Guns, Lots Of Guns

As it had turned out though, what he’d really meant was that she’d fly coach to New York from Oregon and placed in a dingy hotel all so she could be interviewed- not signed- by a notably unremarkable agency, put on a ‘call back’ list and then not get called back. The entire ordeal had been enormously frustrating, to say the least, but that didn’t mean that it hadn’t been eye opening. If nothing else, it had brought Y/n to the realization that modeling could be something that she wanted- and it could be the path to becoming a designer. Working as a waitress back at home meant that after rent and bills were paid, and groceries were bought, there was barely anything left over for savings, and it definitely wasn’t enough to afford tuition at an accredited design school. 

But a model’s salary could. 

And that wasn't the only perk; models traveled, they lived the kind of glamorous life that starry eyed, small town girls dreamed of. The kind of life Y/n dreamed of- a life that belted out crucial connections in the fashion industry, the experience of being involved in the biggest fashion events and of course, notoriety.  It was perfect, and she was almost positive that she could make it. 

And so, she’d used some of the money she had left over from her last paycheck to get some head shots taken to add to the portfolio she’d decided was integral to her journey. They weren’t perfect, and definitely looked as cheap as they were, but they were enough to highlight her natural beauty and her comfort behind a camera. Eagerly, she’d hand delivered copies of her portfolio to every agency that would accept them, from the smaller, up and coming ones, to the bigger, more acclaimed ones. Y/n wasn’t even sure if they’d reach the desks of anyone important, but she did know that she had to try. 

And try she would. 

Her real trouble had actually cropped up after the sham with the no name industry had fallen to tatters, when said 'agency' had stopped paying for her cheap hotel room after they’d decided to not sign her. Alone in the big, fast paced city, clueless on the ins and outs of life in New York and broke, Y/n had quickly fallen into panic when the concierge had told her that her options were pay the ridiculous rate or get packing. Naturally, she’d packed. The only issue with packing though, had been that after she’d done it, Y/n had  nowhere to go. 

For the first time since she’d gotten there, Y/n had completely regretted her impulsive, careless decision. Her aunt used to say that pesky habit of hers was thinking after the deed had been done.

That night, she’d found herself loitering in the subway station; it was late when she’d finally checked out, and  Y/n wasn’t willing to waste whatever money she’d had left from her savings and the returned deposit from her apartment on riding a train to nowhere- her funds were already alarmingly scarce and wastage was not an option. So instead, she’d equipped herself with a bag of chips and a bottle of water from the vending machine before finding an empty, uncomfortable plastic chair mounted to the dirty, tiled wall. That chair had acted as her cold, restless home for the night, though, by the time day had cleared, and a tight knot had wound up her back, Y/n had determined that she really needed to find another place to stay.

From dawn the next morning, she’d tirelessly scoured the bustling city, only taking one single, thirty minute break for lunch at a park, where she’d sat on a bench and scrolled through her phone after typing several variations of “cheap places to stay in New York” into the search bar. Unfortunately, nothing within her budget had turned up. 

By the time the day had started winding down, a hazy Wednesday afternoon morphing into a dreaded Wednesday night, Y/n was starting to lose hope and once more, the weight of her impulsiveness threatened to crush her will. Actions have consequences, her high school principal used to say every time she got into trouble, and Y/n was learning that the hard way as she walked down yet another busy street lined with soaring buildings and busy stores. 

“Play stupid games win stupid fucking prizes,” she muttered to herself as she turned into a noticeably quieter side street that seemed to house the staff entrance of a couple restaurants. One tired foot, clad in her favorite brown, leather ankle boot, kicked a stray pebble as she trudged along the side of the street. There were cars parked on both sides, as well as large, industrial dumpsters packed against red brick walls. It seemed like an alley way of some sort, except, longer than one would think it to be, stretching on for at least ten minutes on foot, and unlike all the seedy alleys she’d seen on television, that one didn’t end with a beat up chain link fence. It actually opened up to another street, creating a “T”. 

That street was even lonelier than the last. 

It seemed almost peculiar, wrong even, that a road so barren could exist in the thick of New York. There were no pedestrians, no traffic on the worn pitch road and no sign of vibrant business that seemed like a staple of the state. Truthfully, Y/n found the whole thing a little unsettling. She should have turned back, like any sane person that enjoyed breathing and having their organs inside their body.  

She would have turned back. Would have. 

She was about to. But then, out of the corner of her eye, a purplish glint caught her attention, prompting her to turn left so she could read a neon sign that jotted out from the apparent front of a building a few meters ahead;

“The Mirage: Hotel, restaurant, bar.” 

