The Wrong Kind of Love

I fall back onto the mattress, positioning my head on the pillow. “Does it look like I’m sleeping on the floor?”

“I’m not staying with you. You’re a psychopath.”

I fight a smile, my gaze leisurely rolling over her in that damn T-shirt. “Doesn’t look like you have much of a choice, doll.” And that’s a damn shame…

“I told you not to call me that.” She snatches a blanket and pillow from the bed, then tosses them on the floor with a huff.

“That floor’s gonna be cold, doll.”

“I’d rather get hypothermia than share a bed with you, dickhead.”

I fight a laugh and tell myself it’s the whiskey making me enjoy her. Because I absolutely should not enjoy anything about her volatile ass.

She drops to the floor, making a lot of noise as she yanks the covers over her. After several minutes of listening to the hum of the cicadas outside the window, I glance down at her, thinking that the angle of her neck looks uncomfortable as hell.

Blood, money, lies, that’s always been the way of my world, yet, here I lie, annoyed that I’m allowing her to sleep on the floor. This is definitely some bullshit… “How’s that floor feeling?”

“You know, you’re an asshole. If you aren’t going to let me go, you could at least hold me captive in a bloody room of my own.” She rolls over on another of her dramatic huffs.

The only empty bedroom in this house is empty for a reason. And sure sure as shit isn’t sleeping in my dead sister’s room. “There aren’t any extra rooms.”

“This house is massive. And yet I’ve spent three days inhaling the smell of sweaty balls.”

“Would you shut up?”

“Would you let me go?” Her tone is so mocking, I shouldn’t like it, but I do.

“Trust me, I’d love to get rid of you.”

“Great.” She pushes up on her elbow meeting my gaze through the darkness, and then something in her shifts. Her shoulders sag. “Look, I promise I won’t tell anyone about you.” The fiery attitude is gone, replaced with a form of desperation I don’t like because it reminds me exactly why she’s in my room.

“I can’t do that.” It’s too much of a risk. Too dangerous–at least right now.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Jude.”

Maybe to her there’s always a choice. Her world may be that simple. That black and white. But I am dealing with a thousand shades of gray she has no idea even exists.

Quiet seconds pass, ones where I attempt to ignore the gnawing in my gut.

“You’re going to eventually kill me, aren’t you?” The hopelessness to her tone hits hard, but what the hell am I supposed to do here? Killing her is the obvious solution, and I’d have already done it if my conscience wasn’t plaguing me so damn hard. “I don’t want to.”

“You didn’t say you won’t.”

“Because I’m not a liar.” And with those words, I roll over onto my side.

I may be a murderer and a thief, but I’m not a liar.

Victoria

The alarm clock on the nightstand reads two am, and I’m fighting sleep.

My back aches from sleeping on the hard floor. I feel kind of bad for Caleb sleeping down here for the last three days. Of course, Jude isn’t near as chivalrous. Although, expecting chivalry from a man who has admitted he’ll probably kill me seems slightly ridiculous. I’m glad he didn’t lie to me though. It makes my path clear, easier to bear.

My hand slips beneath the pillow, and my fingers wrap around the plastic Bic razor that I moved with me to the floor. Can I really bring myself to kill him? Not just kill him, but take his life in such a violent way.

The bedsprings creak. Footsteps pad over the floor. I assume Jude’s leaving until his shadow cuts over me. I quickly release the razor, knowing I can’t take on a wide awake Jude with only a disposable razor.

One of his hands slides under my back, the other hooks underneath my legs. He picks me up like I weigh nothing, and the heat of his bare chest bleeds into me in ways I should not like.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, panicking when he places me on his bed.

He looms over me for a beat before retreating to the pallet I made. Jude–asshole, angry, all-around, bad-guy Jude—just put me in his bed and is now sleeping on the floor.

One minute the guy has a gun to my head, and the next, he’s drying my hair and putting me in his bed. Doesn’t make him a good guy, just a guilty one. He might have stayed his hand today, but will he tomorrow?

I lie here, watching the moonlight spill over Jude’s broad, inked chest while I wait for sleep to claim him. Shadows sink into the chiseled lines of his abs. He may be a monster, but I can’t deny that he’s beautiful. And confusing. A criminal with some warped moral compass, maybe? No, he has no morality. Anything else is just wishful thinking, a pretty lie.