Bad Habits: A Dark Anthology - Yolanda Olson Page 0,16
save me from the darkness, and…” Her words trickle into nothing, and I’m left staring at her in the silence of the small space.
“And?”
She fidgets, her body is trembling, as if she’s about to go to confession and admit to a murder or something just as bad. Her long dark hair hangs down her back, and her wide, azure eyes seem like endless pools of defiance and pain all wrapped up in a small package that I want to tear apart with my teeth.
“I need to leave here, but they won’t allow me to until I’ve completed my studies. Please, when you go… take me with you?” This time, her gentle eyes meet mine, and it’s almost as if she can see right through me. To the very heart and soul that are blackened by my life’s experiences.
I have a feeling, though, that she’s been through the same type of pain and agony that I’ve become accustomed to. But I don’t ask, that is something that she should tell me when she’s ready. Forcing someone to confess their secrets doesn’t make them feel safe, and for now, I want her to feel that with me.
Instead, I ask the question that is burning the tip of my tongue. “What makes you think I can save you?”
Maeve
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from evil.
His question hangs between us, burning my chest because I feel as if he’s about to refuse me. Will he not help me leave here? He doesn’t look like the type to not want to play a hero, and I’m giving him a chance to do just that.
He’s waiting for me to respond, his dark eyebrows pinched together.
I answer honestly, “I thought you enjoyed being a hero.”
He chuckles. The sound travels through me, and I realize how much I like it. It’s low, rumbling. I bet it would vibrate through me if I was being held by him. I let the thought linger for far too long.
“I’m no hero, little nun,” he says with a grin, interrupting my daydream. But there’s something in his eyes, a flickering of… pain maybe, that tells me otherwise. I’ve learned to read people. Since I was young, I’ve known how to pick out those who are good. And I have a feeling he is good.
“What’s your name?” I question, changing the subject momentarily. If I can make him care, perhaps I can make him see that I’m worth saving. I rise from the bed before he has time to answer, stopping inches from where he’s sitting.
“Kahn,” he tells me. “Yours?”
“Maeve.”
“Pretty name for a pretty nun,” he murmurs when I place my palms on his shoulders. The tension in his muscles is apparent under my fingertips. I want to ease his worry, but I don’t know if he’ll push me away. Most men welcome the attention, but I have a feeling that Kahn is different.
“I’m not a nun.” Tipping my head to the side, I take in his features—sharp angular jaw, dark eyes that bore right through me. A nose that looks like it’s been broken a few times. Lowering my gaze, I allow it to fall to his lips. Full, dusky pink, the bottom one larger than the top. His neck is thick, with a prominent Adam’s apple.
“Aren’t you?” he asks. “Because you seem to be a very good girl.” His hands land on my hips, and his touch seems to burn right through the material of my clothes. His fingers dig into my flesh, and he tugs me forward so I’m standing between his thick, muscled thighs.
I shrug, biting down on my lower lip before I notice Kahn’s eyes dart to my mouth. I allow my tongue to swipe across my lips, wetting them in anticipation of him kissing me. Will he kiss me again?
“You were the one who stole a kiss,” I tell him after a while. The sexual tension between us is like a spark, electric. He slowly bunches up the material of my skirt, and then once it’s high enough, he moves me so I’m straddling his thighs.
“I did. Perhaps I wanted something else that night as well,” he murmurs, his voice husky, low and feral.
“Oh?” This time, I smile because I know what he’s talking about, but men like when we act coy. They enjoy the playfulness of a woman. Kahn’s left hand trails up my spine before he grips my long dark hair and tugs it back. The bite of pain causes me to whimper.