The sign blinked in a lively fashion, bright purple and fuchsia pink calling out to her like a siren song. Y/n must have stood there for a solid minute, just staring at it as the signature sounds of New York melted away, allowing the eerie silence of the desolate road to enclose her. It was almost as if she’d been removed from New York; plucked from the harshness of an every-busy city and deposited into an entirely new place. One that suddenly seemed so, very attractive. 

Swallowing thickly, Y/n defied the unsettled feeling that had attempted to deter her, pressing forward towards the sign. It might have been a trick of her mind, but as she walked, the distance between her and the sign seemed to grow- she couldn’t get close enough. Y/n, in that moment, could have sworn that the universe was making her work for whatever peace the place might offer, and so hungry for it, she sped up.

She would have it. She would get there. 

She did get there. Her will seemed to combat the forces against her, and after a bout of about ten minutes of practically jogging, Y/n was met with a pair of gold framed, heavily tinted glass doors, decorated with an intricate, geometric design adorning the face.  Sucking in a breath, she closed her hand in around the handle, which was surprisingly cool despite the summer heat, and pushed the left side of the door open. Finally.

Upon stepping inside, Y/n gasped, taken aback by the interior; she felt like she’d just stepped into the twenties. The place embodied the most authentic depiction of the period, from the authentic Art Deco decor, to the lively jazz she could hear wafting from the lounge in the distance, off to her right. The lighting was low, with hanging fixtures from the ceiling and others mounted to the walls emitting nothing more than a dim, yellow glow presumably to give off a more intimate air, while accentuating dark papered walls. Notes of melancholic purple and charcoal dominated the walls and the polished marble floor while black, gold embellished furniture strategically peppered the small reception area and bouquets of crimson roses, black calla lilies and mauve dahlias decorated mahogany surfaces in what appeared to be antique vases. 

There was no way she’d be able to afford that place. Which was why she was confused when she’d headed towards the receptionist’s desk instead of the door she’d come in through. As she stopped there, sucking in a deep breath before laying her dainty palms on the cool surface, young woman dressed in a simple, black dress with a bronze name tag  that read “Caroline” approached before sh could tap the bell. “Hi, how can I help you?” She was smiling, though there was something artificial about the gesture that told Y/n it wasn’t genuine in the slightest. 

“Uh….” Shaking her head slightly, Y/n tried to gather her thoughts while simultaneously feeling a little silly for even standing there, it was pretty obvious that the place was out of her league. “I’ve been walking around the city all day,” she quickly moistened her lips, “Looking for a hotel-”

Caroline’s tight smile fathered, “Ma’am,” she politely cut her off, “I’m afraid her clientele is very exclusive. I don’t think you’d fit the manager’s…..criteria.”

The manager’s criteria? What the hell did that mean?

Furrowing her brows, Y/n unconsciously took a step back, undoubtedly offended. “I’m sorry, what?” 

The woman, blonde, middle aged and remarkably stunning, sighed heavily, “I just don’t think you’re suited to be a guest here,” her words were demeaning, though delivered with a smile as if it was supposed to soften the blow, “Besides,” she appraised Y/n’s off-brand, boho chic, mid length dress and the worn out suitcase and tote duffle bag she’d brought in tow, “You probably couldn’t afford it anyway.”

Stunned and stuttering, Y/n attempted to move past the initial shock. Of course, it was pretty clear from the moment she’d walked in that a hotel like that would be way out of her budget, but she wasn’t going to stand there and be insulted for it. “You know what?” Y/n huffed a humorless chuckle, collecting her of bags once more, “Nevermind. You’re right,” she laughed nervously, feeling silly for even thinking that she could stay there, “I’m gonna just-”

“Caroline,” a male voice, just stepping out from under the cover of a shadow that she hadn’t noticed before, approached, “What's going on here?” 

“Mr. Wick,” the woman turned, deep red lips falling agape and bright green eyes going wide as she regarded the man. The unmistakably gorgeous man. “I was just….”

“You were just….?” He pressed, slipping large hands into the pockets of his black slacks. When Caroline didn't offer a response, Mr. Wick shifted his head to focus his attention on Y/n, “What's happening?”

“I….” She was dumbfounded by him for a solid moment, completely shocked that a man like that could exist outside of her television set; tall, with slicked back, dark hair, a neatly groomed beard and a menacing glint in his dark, dangerous eyes. His tailored suit fit impeccably, almost as if it had been sewn onto his broad chest and defined arms; not in a way that was so tight that it was completely unattractive, but in a way that seemed to accentuate everything that he’d been given naturally. Mr. Wick, Y/n thought as she stood there, floundering for words, was probably the most attractive human being she’d ever seen. “I’m….” She glanced between him and Caroline, whose bright eyes had taken on a challenging glimmer, daring Y/n to disclose that she’d turned her down, “Leaving,” she determined, grabbing the handle of her rolling suitcase

“I would hate for one of our guests to leave unsatisfied,” it might have been the way he said the word, or it could have been the way his voice resembled the sound of cold water over aged rocks, but it made Y/n stop before she could even turn away from the reception desk. 

