REAPER (Boston Underworld Book 2) (4 page)

Chapter Four

Sasha

W
hen I get home from work, Amy is waiting for me like always. But she isn’t flipping through a magazine. She isn’t doing anything at all. She’s sitting at the table, hands folded together and her gaze fixed on the doorway when I come in.

I set down my bags and my eyes dart around the room, seeking out five things. Just five little things to keep me grounded. Anything to keep me from teetering off the edge of despair. But it doesn’t seem to work anymore.

Everything in this apartment reminds me of my Ma. Her oven mitts, her apron, even her happy fern which is now sulking in the corner of the windowsill. She’ll never see or touch these things again. Every night I go through this. Wondering if this is going to be the night Amy tells me it happened. That she slipped away, and I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. I don’t have time to prepare myself either way before Amy fills me in.

“She took a turn today,” she says softly. “There are some signs of infection. Most likely pneumonia.”

I collapse into one of the kitchen chairs, but I can’t find the words to respond. I’ve already been warned of the likelihood of something like this happening. I know what an infection in her state can do. What it will do. But it still feels like the rug has been ripped out from beneath me. Like I haven’t had time to prepare.

It doesn’t matter how informed you are, or how long you know it’s coming. I’ll never be ready for her to go. Even if it is the best thing for her. Even if she’s in pain and it’s selfish of me to want to keep her here.

“So what happens now?” I ask.

“We’ll continue to monitor her,” Amy explains in a gentle tone. “She doesn’t want any antibiotics, so we’ve increased her dosage so she can rest. But it means she’ll be out of it. You should call Emily and tell her to come now.”

I nod and a tear escapes my eye, falling down my cheek and splashing against the table. The table where we all used to eat as a family. I have the sudden urge to break it. To see it piled up like matchsticks. Instead, I settle for scratching my nail against the wood, marring it.

Amy stands up to leave, but gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before she goes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

The front door closes, and the only sound in the apartment is the machine from the other room. But I can’t go in there. Not tonight. I can’t see her so close, but so far away.

So I walk to the closet and rifle through the jackets until I find what I’m looking for. The black suit jacket hidden in the back is yanked off the hanger and brought to my face. His scent has long since faded, but I like to pretend it’s there. This pathetic little ritual of mine is one of the only comforts I have left in this life. It’s amazing how when your world is so dark and unsettled how you can find comfort in the smallest of things. This material comforts me. But it has nothing to do with the jacket itself and everything to do with the memory it invokes.

My dark prince. The reaper. The man who spilled blood for me without pause. For that reason alone he’ll always be on a pedestal that no other can reach. He’ll always be the memory I revisit in my darkest of times.

I sneak out the front door and walk down the hall of our building, opening the door to the stairwell. Every step I take towards the top burns my legs after a full night of dancing, but I forge on. When I reach the rooftop door, my arms are so weak I can barely open it. But I do.

And with each step that echoes off the cracked cement, I feel better. The air that fills my lungs is cool and crisp. Clean and unsullied. That’s why I love it up here. The fact that I can see the entire city doesn’t hurt either. I like to count the streets leading out of it. Imagining myself on one of those roads, going somewhere. Anywhere but here.

I find my usual spot up against the brick wall and sit down, curling my knees into my chest and wrapping Ronan’s coat tighter around me. My head falls back against the cool brick and I glance up at the stars, trying to piece together constellations in the night sky. But just like my life, they are nothing but a jumbled up map of dots that don’t connect, and they only leave more unexplained questions.

I don’t know how long I sit there for. After a while, my body grows numb from the cold. My shoulders and eyes are both heavy with exhaustion, and I know I should go back inside. But I can’t find the energy to move. To care about anything. So I let my eyelids drift shut for just a moment to rest and sleep swiftly carries me to another place and time.

***

“Apologize,” Blaine orders. “And I’ll forgive you.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him robotically.

This is one of his favorite games. Humiliation is just one of the many weapons in his arsenal of torture. And there is never forgiveness to be had, no matter how small the slight, or in most cases- how imaginary.

His dark irises are completely overshadowed by the blackness of his pupils, and that’s how I know he’s on the verge of another rage. He always gets agitated, restless, and his eyes go black. I can see these events coming now. Others look at him and think he’s just in a bad mood. But I know different. I know that bad mood will build and build inside of him until there’s nothing but pure rage, and that eventually, it’s going to explode on me.

I glance up at him, waiting for the next poisonous arrow he will fling my way. I’m so tired. Physically and emotionally exhausted. I’m living my life from one breath to the next. My body and mind have shut down, but there’s no escaping this hell.

I invited chaos into my life the moment I agreed to his relentless requests for a date. He was obsessed with me the moment he saw me. Back then, I was young enough to be flattered by it. I keep thinking that maybe if I hadn’t accepted, things could be different. That he would have moved on. But somehow, I know that isn’t true.

What Blaine wants, Blaine gets. By any means necessary.

I don’t know what he sees in me. But it’s something he needs to have. It doesn’t mean he loves me. It doesn’t even mean he’s exclusive to me. Blaine fucks whoever he wants wherever he wants… but still he demands that he owns every part of me. It’s never enough though. There will never be enough of me to satisfy him.

