to submit.
She knows he won’t be happy when he sees her. She wonders herself whether she’s done all this to try to make him angry, to try to push him into punishing her. She hopes he’ll be angry. She wants something to fight against. She wants him to conquer her but she wants to go down swinging.
She’s weaving very slightly. Everything seems more pronounced. Her vision sharper, more defined, but only in small areas. The rest falls away, blurred and indistinct. She blames the whisky. She’s not drunk but she’s not far off. The adrenaline of the past few hours wearing off steadily, leaving her once clear mind struggling, lagging trying to catch up. He doesn’t like it when she drinks. He knows that she needs it sometimes, that she resorts to it to cast her mind into oblivion for a short while. It lets her sleep without dreaming, lets her rest undisturbed by the usual nightmares that plague her. He saw her with the bottle. His disapproving eyebrow said everything he wanted it to say for him. She couldn’t stay at the bar and drink in front of him. She felt guilty enough disobeying his silent order. She couldn’t have remained within range of that eyebrow and continued to drink it. She’d fled to the relative safety of her room to gorge herself. She needed the oblivion more than she wanted to please him.
She should have stayed sober. She could have come to him sober and he’d have helped. He’d have distracted her, taken her more pleasurably to the oblivion she craved. Still craves. The alcohol was insufficient to grant her the peace of blacking out.
She should have gone back to the bar, should have drunk more. She could have convinced the barman to give her another bottle... maybe. She shouldn’t have come to him drunk. He’ll be disappointed in her, maybe even angry. Frustrated with her. It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last.
She can feel the cool trail of another man’s cum running down the back of her thigh. He won’t be happy about that. They’ve never specified that others are off limits. They’ve never agreed to be exclusive. He’ll know from the way she was eyeing up the patrons in the bar, evaluating, considering, that she’s taken another to her bed this evening. But he won’t be happy about it.
She should have cleaned up. It’s disrespectful to come to him after another. It’s worse to appear dripping with another man’s cum. Worse still that she’s betrayed him with his team. She should have waited. Should have found another. She hadn’t liked the look of any in the hotel bar. Too classy a place for her usual targets. She needed a muscle bound bad boy, a biker type maybe. Someone hard, violent. Someone who would hold her down, take her hard and fast and not care about the bruises she dealt back in return. There was no one suitable in the hotel bar.
She should have gone somewhere else but she worried to leave her team unprotected. She almost snorts aloud at that thought. She’s hardly protection for her team in this state. Hell, she’s hardly capable of protecting them stone cold sober and fully alert. Time and again she’s been outclassed, outnumbered, out... powered? She’s not as good as they think she is. She can’t protect them. Can’t protect any of them. She’s a killer not a protector. A monster under the bed they don’t think is scary. But they should. They should be afraid of her.
She shouldn’t have picked him. No matter how desperate she was for a fight, she shouldn’t have picked him. He’s a team mate, that’s the first and the last in a long line of many reasons. It’s important not to screw up the team dynamics. Huh, screw it up by screwing around. Morbidly appropriate.
She picked him because he’s capable. He’s well trained. He has the badges, the commendations in his record. More than she has in hers. He’s much bigger than her, taller, higher muscle mass, younger. He should be able to take her on without suffering too many injuries. He should be able to win. That’s important. She needs to go down fighting.
She picked him because he’s angry. He’s held the staff. He sees things, his demons haunting him just as her own haunt her. It makes him angry. It makes him powerful. She can guarantee that he’ll be up for the fight. She wants him angry enough to hurt her. She can only hope that she doesn’t hurt him too badly as he takes her down. She doesn’t want to have to explain the injuries. He doesn’t like it when his team gets injured.
She picked him for the fight, the sex a secondary consideration – justification for the primary objective. Can’t go around letting everyone see the monster. It’s more acceptable to have passionately rough sex than to simply beat on a person until they break.
She didn’t get the fight she wanted. She shouldn’t have picked him.
Her forehead stings as she frowns at her thoughts, the small stitches pulling against taught skin. He’s going to be angry about that. Both the cause and her failure to come to him for help. She didn’t do it to make him angry. At least, she doesn’t think she did it deliberately to cause him to be angry with her. As she lay there beside Ward trying not to think, trying to pass a body that should have been exhausted over into the realms of sleep, her heart continued to pound, her adrenaline up demanding the fight that he’d failed to give her. She’d left to satisfy that craving. She hadn’t intended to cause a fight when she’d left. She’d gone in search of another, one more able hopefully to satisfy her craving. She’d been unsuccessful again at the hotel bar despite the later hour – the only patron likely to be strong enough to take her down was the bartender. A woman who didn’t give her a second glance despite her black leathered attire she decided was most likely straight. Not impossible as a potential target but the glinting wedding band on her left hand classified her untouchable. Some rules aren’t meant to be broken. She should have stayed anyway. Should have had another drink.
She shouldn’t have gone out seeking a fight, concerns about protecting the team somehow vanished from her mind at the hope of a little fresh air and a lot of violence. He’ll hate her for letting loose the monster on unsuspecting civilians. She’d wandered in the cold air of the night, let her feet tap out staccato beats on the slightly uneven pavement. After a few blocks she was drawn by the beat of a heavy base, the sound almost hypnotic, thrumbing up from the paving slabs, tempting her closer. The bar she descended into was a dive. A veritable hive of scum and villainy shrouded in the acrid throat burning smoke of not-exactly-tobacco. She found her way to a back wall to assess, surprised almost that her mind was capable of making an assessment in this darkened hole given the amount she’d drunk.