Completely taken aback for a moment, Y/n hesitated for a moment before offering a response. “I…am not a guest,” she shook her head, swallowing thickly as she felt his chocolate gaze bore into her. There was a quiet discomfort about it, she hadn’t even met his eyes yet, but Y/n could tell that they held something that she wouldn’t find in anyone else's, there was a strength in them. A weight that seemed to exude a power that one could deem incomparable. 

Mr. Wick hummed coolly before reaching under the desk to retrieve a key equipped with a gold, circular key chain that simply displayed the number ‘115’. “You are now,” he determined, offering her the key. 

Stuttering, Y/n shook her head, making no move to accept the offered key, “Thanks,” she chuckled, dry and nervous, “But I can’t afford this place. Coming here was a mistake,” she added under her breath. 

Again, Mr. Wick hummed, that time the faintness of a chillingly handsome smile accompanying the sound, “I don’t think it was,” he countered without haste, “Take it,” he shook the key as he held it out to her, “Don’t worry about the cost.”

“I can’t,” she refused. Y/n might have been desperate, but she was far above taking handouts from strangers.

“You can, you will,” he set the key down, on the counter audibly, “Caroline will show you to your room,”

“Mr. Wick,” she gasped, and as she finally spared a moment to glance at the number on the key, her eyes seemed to fly open wider, “I-”

“Caroline,” he gritted her name forcefully, “Will show you to your room,” he was looking at the receptionist that time, gaze hardened and tone taking on a serious edge. 

“Fine,” she mumbled, undoubtedly displeased as she snatched the key off the counter and started moving past the cover of the desk, though not a moment before cutting Mr. Wick a stare as sharp as daggers. 

Without another word, Caroline moved past the desk, and by the time she’d reached Y/n, she could have sworn the older woman was near the point of tears- though she hid it exceptionally well. Wordlessly, she snatched the handle of Y/n’s suitcase, beginning to stalk off towards the pair of old fashioned elevators, just up ahead, leaving Y/n confused and fumbling, “But I haven’t even-”

“Enjoy your stay, Ms. Y/l/n,” Mr. Wick nodded firmly, flashing her traces of a polite smile before turning on his heel and stalking off, vacating the reception area and leaving Y/n to wonder how he knew her name, and more importantly, why he’d given her a seemingly free room without taking her information. 

*****

“When my wife passed…I spent years hoping she’d be in every room that I walked into, and when she wasn’t, it just hurt like the first time every time,” as he spoke, John seemed surprised by his own memories, anyone would be privy to thinking that he was recalling them for the very first time. 

“How long had you two been married?” Y/n inquired, frowning sympathetically.

“Four years,” he breathed, pausing for a moment to look past her, before shaking off the trance he’d briefly slipped into, clearing his throat softly as he did, “It was a long time ago, maybe twenty years,” he shook his head, almost not believing it himself, “I bought this place a couple years after she….”

“You own this place?” Y/n gasped, suddenly feeling horrible for completely disregarding his earlier statements about his late wife, “Sorry,” she tried to backtrack.

“No, its okay,” John reassured, licking his lips before reaching for a sip of his wine. Their plates had already been cleared, and when Y/n had declined desert, John had ordered another bottle instead. She’d started pacing herself by then, as good as it was, the wine was potent; Y/n had started feeling its effects after the very first glass and she was by no means a lightweight.  Just three glasses later though, there was fuzz in Y/n’s brain and when she’d excused herself to the ladies room as the waitress took the plates, she’d almost stumbled over her own feet. Strangely enough though, John seemed perfectly unaffected. 

“I do own it,” he glanced around the lounge, now barren of any other guests- she’d never imagined that hotel bars could be empty, but attributed the thought to inexperience. “Eighteen years,” he added somberly, “I was young, not as young as you,” he chuckled, but the laughter didn’t reach his eyes, “But I think I got more than I bargained for,” and for the first time that night, John looked palpably sad.

“What do you mean?” Y/n leaned forward, that time taking the initiative to reach for his hand, not batting a lash when he easily laced their fingers. It was so peculiar, she thought, how close they’d managed to get after just a couple hours. She’d never made the jump between learning someone’s first name to sharing some of her deepest traumas so quickly. 

“I mean….” John trailed off, “You’ll understand soon enough,” he pulled his hand away abruptly, “Its late,” he determined, not bothering to consult his watch, “Let me walk you to your room.”

