The Foiled Plan (War of Sins Book 2)

He strode out of the building, his arms around her frail body as he headed straight for the garage. Opening the door to his car, he deposited her in the passenger seat, buckling her up and stilling for a moment as he took in her crusted hair, stained face and dirty body.

He’d done that to her.

A foreign feeling pulled at his senses as he watched her delicate features and her soft appearance.

He’d spoiled her.

From the beginning he’d known he would.

He’d set out to do just that.

Why was it that now, faced with the result of his actions, he couldn’t muster any of the necessary satisfaction?

She gave a small whimper in her sleep, curling up and hugging her knees to her chest the best she could.

The reminder that he’d worn her out to the point of exhaustion—that he’d used her so thoroughly she’d had no other recourse but to close her eyes and hide from the world—made him seethe quietly. At her, or himself, he didn’t know.

He realized his resolve was slightly shaken—as a result of what, he could not say. Still, he recognized the precarious situation he found himself in. As such, he needed to pull himself together.

Popping a cigarette in his mouth, he rounded the car, getting behind the wheel and starting the engine.

And the moment they were out of the estate’s gates, he pulled his phone, dialing Andreas.

‘Burn everything to the ground. A faulty electrical outlet. Make sure the bodies are crisp,’ he inhaled the cigarette smoke, coldly staring at the road before him. ‘If anyone asks questions, bribe or get rid of them,’ he added.

‘Yes, sir,’ the answer was immediate. He could always count on Andreas to be efficient and never ask more than Michele was willing to share. That and his staunch loyalty made him the best soldier. The only one Michele trusted, to a certain extent.

‘Good,’ he grunted. ‘Erase all traces of me from that party, too.’

‘I’ll have the technical team deal with that.’

The moment he had his confirmation, he hung up, throwing his phone in the backseat.

He brought the cigarette to his lips, taking a deep drag, his attention on the road as he headed to the apartment he kept in the city.

Andreas would deal with the mess he left behind, as he always did. Since Michele had gotten his first taste for blood, realizing there was a way out of the continuous torment in which he lived, he’d never stopped. He’d developed his own routine, using the exercise as a form of catharsis—exorcizing his demons and himself at the same time.

But as much as murder might be a fun pastime when the chance availed itself, he also knew it was a precarious one.

Though he was as erratic as expected, giving himself to the euphoria of blood, losing himself in the throes of the moment, he knew there was a fine line between madness and justice. And though he might be walking the very fine line between, he always managed to pull himself back up—back where he knew he belonged, though the whole world thought differently.

This time, though, he’d given in. He’d forgotten all about black and white, right or wrong, fair or unfair. He’d only felt the moment. And he’d given into the madness—that rush of freedom that was as unexpected as it was sweet. Liberating and extreme…

A glance at the sleeping form next to him and he swore under his breath.

He’d long ceased to be a fair person. Even so, he steered clear of those who owed him nothing. He might rejoice in bloodbaths, but they were all a price to be paid—a debt owed.

His justice.

What he’d done at Cooke’s house had neither been for his benefit nor his justice.

It had been for her.

He scowled as he realized the slight deviation from his plans.

Though he’d long eschewed proper etiquette, behaving strictly as he felt, he realized this was extreme—even for him.

One man here, one there, and no one would bat an eye.

Yet this time, he’d gone beyond that, killing indiscriminately until he filled the entire house with blood.

Because they had insulted her.

He told himself that by extension they had insulted him. But deep down, he knew the truth…

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, the direction of his thoughts startling him and making him madder than he’d already been.

She was his possession. Whatever happened to her concerned him by default. There was nothing more to it. And as instrumental as she was in his plan, he needed to ascertain she was well at all times. Only then would his revenge serve its designated purpose.

She meant nothing.

Not now, not ever.

He nodded to himself as he finally found a more comfortable train of thought. To attribute to those events more importance than they had was ludicrous. And if Michele had learned anything in his twenty-six years on this earth, it was that you were always on your own. The moment you gave someone else even a modicum of importance was the moment it all ended.

Didn’t he know that all too well?

All the suffering he’d endured had been because he’d held on. He’d tightly grasped on to those people he’d thought closest to him, and when they had abandoned him, he’d been left alone.

Bleeding and alone.

And that had been the moment he’d stopped feeling. He’d simply stopped caring. And so he’d put himself first—or, better said, his revenge.

Nothing else mattered.