She didn’t pick them. That’s her only saving grace in this situation. She didn’t choose to engage them in conversation. She didn’t pick them out of a line up, didn’t strut over to them as she might have wanted, didn’t grab up one of the many pool cues to crack over their heads. She kinda wishes now that she had done... but it’s her only mitigating factor for the incident that followed: they approached her. Three ‘tough guys’. Big. Muscled. Exactly what she needed. They paid for more drinks, intending to lower inhibitions that had long since fled. She cut through the bull shit small talk, picked one to annoy the others. Keen to start a fight even if it didn’t encompass her. The other two laughed it off, unusually congenial, disappearing back into the gloom of the club. It left her with a problem she didn’t really anticipate having to deal with. She couldn’t take this one back to the hotel. He wasn’t safe to bring around her team even if she’d a room free to use. She wasn’t so far gone that she’d consider just anywhere. She made her excuses and left.
She wasn’t intending them to follow. That’s her second excuse. She didn’t pick them and she didn’t want them to hunt her down as she left. She was looking for a fight but she didn’t manipulate the situation into one. Except maybe she did. Maybe she sought out such a place, locked eyes with them each across the bar, made promises in subtle glances, shifts of clothing to reveal skin, enticing and tempting. Maybe she wanted them to follow her. Maybe she picked them out specifically because they’d be more likely to do so. She wanted the fight. It’s not unheard of for her to manipulate her way into one.
She shouldn’t have led them down the alley. She should have stayed on the well lit pavement, should have continued at a steady pace back to the hotel, stayed in sight of civilisation until safely back inside. She should have ducked back into the bar for witnesses, called a cab, called the police. She shouldn’t have played the scared rabbit for them, shouldn’t have played nervous, shouldn’t have led them on a chase, heightening their adrenaline as they hunted her as much as her own as she fled. It was unfair for her to play their own physiologies against them, bolting down the dark alley ostensibly to hide.
She didn’t ask them to attack her. Surely that gains her some credit. She defended herself. She didn’t start the fight. Except maybe she did. Maybe she pushed them into it a little, goaded them verbally until one of them finally grabbed for her arm, gave her the excuse to beat on him. Hands and feet flying, striking at non-crucial areas as she stutters between the three of them. Laughing as she spits blood from between sharp teeth to the filthy ground when one finally lands a good blow. Enjoying herself. The violence surges up inside her, eyes wild as she takes more hits, the pain forcing her mind to concentrate clearly on the here and now. Pain blinding white. Intensity blanks her mind. No memories of blood and death can touch her as she deals in the immediacy of now.
The crack of a head against stone makes her shudder, hesitating as she looks down hoping that he’s not too hurt from the fall she didn’t intend to push him back into. She stops the fight immediately, fear that the monster has taken another victim drowning out the battle cries urging her on. Steps back away out of range. The other two don’t attack, hands raised in the almost universal sign for peace. She knows a few places where extended arms is a threat. But not here. Not now. They want out. She can tell from their position near the opening to the alleyway that they’ve probably been attempting a defended retreat but she hasn’t given them the chance. It’s a sickening realisation. He’s breathing, pulse steady enough when she finally summons the courage to check. She calls it in, ambulance just in case. Anonymous of course.
She should have been more careful.
She shouldn’t have engaged civilians in a fight. She knows he won’t be happy when she confesses. Even if she is just cleaning up the streets of trash, just teaching a lesson to scum about the possible consequences of attacking a seemingly defenceless woman. He won’t be happy at the risk she took, howsoever limited against untrained opponents. He won’t be happy at the blows she let through simply to feel the pain.
She should feel better from the fight.
She shouldn’t feel hollow. Numb.
Even now.
Back then the numbness had translated to staggering legs ungracefully hurrying her back to the hotel more quickly than she’d left, dodged the notice of anyone else as she made it to one of the bathrooms, tidied up as much as possible. No need to scare the residents.
The stitches hurt. She deserved it. A minor punishment as she forced needle and thread repeatedly through skin with the aid of an unclear mirror and less than steady hands. She’ll have to get Simmons to sterilise the wound later. He won’t like it if she gets an infection from the unclean needle and sewing kit thread. He won’t like that she’s sewn it full stop.
She should have gone to him as soon as she returned to the hotel. She should have let him clean and treat her wounds. She didn’t deserve the comfort. She didn’t want it.
She shouldn’t be here now. She shouldn’t have come to him.
She doesn’t deserve his comfort. She can’t cope with his compassion. She doesn’t want it. She doesn’t. Except maybe she does.
She’s here anyway.
She can feel water gathering heavily in the corners of her eyes. She refuses to let tears fall down her face. She’s caused this. She’s a monster.
She can taste the dried blood on the back of her tongue. Bitter. Sickening. The memories continue their merrygoround in her head. The girl. The recoil across stiffened muscles as the gun fires. The blood. So much blood.
She can’t stop the tear from falling in her self-imposed position of penitence at the foot of his bed. She can’t stop the gasping sob that escapes as she tries to inhale silently.
She’s not sure how long she kneels in darkness wishing for him to wake and save her before he does so.
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