Taken aback by his sudden change, and apparent haste to see her off, Y/n stuttered as she stood. Though, she quickly lost her footing, all but completely falling, but only thanks to John catching her quickly. “Oh my God,” she scoffed, embarrassed. Slowly, she reached for her temple, trying to slow her spinning head and clear her vision, “I only had like three glasses, swear I’m not a lightweight,” she laughed quietly, and it was hard to miss the slur of her words. 

“Its okay,” John sighed softly, holding onto her right arm while his other hand gravitated to the center of her back, so he could keep Y/n steady as he guided her out of the lounge, like he had a few hours earlier. “It always gets you the first time,” she thought she heard him say. 

“What?” Y/n turned to him as they walked slowly, though when she did, Y/n could have sworn there were three of him, all fighting to get into focus. 

She was definitely mistaken, and it was more than likely a trick of the lighting, but she could have sworn she saw horns too. 

“Nothing,” John dismissed. Y/n couple barely register her steps, let alone push the button in the old-fashioned elevator for herself when they stepped inside, but when they’d finally gotten back to 115, and John had gotten the door open, all she could think of was kissing him. Maybe it was the booze, it could have been that he seemed like the only good thing that had come her way after so many bad ones, perhaps it was simply the affinity he offered her- whatever it was, it made Y/n want to get closer. She needed to get closer. 

Abandoning her better sense, or whatever of it was left, Y/n turned and clumsily grabbed the lapels of his suit in a loose grip, stumbling into his chest as she attempted to stand on her toes. Without warning, she shoved her lips against John’s, moving her them feverishly and then moaning softly against his mouth when he responded after the shock finally wore off. His hands found her hips, steadying Y/n as she moved to further deepen the kiss, though, when her delicate touch vacated his chest, reaching between them for the buckle of his belt, John stopped her; tearing their lip lock apart, “Not yet, regina mea ,” he uttered softly, one hand deserting her hip so he could drag his thumb down the center of her reddened lips. 

“Wha…..” suddenly light headed, Y/n swayed, saved once again from falling by John, who easily gathered her in his arms, holding her close against him, as if she were weightless. 

His arms and his broad chest felt safe, so much so that Y/n stopped trying to fight the effects whatever she’d drank at dinner, letting John’s unintelligible words be the last thing she heard before succumbing to the abyss of slumber;

“Somnum hac nocte.”

Y/n had been alone in the room for a while, or at least, she thought she had; she hadn’t heard anyone else for a while, not even footsteps. She’d given up on trying to call for help for a while by then too, after her throat had gone sore and her voice had gone hoarse as a consequence of exertion. That wasn’t how the night was supposed to go, getting snatched out of a night club had been the furthest thing from her mind when she’d practically begged her father to let her and a small group of close friends join him on his business trip to Hong Kong. They were supposed to go to the club, have some drinks, maybe meet some guys and take them back to the hotel. But Y/n had made the dire mistake of going out to the back of the club to get some air alone, not even realizing that she was being followed.

Leaning against whatever was behind her, Y/n twisted her wrists around in their binding, soft, pained noises escaping her dry throat, and ever so often, when she shifted her leg, she heard the metal chain jingle against the cold floor. The air around her wasn’t necessarily cold, but her skimpy, black, sequence dress didn’t afford her much warmth, leaving her arms, the top of her chest and most of her back and legs exposed to the temperate atmosphere. The floor under her bare legs felt smooth, though not cold enough to be tile and after a while, she’d deduced that she’d been left sitting on finished concrete. The ceiling must have been high and the walls were probably far apart too, because Y/n could have sworn that every sound she made was amplified by subtle echos.

At some point, she’d stopped trying to figure out who’d taken her and why and had started wondering if her friends were looking for her. Had they told her father? If they had, he must have been beside himself with worry- it had been just the two of them since she was a kid and he’d hated the idea of her going out that night, arguing that she shouldn’t be partying that late in a strange place. Maybe if she’d listened to him, she wouldn’t have been in trouble.

Her fretting against the zip ties continued for a while, though when the sound of deadbolts shifting and then a heavy door creaking open disturbed the silence, Y/n froze. Like every other sound, the person’s steps echoed and she could only tell they were drawing nearer based on the sound of their footfalls. When they stopped, Y/n was almost positive that the person was in front of her, and then a shuffling ensued the bag over her head was ripped off in one, hasty, fluid motion. The sight wasn’t anything like she’d expected though. Y/n had expected an answer; a face.

But there was none.