Just the blood and tears his enemies would shed.

That was the only thing keeping him going.

Nothing else…

The journey to his apartment took longer than usual. Michele avoided all the open roads, choosing instead the less popular ones in an attempt to keep a low profile.

He wasn’t concerned about CCTV cameras picking up his traces, since that was easily solved with the push of a few buttons. Rather, he was worried he’d come across a patrol car doing its rounds. With both their appearances, a stop and search was unavoidable.

Not when he was still full of blood, the red liquid splattered all over his body, face and hair. His pet was in a similar state, if not worse. Anyone who would see them like that would reach the worst, though rightful, conclusions.

Eventually, he reached the neighborhood, and parking his car, he took his pet in his arms, heading to the private elevator that would ensure their abysmal appearance was kept hidden.

She stirred, but barely.

Her head was in the crook of his shoulder, and as she released a pained moan, she trailed her face over his skin.

A slight brush of skin against skin, but it was enough to get a reaction out of Michele, his body stiffening, his breathing growing labored. For someone who’d eschewed human touch for so long, tolerating it only when it was necessary to his plans, this was the equivalent to a bullet to the chest.

Yet the more she moved, the more the pain abated.

He blinked in surprise, slowly recognizing that the initial touch had activated his own expectations of pain and disgust. Gradually, though, they molded into a peaceful calm—something that hadn’t happened before.

She tightened her arms around his neck, reinforcing the skin contact. Yet he wasn’t…disgusted.

‘Michele,’ she whimpered low in her throat, struggling to open her eyes.

Michele was frozen to the spot, unable to react to her continued proximity. He was stunned at his reaction and every subsequent one as she continued to move against him, touching him in more places—all at once.

‘Where are we?’ she asked, a hint of unease in her tone as the elevator doors opened to his apartment.

He stepped inside, ignoring her question. Instead, he walked straight to the master bedroom, unceremoniously dumping her on the bed.

‘Wha—what?’ she blinked, surprised.

Her big eyes were on him, watching, assessing.

‘We’re at my place, pet,’ he told her in a thick voice.

There was still residual adrenaline from his previous outburst, and now that she was awake, he tried to keep his distance lest he get more ideas—dangerous, dangerous ideas.

She continued to regard him with that innocence of hers, and sick laughter bubbled in his throat at the sight.

He’d defiled her—debased her in the worst manner possible. He’d hurt her worse than he thought himself capable of hurting someone, and she still looked at him as if he could pluck the moon and hand it to her on a platter.

He took a step forward.

She flinched.

Or…not.

‘Go clean yourself,’ he barked the order, somehow unable to face the consequence of his actions.

She was huddled in the center of the bed, her arms bent to her chest as she tried to protect herself. At least subconsciously she knew she needed to be afraid.

Something inside her was aware of the danger he posed to her. Too bad she wasn’t smart enough to heed the warning.

‘But…’ her lip trembled as her lashes fluttered.

‘Pet,’ he snarled, his fingers suddenly on her jaw. Her eyes flared with fear and he cursed. Taking a deep breath, he managed to get his tone under control as he continued. ‘You’re covered in blood from head to toe. You need to wash that off.’

She stared at him, unblinking.

Slowly, she brought her chin down in a subtle nod.

It was all the confirmation he needed to take his hand off her, turning to his side on the bed as he watched her tentatively get off the bed. She put one step in front of the other, wobbling to the bathroom door.

It was then that he realized the gravity of her injuries.

She limped slightly, and there were gashes all over her body leaking blood. He couldn’t be sure it was all coming from her, but remembering the way he’d taken her, he wagered a good deal was.

She finally closed the door to the bathroom and it wasn’t long after that he heard the water running.

Only then did he let out a relieved breath—why, he couldn’t tell. There was something inside of him, a tightness in his chest that he could not explain away with words. He only felt, something he hadn’t done in too long.

And he wasn’t sure he liked it.

Suffocating like a man deprived of air, he lifted a fist to his injured chest, banging over the open wounds and feeling the pain suffuse his being. It was sharp and immediate, effectively taking over anything else his mind might have honed on.

He relied on it, relished it.

It was the only way he knew he was still human, though shunning the feelings that should have made him human.

Time passed, his pain increased. His pet didn’t return.

That’s when he heard it.

Something more than just the sound of water running.

He blinked, surprised to find himself off the bed and nearing the bathroom door, his ear on the hard wood as he listened to the muffled cries and the blanketed sobs—all somewhat muted by the jet of water as it poured down into the bath.

