Parts of me hurt that have never hurt before, muscles pull and ache but in a delicious sort of way. I rub the towel across my hair as I pad back to the bedroom, wearing only Hunter’s oversized shirt. He’s lounging on the bed, snacking on the pizza we’d ordered earlier and watching some documentary on the laptop.
For a second, I think it’s all normal. That we’re like everyone else, relaxing in an evening, watching TV and eating dinner, but then I remember it’s Hunter and he’s not a normal man.
He flicks his eyes to me and smirks, looking me over fully.
“No.” I say, snatching the pizza from his hand and taking a bite of cheesy tomatoey goodness, my stomach cramping from the lack of food. I’d had a few slices before the shower, but it wasn’t enough, and the need to shower after today’s activities had ripped me away from eating. I was sticky and sweaty and sore, I needed to be clean.
He cocks a brow, “You believe I’ll let you get away with it that easily, my Isobel?”
“Stop saying my every time you say my name.” I sit at the end of the bed and cross my legs, eating the slice of pizza.
“Why, you are mine.”
I roll my eyes, “Shower, you smell like sex.”
“Mm,” he grumbles his approval. “I smell like you.”
I roll my eyes but feel him climb off the bed, bare feet padding on the floor as he approaches. He kisses me quickly, “Get some rest.”
I devour three more slices of pizza before I climb into the bed, now cleaned up with fresh sheets. The headboard was well and truly fucked. It was strange, climbing into bed, feeling the sheets covering me and smelling him every time I moved. It didn’t seem real. I was exhausted. My emotions felt drawn out and tight, and don’t get me started on the physical exhaustion I was feeling. The mattress and pillows feel like heaven beneath me, soft and warm and sleep drags down my eyelids.
There was no point in fighting it, I felt the strength in which it held me, so I let it take me, and within minutes I was asleep.
By the time I woke I already knew it was dark out, I’d slept away a good majority of the day and I could see part of the moon past the gap in the curtains. I was snuggled under blankets, any discarded pizza boxes thrown out already and the other side of the bed empty. Frowning, I search for him only to find him sat in a chair at the end of the bed, a large A3 sketch pad perched on his knees while his feet rest on the foot of the bed.
He's not looked up to see that I’m awake so for a second, I admire him, I admire is lethal beauty, all the hard, brutal edges of him that always seem to be softened by those thick black rimmed glasses. The pencil he holds scratches across the paper, his eyes glued to his art.
“Hey,” I rasp.
His eyes flick up to me, “You’re awake.”
I nod.
He brings his pencil to his mouth, the end of it running across his bottom lip, “Are you okay?”
“I think so, what are you drawing?”
He looks down the length of me, eyes snagging on the leg I have hooked over the blanket, “What I always draw.”
The drawing was a pleasant surprise, I’d noted his artist tools during those first few days but when we were at the Syndicate HQ, in those cells beneath, he didn’t draw. I didn’t even know he could.
“What I always draw,” He mumbles, repeating himself and going back to it, his pencil making that smooth scratch across the paper.
Intrigued, I crawl out from beneath the sheets, making my way down to where he sits in a chair. He glances at me, smirking.
That infuriating smirk would be the death of me, I was sure.
Peering over the top I see the dark lines of a body, hair, naked features drawn with immaculate precision but the drawing itself, it was both beautiful, and erotic. It was me.
He draws me how he saw me earlier, spread out on the sheets, legs parted and breasts arched towards the ceiling. It was as realistic as any photograph, but in a way that was rawer.
“I’ve been drawing you for years,” he whispers his confession, “It was the only way I could stay sane. I couldn’t have you physically, as much as I wanted you and this,” he flicks through the pages of his sketchbook, “This was the only way I could stay close to you. To picture you this way.”
I see each drawing, some of me sleeping, others where I’m literally breaking apart, tears streaming, others where I’m in more precarious positions, hand between the legs or head between them, dark hair but no facial features to see.
“These are all me.”
“It was always you.” He says quietly, suddenly subdued, “Only you.”
“Hunter.”
His eyes bounce to mine.
“Why?”
“Because you’re my somebody, Snow.” He runs his fingers over the pencil lines on the paper, smearing the lead, “My only.”
“Even after…?” I trail off. I didn’t want to say it. The thought alone hurt and the lies and betrayal, it stung. I didn’t know if I could forget it, I didn’t know if it would get easier. What he did, it wasn’t something so easily erased. He hurt me and while it wasn’t the same as the others, it cut me deeper because I trusted him.
He may be right in saying it wasn’t him I was desperate for revenge against, but it hurt, nonetheless.
“Especially after,” He lays the sketchpad down, “My days only went on because of you.”
He approaches, leaning down to curl a finger beneath my chin, “If I have to prove it to you for the rest of my life, I will, Isobel, if I have to get down on my knees, I will, what I did, how I lied, I’ve never forgiven myself and I never will. I will never stop making it right. I will never stop punishing those who hurt you. My hands are stained with blood and my soul blackened with the sins I’ve committed, and I’d still carry on. I didn’t care where I ended up as long as you were happy. I need you to understand that.”
I swallow.
“I will always be a monster. I know that. I don’t pretend to be anything else, but for you, I will be more.” He kisses the side of my face, a gentle chaste touch and a stark contrast to his heavy words, “I’ll be your monster.”
My throat works but he doesn’t take his eyes off me.
“I don’t expect your forgiveness now, Isobel, but in time, I will show you. I will prove to you it’s only ever been you, and will only ever be you.”
“I didn’t stop,” I croak.
His brows draw down in confusion, “Stop?”
“Loving you,” I admit, “I hated you, but I loved you all the same.”
His face softens.
We were built on treachery and lies, on betrayal and heartbreak but he was the air I breathe, the dreams, I dream. I couldn’t be without him even if it hurt to be with him.
His thumb smooths across my jaw, “Together, baby, together we will punish them all. And once that’s done, when it’s over I’m going to show you what life can be like. It’s you and me, it always has been.”
I nod, lost for words.
“I have a lot of plans, but I have a lot to tell you,” he kisses me again, “Do you feel up for a story?”
“What kind?”
The grin he gives me is nothing short of menacing, “Of how I’ve spent three years bringing down the enemy of course.”
“The Syndicate will always be.”
“No, Snow, they will not, taking them down is a slow process, a slow kill. Make the cracks, weaken the foundation and you’ll see them shatter.”
“How?”
He chuckles, “You think that everything that has happened is pure coincidence?” He shakes his head, “Oh, my sweet Snow, I’ve planned it all. They think themselves the mastermind but me, I’ve been one step ahead, and everyone has simply been a pawn in a very long game.”
He must read the confusion on my face because he straightens himself, rolling his shoulders and placing his sketchpad and pencils on the side. He disappears from the room for a few minutes before coming back with two glasses and a bottle of red tucked under his arm.
“Settle in, baby, I have a story to tell.”