Or rather, there was one but it was protected by a black mask lacking of any defining features, with only spaces for his dark, burnt-coffee hued eyes. It went menacingly well with his tailored, charcoal suit, though the mouth area didn’t seem to be for any other purpose above aesthetic, though he didn’t seem to be interested in speaking anyway. The man did however, reach out to caress the side of her face, tilting his head slightly to the left as he did. His touch elicited a shudder and Y/n sucked in a breath before trying, and failing, to speak through her gag. Then, after she'd spent a few minutes too many trying to form words around the strip of cotton, he put his pointer to her parted lips in a gesture that was synonymous with ‘shh’.

When Y/n jerked her head away, the act was returned with a slap that filled the quiet and made her right cheek sting. Crying out, she gasped as a fresh wave of moisture rained from her tired, reddened eyes. Heaved breaths racked her chest as Y/n sobbed, and presumably as a punishment for what he’d taken as apparent disrespect, the man put the bag over her head again, once more plunging Y/n into darkness.

When she came to, the bag had been pulled off from over her head again and she'd found that she wasn’t in the empty, concrete walled and floored room any longer. She’d been put to sit in a leather chair in what appeared to be an office, a very nice one with modern decor and expensive furnishings. Dark colors contrasted with rich hints of brown and gold, and Y/n found that she was actually grateful for the dimness of the room so her eyes wouldn’t have too much of a hard time adjusting after what had felt like hours in unending, suffocating blackness.

The the confines of her leather upholstered chair, Y/n’s hands were still bound at the wrists and by then, her ankles had been bonded too, one angle, cut and bruised from the assault of the old chain, tied to the other, unblemished one by a thick, white cable tie. She appeared to be alone, and Y/n was moments away in taking solitude when, from behind her, someone opened the door.

Barefoot, clad in black slacks with a black t-shirt, the man entered with the confidence of a prowling wolf, and while Y/n couldn’t be certain that the man with the mask had been the same one as the one standing before her right now, Y/n found that she did know him. Donaka Mark, the whole reason for her father’s trip to Hong Kong. Y/n had only met him once, and it was very briefly, when he’d joined them at breakfast back at their hotel to talk about a partnership between her father’s company and his. She couldn’t have fathomed why he’d have wanted to kidnap her though; he was her father’s business partner, things had seemingly been going well

Unless they hadn’t, her father had a bad habit of only ever telling Y/n what he decided she needed to know.

“Your father is a smart man. Too smart,” he began, “So he should have known that I’d notice him trying to leave Hong Kong without making good on his end of the deal.”

“Twenty five million dollars is a lot of money,” Donaka added with a hum, “And at first, I told myself that if I took you, he’d give it back to me. You know, an eye for an eye, that kind of thing,” he strode into the room, hands fitted into his pockets as he made his way over to the larger, more imposing chair on the other side of the impressively large desk, “But I think I have a better idea,” he sank into the chair with debonair and ease. “I’m gonna let you repay his debt.”

Y/n’s brows furrowed, and she tried to question Donaka on his meaning, but it was to no avail, she was still gagged. “I’m going to make you an offer, and you can choose to accept. Nod if you understand." Y/n nodded. “Good. I’ll untie you, ungag you,” he gestured casually, “And you can leave, but then first thing tomorrow, a cleaning lady will find your father dead in his hotel room,” Y/n gasped, eyes brimming with tears once more, “Or, when I untie, you can stay here with me, just for one night, and just like that, his debt is all gone,” he enticed.

One night? Just like that? Y/n could admit that she was sheltered, but she would hardly consider herself naive and she knew that when Donaka said ‘just like that’, it was merely a blanket term for something more salacious. She didn’t respond though, and it had less to do with the fact that she actually couldn’t and more to do with the fact that she didn't know what to say. Sure, when she'd first met Donaka, back at the hotel, she'd found him enthralling, and the edge of danger that clung to him only made her imagination run a little wilder, but Y/n would have never thought, not in a million years, that she'd be asked to sell herself like that. Use her body to repay a debt that wasn't her own.

She watched closely as Donaka rose from his seat, collecting a silver pair of scissors from a drawer before coming over to where she was sitting. In a series of fluid motions, he gave the chair a tug and shifted it so she'd face him, proceeding to take a knee in front of her right before easily cutting the ties. The gag was the last thing to go, and too scared to produce even a peep, Y/n met his gaze with fear brimming hers.

"Well," he stood, dusting off his thighs with emphasis, "Its up to you now."

She stood in front of the mirror, wrapped in a silk, crimson hued dressing gown with delicate, lace trim at the thigh length hem and around the sleeves. Nerves like acid coursed through her veins and Y/n couldn't help but feel a little dirty. With absolute certainty, she'd probably be disgusted with herself for the rest of her life. She'd put a price on her body, a twenty-five-million-dollar tag.