Before he could help himself, he pushed the door open.

She was in the middle of the sizable bathtub, her knees to her chest as she rocked slightly—side to side, in rhythm with her sobs. The water reached her waist, already a muddy pink from the blood that had poured off her body.

His feet took him further, to the edge of the tub as he simply watched her.

There it was again.

Another tightening in his chest. He wondered if all that adrenaline had prompted a premature heart attack.

‘Pet,’ his voice boomed in the room.

She whipped her head back, tears streaking her perfectly sculpted cheeks as she looked at him like he was the worst bounder in the entire world.

The expression was there—clear as the day. Yet soon, it was clouded, shifting until nothing else remained on her face but pure lethargy.

It was at that moment that Michele fully understood one thing.

He wasn’t the only one with a poker face.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded sharply.

She brought the back of her hand to wipe her eyes. Still, she didn’t answer him.

He was getting more and more impatient, and bringing his hands to the shirt he’d haphazardly put on before leaving the manor, he ripped at the buttons, flinging it around before affording the same treatment to his pants.

Fully naked, he motioned her to scoot over as he entered the tub, joining her.

Immediately, he felt the hot water on his skin—it was scalding hot.

‘Damn it,’ he cursed under his breath as he barely made himself comfortable.

He had to wonder how she managed to sit in the water if it was that hot. But just as he was about to voice that question, he spotted her unguarded expression.

Hurt.

So much hurt.

Hurt he’d caused.

Hurt he’d purposefully inflicted.

She blinked newly formed tears away, attempting a feeble smile for his benefit.

Did he want it?

The answer came with a resounding force.

No.

Since he’d gotten a taste of the real her—the damaged, out of control her—he didn’t know how to get used to the old her again.

He wanted her raw… He wanted her, damn it. Not some second-hand version created only for his benefit.

And the more he got to know her, the more he studied her, he realized she might be just as crafty as he was, if not more. The only difference was that she had a masochistic streak.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked softly, almost as if she could not believe he was in front of her.

‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ he raised a brow, smirking at her. Anything to cover the growing storm raging inside of him.

Taking a sponge from the rack behind, he wet it, and lathering it with soap, he motioned two fingers at her to come closer.

‘What…’ she blinked in surprise.

‘Come,’ he gruffed out.

Hesitantly, she obeyed, coming closer until she was within the cradle of his thighs.

His eyes fluttered closed as her scent hit him. Even with so many layers of dirt, blood and bodily fluids, there was something about her. Something addictive he’d never encountered before.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured shyly as he brought the sponge on her neck, lowering it between the valley of her breasts, and lower.

Any other moment and this would have marked the beginning of his arousal. Yet in that moment he couldn’t muster it. Not when his foremost purpose was to get her to the initial state—the one where she didn’t fear him any longer.

He didn’t know why it was imperative to do so, but it was the only thing he could come up with as he racked his brain for an answer to his current actions.

His touch was brisk and efficient as he cleaned her thoroughly. First her torso, then her legs. All the while he had the vague impression she was holding herself back. She was barely breathing, barely moving, barely…

‘Pet,’ he addressed her, one finger to her cheek as he turned it so she could face him. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine,’ she strained.

He tilted his head, studying her. The words sounded fake to his ears. But he didn’t dwell on that—he couldn’t afford to do so. Instead, he brought the sponge to her flushed cheeks, washing her gently, carefully.

The same feeling as before overtook him, his heart squeezing in his chest in a foreign manner, one he didn’t dare question.

She looked at him with her big, luminous eyes, and he found he couldn’t utter another word. So, silently, he urged her to turn, settle with her back between his legs—touching but not really.

It wasn’t sexual. Though in his mind, he told himself this couldn’t be anything but sexual. Still, his desire wasn’t aroused. He didn’t feel his blood boil with a need to claim her—not as he usually did, anyway.

He only felt that same tension in his chest, almost as if someone had tightened his skin over his ribcage, pulling and pulling until it was strained over bone, no freedom of movement—nothing.

At first, he sponged her back, barely keeping a controlled expression as he noted the various injuries his pet had sustained. There were scratches, some smaller, some bigger.

All caused by him.

He soaped the surface of her skin, gently brushing his fingertips over her shoulder blades. And before he could catch himself, he lowered his lips, skimming them over the softness of her skin. It was the barest of touches, yet she startled all the same.