I used to be one of those people who couldn’t understand how women could get themselves into a relationship like this. Or how they would stay. But it isn’t that simple. It’s never been simple with Blaine.

Fighting with him is like fighting with a child. Only, one who is prone to violent outbursts. He keeps me in check by holding Emily and my mother over my head. I know what he’ll do to them. There isn’t a scrap of doubt in my mind about that. I’m trapped in his clutches, and I may as well have signed my own death warrant. There is no escaping him. There is no escaping the mafia.

These are the hard facts. The only facts I know. There isn’t a court order in existence that can shield me from him.

“Get down on your knees and beg me,” he orders. “Tell me how sorry you are.”

My brain keeps playing the same thought on repeat. I want it to be over. I just need it to be over. I want to hesitate. To cause him anger. To push him until he hurts me to the point of no return. That would be the easiest thing to do. This is the solution I keep coming back to. No matter how many times I recalculate this problem, there’s only one solution. Only one way to solve it. And that’s to take myself out of the equation entirely.

But my brain and my body aren’t on the same page. I’m doing as he asks, even though my mind is still fighting it. I’m falling to my knees before him. It isn’t about submission or even fear. These things don’t resonate with me anymore. There is no pride or morals or even strength at this point. He’s siphoned all of those things right out of me. Right now, the only thing I have left is my self-preservation. It’s a natural response. A biological need to protect oneself. Bowing to his whims is the only way I can ensure he doesn’t carry through on his threats towards my family.

Still, I question it. If I’m dead, he wouldn’t need to hurt them. Because then it won’t matter. It’s the only thing keeping me here. You can’t outrun the mafia. You can’t hide from a man like Blaine. But Emily’s safe in California now. It’s just my Ma. And she’ll be safer if I sever the one tie that could hurt her. And that’s me. 

I look up at him. This man I once thought somewhat handsome. And charming. There’s nothing when I look at him now. Nothing but emptiness and a black pit of insanity in the shape of a man. I’ve never wanted to hurt someone. My Ma raised me to be good. Do good. I’ve never wished anything bad upon anyone. But I wish it on him. That he would step outside and get hit by a bus. Or when he goes out with his crew he will be the one who doesn’t come back.

It’s awful feeling this way. Wishing those things on another person. This is what I’ve become. This is all that’s left of me since he set his sights on me two years ago.

“Tell me how sorry you are,” Blaine repeats.

“I’m sorry that I looked at him.”

“Do ye like looking at that freak?” he asks. “Because he’s always fucking staring at you.”

I don’t respond. Because I do like looking at him. The man with the troubled brown eyes. He has a way of captivating me like no one else can. The one who is quiet and mysterious. The only one who I think notices that something might be wrong with Blaine. All the rest of them, they don’t see it. They don’t want to see it. He acts so funny. The clown who hides his evil behind the laughter. They all think that I’m his by choice.

“I asked you a fucking question!” Blaine spits in my face and then grabs me by the hair, ripping strands of it out as he shoves my face onto the floor and rubs it into the filthy carpet. I don’t fight him. I can’t even muster up tears anymore. There’s just… nothing.

I’m only grateful that the club has shut down for the evening and everyone is gone. I don’t want anyone to see. That’s the worst part of it. Thinking how humiliated I would be if someone caught him doing this to me. But then they would know. Would they help me? Would they even care?

He would. I know he would. That man with the brown eyes. Or maybe that’s only what I want to believe. Because it’s easier to believe that someone would care than to face reality.

“Answer me,” Blaine growls. “Do you have a thing for the retard?”

I just want it to be over.

He’s staring down at me expectantly, waiting for me to lie to him. To tell him there’s no other but him.

“He’s nice to me,” I whisper.

“Nice to you?” he bellows. “He’s never said a fucking word to you. How the fuck can he be nice to you?”

He moves to unzip his pants. “Suck me off and I’ll be happy again.”

A sound of disgust rips from my lungs before I can tamp it down. And like a switch, Blaine flips. There isn’t even time to ponder the consequences of what I’ve done before he’s heaved me into the wall. The impact disorients me, and all I can make out is his blurry shape charging towards me again. He pins me to the ground and slaps me over and over, harder with every blow. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. I don’t feel anything when he hits me. My body has found a way to separate itself from the trauma.

Maybe that’s why I’m so tempted to defy him all the time. I should give him what he wants. The crying and the begging and confrontation he so desperately craves. But I just don’t have it in me anymore. He sees that. He can always read me, and he knows. He’s looking right into my eyes, dissecting what I’m too weak to hide right now. The emptiness. The numbness. The hatred.

And it only makes him angrier.

His hands wrap around my throat and squeeze. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snarls. “You stupid fucking bitch. You worthless whore.”

“I never wanted you,” I croak.

I can feel my lips curling into a smile, and Blaine’s entire body shakes with the force of his anger. Tighter and tighter he squeezes. And I know this is it. It’s all going to be over soon.

This is the moment I’m going to die. His hand constricts arounds my throat, and he slams my head back into the floor. The air is slipping away, blackness seeping in around my eyes. I close them and think of my mother. I hope she’ll be okay. I hope she won’t hate me for giving up. And Emily too. She already does hate me. She thinks I’m weak. But she doesn’t know.