It didn't matter how alluring she found Donaka, or how initially thrilling his darkness was, doing what she was about to was downright shameful. But it was not without good reason, at least she had that comfort; even if he’d given her a choice, she didn’t really have one. It was the right thing to do, the only thing she could do. At least he’d given her some time to clean up, allowed her the opportunity to preserve some of her dignity.

With a shudder, she gave her reflection in the bathroom mirror one last, sweeping glace, fixing her hair and adjusting the shoulders on the robe. Sucking in a breath, Y/n assumed her bravest face and gravitated to the door, taking the cool, crystal knob in her hand and turning gently. From the minute it was opened, it was almost as if her soul had vacated her being, and Y/n was working purely on muscle memory and instinct. She had become a spectator in her own life, standing by as she pushed herself to commit acts that weren't necessarily on her own volition.

Sometimes, the answer came before the choice.

Upon entering the large, stylishly minimal bedroom, Y/n immediately felt Donaka’s eyes rove over her sparsely clad frame, the feeling raising goosebumps along her silken skin. “Open the robe,” he ordered coldly, and in one clumsy motion, she tugged on the tie, letting the bow fall open, revealing her unclad frame underneath. “Beautiful,” he mumbled, “Just like I thought.”

Still dressed in his t-shirt and slacks, Donaka stood from a spot on the king sized bed, adorned with dark, gothic sheets. With a devious smirk, he approached her, touching her bruised cheek in a backhanded caress. “Tell me you want this,” he urged, clouding her judgment as he stepped closer. The power he wielded, it was intoxicating, she’d always liked a man who could take what he wanted.

“I want this,” Y/n submitted, the tremor in her voice making her feel small and vulnerable.

“I know you do,” he whispered, one hand gripping her hip while the other inched lower, skimming her arm before grazing a pebbled nipple. “Beg for it, beg me to fuck you,” he pressed, kissing the corner of her mouth, just as his hand dipped lower, cupping her cunt, the gesture stealing her breath in a sharp gasp, “I said beg for it, bitch.” Donaka squeezed her hip.

“Please,” Y/n pleaded in a quivering whimper, “Please, I want you. I need you,” she crooned.

Donaka flashed her a wide, wicked grin that almost made her blood run cold, “Very good,” he praised, and when his thumb invaded her folds, pressing down on her cilt, Y/n all but melted into his broad chest. “This wouldn’t be much fun if you didn’t want this, would it?” His breath was hot against her ear, and he sealed them with a lingering peck near her lobe.

As his finger circled the swollen bundle of nerves, Y/n’s toes curled and she felt her arousal being spread around by his hand. She couldn’t tell if she still hated it, her mind knew it was vile, but her body said otherwise; she wanted him, part of her really did. “Please,” the plea escaped her lips in a sudden gasp when Donaka’s middle finger slipped into her core.

“I want to feel your mouth on my cock,” he disclosed, fucking her with his fingers, reducing her legs to jelly, “Your pretty little mouth,” he swiped a chaste kiss off her lips, “I’m gonna fuck your mouth, bitch,” he sped up his ministrations, bring her close to tipping over the edge before swiftly removing his fingers. “Get down on your knees.”

Frustrated, Y/n dropped to the floor, knees unceremoniously hitting the marble tile with a soft thump. Shaking hands rose to the button and zipper of his pants, undoing them with unsteady movements and as she did, Donaka brushed her hair away from her face in a gentle movement. At that point, she was woefully surprised by his touches, they felt like a calm before the storm, gentle but with malicious connotations.

Exhaling softly, Y/n tugged his pants and boxers down, unwittingly salivating at the sight of his impressive cock springing free; erect with a drizzle of precum leaking from its rosy tip. “Open your mouth,” he snarled suddenly, harshly tugging on her hair, and eliciting a surprised yelp, Y/n followed direction. His length filled her mouth, hitting the back of her throat, causing her to gag. Wrapping her hair tightly around his fist, Donaka held Y/n’s head in place, rolling his hips aggressively; pulling out near completely before driving his length into her agape mouth again.

Her cheeks were hollowed out and Y/n was having a hard time catching her breath, but still, a rush of arousal had pooled in her center, making her thighs warm and silky when she pressed them together. With one hand, she grabbed his thigh, sinking her nails into his skin and keeping herself steady, while the other reached between her legs, tips of her fingers brushing her longing.

“Your mouth feels so fucking good,” he growled, low and primal, hitting the back of her throat more often than not. When her teeth grazed his shaft, Donaka hissed, jerking his hips violently in appreciation. “You’re fucking gorgeous like this, you were meant to be a little slut,” he snared. Y/n moaned around him, eventually struggling against his grip to match his pace as she pleasured herself, her fingers hardly enough to get her off.

