He leaves the rest of the words unspoken when he puts the car in drive and turns on the music. I don’t need to hear his threats laid bare. I’m well aware of what he’ll do.
I turn my gaze back towards the window and wish he’d never set eyes on me.
***
He’s here again.
Staring at me. Always staring. Watching, considering… waiting. For what I don’t know. He never says a word. Not one.
To everyone else, yes. Just not to me.
I often think he hates me for reasons I can’t understand. But then he turns those mournful whiskey colored eyes on me, and I want to believe there’s something else concealed in their shadows. He’s the only one who sees past the fake smile on my face. Like he understands that the laughter echoing from my chest when Blaine cracks a joke is as fake as his whole persona.
False hope.
That’s what I see when I look at him.
I’ve never believed in fairytales. There is no white knight in my story. Only me. And I’m not the girl who gets the prince. I’m the girl he bangs because he can.
Blaine isn’t the first guy. They all tell me how pretty and sweet I am. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see pretty. I don’t see sweet. I see broken and dirty. Shame and self-loathing. The whore that Blaine uses as his own personal punching bag. The things I’ve had to do in this life aren’t pretty or sweet, and neither am I.
I’ve made peace with that.
Damaged souls have their own beauty. A dark, terrifying beauty. The same type of beauty I recognize in Ronan. He isn’t like those other men. The ones who tell me how much they want my body. The filthy things they want to do to me. For a girl who went from a nerd to a knockout almost overnight at the age of thirteen, I used to think those words meant something. The boys told me anything they thought I’d want to hear. And they believed a few kind words thrown my way entitled them to have me for a little while. But only for a little while.
They always throw you back in the end.
Because you’re nothing to them. Just like me.
When it comes to Blaine, I’m even less.
The day that he saw me and decided I was his, my fate was carved in stone. My regret and hatred churn inside of me like a toxic poison, blackening everything that exists around me.
I no longer see good in the world. I couldn’t tell you exactly when it stopped, only that it did. My heart flat lined long ago. Keeping myself locked in this void is easy. And yet the despair seeps in all too often.
But then Blaine brings me here, and I see this man with the sad brown eyes, and a sliver of sunlight breaks through my otherwise dark existence.
In his eyes, I see something different. He’s deadly and quiet. Closed off and mysterious. He doesn’t talk like the rest of them, just for the sake of talking. But I know who he is and what he does.
The Reaper.
That’s what they call him in the MacKenna syndicate. The name speaks for itself. And yet this man-this cold-blooded killer-he can’t find it within himself to speak to me. His cheeks flush pink every time I look his way, and then his jaw strains with the force of his anger.
It makes me want him in ways I shouldn’t. It makes my heart stop and start every time he walks into the room. Like a rusty old engine, I’m in disrepair, and I feel like this stranger is the only mechanic for the job.
A silly notion. One for silly little girls who still believe in fairytales.
One thing I know for certain is that this killer-the Reaper-isn’t my white knight. In fact, in this story, I very well suspect he may even be the villain. Because if Blaine ever finds out how I feel, it will certainly be the death of me.
Chapter One
Sasha
He’s sitting in the pit tonight. Watching me as I make my way around and help Kaya with drinks. Slainte is packed this evening and the VIP room is at full capacity. It has been ever since the Irish started working on an alliance with the Russian mob. Something I’m not technically supposed to know, but everyone does.
It can’t be helped when you work for them. I don’t usually serve drinks, but we’re understaffed tonight. The way I serve these men is by dancing for them. Putting on a show up under the glitzy lights of the stage and making them feel like I could fulfill their every fantasy.
I’m an excellent liar. A master of manipulation. I’ve got it down to an art now. The way I look at them and tilt my head just so. They’re thinking about all the dirty things they want to do to me. I’m thinking about my dying mother back at home. About how I hate this life and everyone in it. I’ve got so much hate bottled up inside of me it’s only a matter of time before it blows.
But I can be anything they want me to be when I’m up on that stage. A saint or a sinner. The girl next door or the one on the street corner. The only thing I can’t be is myself.