Raze (Scarred Souls 1)

Pavel cast me a weary smile. “Back with us tonight, Kisa?”

I shrugged and helped one of the other volunteers load the care packages onto the street. When everyone was set, I scooped up my packages and headed east to where I’d spotted the man sitting on the street.

Passing three homeless people, two men, one woman, I made quick work of dispensing the care packages and turned the corner to the next block, praying I would see the man hunkered down.

Taking a deep breath, I turned onto the street and, in the farthest, darkest corner, saw a large shadow and a jar of glass glinting from the nearby streetlamp.

My heart began to race like I’d run the damn New York Marathon, and checking there was no sign of danger in my vicinity, I moved silently across the street to stand right in front of the man, his dark-gray sweatshirt in place, hood pulled low over his eyes, his body as still as stone. The jar in his hands had coins and random notes in it but it was only filled halfway to the top.

Like last night, I was immediately struck by him. This time his static position allowed me to really assess his frame. He was big. Maybe two hundred and twenty pounds, athletic looking, slightly bulkier than Alik. His black training pants were covered in dirt, and on closer inspection, I noticed his hands were covered in rough, broken skin, dried blood clearly etched into the flesh.

“Hel… hello?” I managed to ask, my voice shaking like a leaf in a storm.

He didn’t move. He looked like he was barely breathing.

I willed him to look up. I wished him to push back the thick gray material of his hood and look up at me. I had to put a face to the actions of last night. Something in my gut pushed me to make a connection, to get a name… a visual, something.

But he did nothing.

Glancing over my shoulder, I took in the quiet street and I slowly bent down, warily watching the man the whole time. He didn’t flinch. For a time, I wondered if he was deaf. Any noise I made didn’t seem to register.

“Excuse me? Are you okay?” I said, holding my breath as I waited for him to look up and reply.

Nothing.

I inched closer. “I’m with the church. You saved me last night. Do you remember? Do you need anything? More food, blankets? Would you please talk to me?”

Still nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

His gray sweatshirt was zipped up, hiding what I guessed was a broad chest. His shoulders were huge, his traps visible through the thick material. His legs were crossed as he clutched the open-topped Mason jar resting on the ground.

My heart beat furiously, my palms sweated, and I found myself reaching out to pull back the hood.

The material slid back like I was unwrapping a Christmas gift. No, it wasn’t that safe. I’d observed this man in action. He killed a man without remorse. Reaching out to him would be like putting my hand in a wild animal’s cage. I had no idea if he was a threat to me or not.

A cropping of messy sandy-colored hair emerged, followed by the most beautiful chiseled face I’d ever seen. A broad forehead, defined European cheeks, a strong jaw, perfectly full lips, and stubble covering his golden skin.

The man’s eyes remained downcast as though he hadn’t even felt the material of his hood being pushed back off his head. The only indication that he’d noticed me at all was the slight tightening of his fingers on that jar he was holding.

My breathing quickened and all I could do was stare. I was struck mute and still by his looks, his unkempt raw and rugged looks. My stomach was tightening, my hands began to shake, and my pussy began throbbing.

He was perfect—wild, rough, stern—absolute heart-stirring perfection.

“Do… do you need anything?” I asked again through a clogged throat, my voice barely a whisper. “Please, talk to me,” I begged, feeling all hope drain from my limbs. “I want to thank you for saving me.”

Again, there was no response, and I realized I wasn’t going to get anything from this man. I studied his sharply featured face. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, but with dirt and dried blood covering his face, in reality, he could have been older.

I found myself desperate to know his story. Why was here? Who was he? But his silence pushed me away. I sucked warm air into my lungs in an attempt to calm down. I didn’t know why this was so important to me. But I had to know why he was collecting money. What was it for? Did he really need help?

I kneeled there for minutes just listening to his deep breathing. Then I sighed and placed the care package of food and blankets at his feet.

“I… I’d better go,” I announced and slowly got to my feet. I was about to turn around when the man cleared his throat, and I froze.

“Mnny,” was all I heard, his gruff, deep voice unintelligible.

I turned to face him. His head was still downcast.

“What?” I asked urgently and bent down until my knees hit the ground, praying he would speak again.

His fingers gripped the jar and he tilted it up in my direction. “Money,” he growled.

I visibly shook at the deep timbre of his feral-sounding voice. It was primal, animalistic. I slapped a hand on my chest as I fought to breathe. I dipped my eyes to try and meet his, but his chin lowered until it almost touched his defined, ripped chest. He could sense I was trying to make eye contact, yet he wouldn’t let me see him.

Filling my lungs with the humid night air, feeling their ache, I asked, “Money? You need money?”

A grunt told me I had it right, and I bent down farther. “How much?”