Grinding on her fingers, Y/n, now eager to taste him fought against his hand, though, just as she felt the tension in his thigh, Donaka ripped himself away from her mouth, pulling her up by her hair suddenly, her hand consequently falling away from her eager center. “I’m not done with you yet,” he grabbed her face roughly in his hands, pressing his lips to hers in a fervent kiss, laced with unchecked passion and untamed aggression. Pushing the robe off her shoulders, paying no mind to it as it billowed to the floor, he hastily guided her to the bed, pushing her to the made surface.

Without much consideration to where his clothes fell, Donaka stripped himself before joining Y/n on the bed, climbing over her. “You’re like a doll,” he grunted with a chuckle as he grabbed her legs, angling them so her ass was slightly elevated. “A sexy fuck doll,” he added, smacking the flesh, the sting resulting in a stunned yelp, "I've been thinking about this since the minute we met."

Her face was buried in the sheets and so when Donaka sheathed himself inside of her drenched pussy, not affording Y/n a moment to adjust to his girth before striking up a pattern of aggressive thrusts, she cried out salaciously. In a death grip, he held onto her hips as he drilled into her and with every aggressive jerk of his expert hips, a lewd groan broke from her dry lips.

Vaguely, Y/n was aware that it should not have felt that good; he was using her as something of a pawn in his game, defaming her. But he was so good at it. His touch had electrified her nerves and the friction of his throbbing veins against her sensitive walls threatened to push Y/n further towards climax.

“Fuck,” Donaka grunted, one had deserting her hip and once more reaching to tangle in her hair, “Tell me how good feels,” he groaned, drilling into her sore cunt.

“It-oh!” Her broken words reverberated off the high walls, “It feels so….so fucking good!” She screamed, throat dry and exertion beading on their skin, “Fuck! Faster!” She cried, raw, carnal desire racking her body and sustaining her.

Without word or question, Donaka sped up, letting her hair go and instead reached to her front to roughly grab her left breast, kneading harshly. Their position left her back feeling contorted, though, much to rapt in the euphoria of it all, Y/n barely paid any mind, instead grabbing fistful of the sheets as she once again neared her tipping point.

“I’m- I'm gonna…..” The words came only in breathless bursts and coherence had long deserted the room. Without further warning, ecstasy, in busts of vibrant color behind her shut lids, overtook Y/n. Consuming her completely. Her skin felt hot, his fingers on them searing, and the gush drenching their thighs and prompting a slick, repetitive sound as he rode through her explosive orgasm felt like physical gratification manifested. Drunken obscenities were muffled into the bed as Y/n clenched around Donaka’s cock, resulting in an unmatched tightness and incomparable friction.

Y/n’s legs had barely stopped quaking and her boneless limbs were still weak when Donaka’s release followed soon after. Thick, generous threads of milky white product mingled with her own, the bursts against her sore walls causing a series of erotic noises to leave her throat. “Fuck!” Donaka managed through bared teeth, slamming into her with slower rigid movements. They were painful, almost assaulting and still, Y/n enjoyed them until the very moment they stopped, a resounding moan signaling the ache of contentedness filling the room as he eventually pulled out, collapsing next to her and rolling onto his back.

Heavy, deep breaths controlled the exaggerated rise and fall of her chest as Y/n went limp and as sense was slowly reintroduced, so was shame. Shame because she’d just given herself up to her own kidnapper, shame because she’d given in so easily. Shame because she’d enjoyed it so much. With the shame came the slow trickle of salty tears, leaking onto the messy sheets.

“See,” Donaka chuckled darkly beside her, and with Y/n's face still turned towards the dresser against the wall, she couldn’t see the smug, joyless grin taunting his handsome features, “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She didn’t respond, and sensing her distress, he added some cold comfort, “You should be proud,” she felt him shift on the bed, and when his fingers started trailing up and sown her spine, she had to bite the inside of her mouth, “I blew twenty five million dollars to fuck you,” his next words were closer to her ear, his heat stirring a confusing feeling in the pit of her stomach, “And I’d do it again.”

Y/n was well aware that it shouldn’t have, but somehow, she was proud as he'd suggested, morbidly empowered even. In fact, part of her knew that for certain, she’d offer herself up again, for free, just because she enjoyed it, and because he had used her as some kind of trophy, “Why just one night?” She rasped, curious.

"Mama?" Adeline had peered up at her as Y/n read aloud, interrupting her animated reading with her soft, curious tone. Y/n hummed in response, glancing at her little one and prompting her to continue as she closed the book, marking their page with a finger slipped between the pages. "Is daddy sad?"