‘Does it hurt, pet?’ he asked her in a low voice, doing his best to hide the lump that clogged his throat.

‘Not…now,’ she answered cryptically. But the tone of her voice was enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

She was in pain.

And he wasn’t gloating.

Carefully, he proceeded to tend to every area, making sure it was nice and clean by the time he was done with his ministrations. Then, he shifted his attention to her hair—her lovely, lovely hair.

It was crusted with blood and semen, strands lumped together, harsh to the touch.

Using the same care as before, he lowered her to the water, getting the entire mass of tresses wet before he applied shampoo.

His touch was gentle—a first.

But it was more than that. It was borne from a foreign need he couldn’t fully understand. And it was as strange to him as it was to her.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Yet in spite of that, in spite of knowing this was out of the ordinary, that the entire situation was so antithetic to everything he stood for, he found he couldn’t stop.

He could only watch himself continue, almost as if it was an out of body experience. It was him, but it wasn’t… Because how could this be him? How could he behave in such a manner when he’d never experienced it himself?

His fingers in her hair, he lightly massaged her scalp, the sigh that escaped her lips all the payment he required.

And when he was done, he quickly cleaned himself too, before getting out.

His pet was watching him with apprehension as he donned on a robe before taking a big towel and swathing her in it. He swooped her up in his arms, and finally, he took her to bed.

She still didn’t speak, just watching, observing.

And before he lost whatever impetus had been guiding him until then, he went back to the bathroom to pick up a medical kit.

‘You don’t have to…’ she whispered as the bed dipped under his weight.

‘I do,’ he grunted, opening her towel and baring her to him—baring the evidence of what he’d done.

The injuries were worse than he’d imagined, but he didn’t let the image of them bother him. He put everything in the back of his mind as he settled on the same mechanical response as before—though it wasn’t, not really. It was merely his way of dealing with which was foreign to him; that which he had no experience and neither the imagination to picture. He let himself be driven by a long forgotten instinct, or maybe one that just now was rearing its head to the surface.

His pet was confused.

No more than him.

And because he couldn’t deal with what she made him feel, he simply put some disinfectant on a small piece of gauze, dabbing it at her injuries, wincing when she winced, shuddering when she did.

‘Why?’ her hand came to rest on his, stopping his advancement.

His brows went up in question.

‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked on a whisper, almost as if she didn’t want to give away the vulnerability in her voice.

‘I break you, I put you back together,’ he answered in a cold voice, continuing to tend to her wounds.

‘Why break me at all?’ her hand once more found his, holding on to his wrist and not allowing him to do his job. Yet this time, he sensed something different in her question. More so in her tone, an uneven sound escaping her before she could mask him.

He lifted his gaze to find hers.

Tears were streaming down her face, this time unbidden.

She was crying.

Sniffling, she continued to glance at him with that wounded pup look, her eyes damp and getting damper. And he suddenly felt at a loss.

Her small hands clenched into fists and out of some misplaced reflex, one skimmed the right side of his jaw.

The misplaced reflex was about to happen again when he caught her wrist, holding tightly as he tugged her to him.

He expected aggression. Destruction. A glimpse of the explosive outburst he’d seen on the roof.

He got none.

She was staring at him through wet lashes, her entire face red as she continued to bawl in his hold.

‘Why?’ she cried out. ‘Why?’

‘Why, what, pet?’ he ground his teeth, narrowing his eyes at her.

The energy was similar, the violence simmering in the air. But this was different. Too different than what he wanted—needed and craved. This was the polar opposite of that.

‘Why do you enjoy hurting me so much?’ she asked, her voice breaking with emotion.

He reeled back, the question taking him wholly by surprise.

He could only stare at her. At her beautiful, beautiful face and the fact that she could move him when he thought himself unmovable.

‘Because I enjoy hurting myself,’ the words were out of his mouth before he could help himself.

His eyes widened.

Hers did too.

Silence enveloped them. The type of silence that could make the dead weep. The type of silence that said more than a thousand words.

Her lower lip trembled as she tried to get herself under control, absorbing the fullness of what he’d just said. Yet she couldn’t. No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t stop the shrilling sobs that took over her body, the way her emotions spilled forth with that outburst.

He continued to look at her, envious at the ease with which she could unload herself; anger at himself for closing that part of his heart long ago.

When was the last time he’d cried?

He couldn’t remember… He did not want to remember.