Page 91 of Aftershock
Or, more accurately, bound to a chair.
19
LILITH
“Mmm. Mmm,” Harold hums in an attempt to talk through the duct tape.
Wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and stained boxers, he’s shivering.
Pathetic.
Alaric, on the other hand, is fully dressed in the same worn jeans and T-shirt he had on the last time I saw him torturing Harold, plus his gloves. He seems both detached and composed as he arranges the items on the table.
I’m in awe of him. It’s beyond impressive that after such a long day, he still has it in him to slip out of bed and get down to business.
This man is a machine.
Me, not so much. High on my first oral—both giving and getting—I’m beat. So beat that I barely make it in time to stifle a loud yawn with a handover my mouth.
Luckily, when I put my eye back to the peephole, Alaric’s posture hasn’t changed. He isn’t looking left and right. His brow isn’t furrowed either.
Phew.
I hope he stays as oblivious to the fact that his spare keys are missing as he was to my yawn. Just until tomorrow, after I make copies during my lunch break.
Stealing is wrong, but it’s not like I’m doing it to snoop. As strong as Alaric is, there’s always a chance one of those assholes could break free and hurt him.
Quoting the man himself—not on my fucking watch.
But unless that happens, the keys will remain tucked away in my backpack.
For our sake, I have to let Alaric be the one to tell me about his secret life.
If I force it out of him, I’ll never know if he would’ve chosen to be honest with me. Never get to experience what it means to be trusted.
Until then, I’m content with watching him. More than content. This front-row seat to his doctor-slash-vigilante show is so good it drags me out of exhaustion and into something hotter.
He’s a predator in his element. Every shift of muscle beneath his shirt sends a thrill up my spine. The way he pushes his still-damp hair off his forehead makes my pulse stutter.
Then there are his lips that are swollen from kissing me.
Yeah, I’m fully awake. Never been more alert in my life.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m late to feeding and helping you to the bathroom,” he says in a flat tone that shouldn’t be this mouthwatering. Except with him, it is.
I’m drawn to where his eyes drift, to the Mason jar in his hand. The green liquid is the same shade as before, one that Alaric stirs with a straw.
The one that caused what I’m assuming was an allergic reaction in Harold.
“I’d apologize, but…” Alaric looks at Harold, his eyebrows lowering. “Fuck you.”
“Mmm.” Harold’s shaking. A bead of sweat runs down his forehead. “Mmm.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Alaric grips the jar tighter. “Stop it,help me,let me go. Did I get it right?”
Harold’s Adam’s apple bobs as he sobs in earnest.
“Let me ask you this.” Alaric turns to the table, puts the jar down, and scribbles in his notebook. “When your mother begged you to leave her alone, and she must have…”