Y/n knitted her brows, finally relenting to completely closing the book and then setting it down the nightstand. "Why do you think he's sad, Button?" She inquired, reaching out to shift a few dark, messy strands away from Adeline's small face, tucking them behind her ear.

Adeline shrugged exaggeratedly, absently playing with the ear of her favorite stuffed dog, a little gray pit, meant to look like their family pet, the same dog that had been John’s only companion when Y/n had first met him a few years earlier. “I don’t know,” she began, “He always smiles when he looks at you and tonight he didn’t,” Adeline added, solemn but as more of an afterthought while she continued playing with the little toy that she’d named Jojo.

Suddenly, Y/n was upset with herself for not noticing his change; she should have paid a little more attention, maybe ask him how he was when he told her he was going down to work on some books instead of offering to help Adeline with her homework like he usually did. If their six year old had noticed, surely his shift was obvious. Her frown deepened and Y/n cuddled Adeline closer in a tight hug, “You know what, Button? Maybe daddy’s just tired,” she lied, hoping to put her daughter’s worry to rest, “He probably just needs some sleep. Like you,” the girl giggled loudly when Y/n peppered her face with noisy kisses, “But just in case, I’ll give him a big hug for you when I get to our room, and then you can give him one when you see him in the morning, how does that sound?”

Smiling now, Adeline nodded vigorously, “Good,” she determined, letting Y/n tuck her in after shuffling out of the twin sized bed, “Goodnight mama,” she held onto Y/n’s face when she was secured under the bright, colorful duvet, dark hair sprawled out like a halo around her head on the fluffed pillow.

“Night night, Button,” Y/n returned softly, now standing on the carpeted floor, leaning down as she loosely clasped Adeline’s small wrists, pressing a couple more kisses to her cheeks before adding, “I love you.”

“Love you too, mama,” was the last thing Adeline said before yawning and shutting her eyes. For a moment, Y/n watched as she snuggled up with Jojo before turning on the unicorn night light on the nightstand and heading over to the small bookcase near Adeline’s small table where she drew and held tea parties, book in hand. She didn't slip it into its place immediately, instead opening it to the inside of the front cover, smiling faintly at the inscription etched there;

To my Button,

May always remember that my love for you will, like the city, never stop growing, but like the house, will always remain.

All my love;

Daddy.

Her fingers ghosted over the letters, embellished in gold hued thread, and then shut it, soundlessly slipping it into its designated spot on the shelf. On light, soft steps, Y/n toed out of the bedroom, flicking the lightswitch to turn the central bulb off, allowing Adeline’s bedroom to be subtly illuminated by a gentle mixture of soft white, baby pink and pale gold light. As they usually did, Y/n left the door open just a sliver and then headed down the hall to her and John’s shared bedroom to get ready to turn in for the night- after she got to the bottom of what was bothering him.

Even if she’d assumed bedtime duties with Adeline, that night John had been the second of the pair to get under the sheets. It was past midnight when he finally joined her in bed after showering and getting into a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, and even if she’d been bone tired, Y/n had fought sleep to stay up until he got there.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” John sighed softly, kissing the top of her head before getting into bed next to her.

“I wanted to talk,” she explained as he got under the covers, and John stopped himself from reaching for the switch on his bedside lamp after taking off his watch and laying it on next to a framed photo of their family under the warm yellow glow. “Well, ask you something,” John knitted his brows as he turned back to her, and Y/n finally recognized the dimness that Adeline might have seen in his eyes; something had really gotten him down, she didn’t think she’d ever seen him like that. “Are you okay?” Y/n reached for his hand, laid between their thighs on the comforter.

“Yeah, I’m just…….” John exhaled audibly, meeting her eyes before shaking his head, “No,” he admitted.

“Can we talk about it?” Y/n knew him better than the back of her own hand; if she’d made talking about what was on his mind seem like an option, John would have sucked it up and promised that he was fine.

“I just…” John shook his head, shifting suddenly; scooting closer and then lower, urging her into a slouched position so he could lay his head on her chest. Easily reciprocating the embrace, Y/n held him in a hug from the front while occupying the other hand by tangling her fingers in his hair. “You ever think about how old you’ll be when she gets married?”

The question wasn’t one she expected, knitting her brows but obliging him anyways, “I…..not really,” she admitted with a dry chuckle, “But if she gets married when she’s around the same age as I was when we got married then that’ll be nineteen years from now…..I’ll be,” she huffed in disbelief, “Fifty.”

John made a soft sound that she couldn’t quite call a humorless chortle, but it was weighed down by sorrow, and the undertones of fear, “I’ll be seventy,” he paused, tone dropping lower as he added, “And you’ll be as old as I am right now.” They were just a couple weeks past his fifth birthday, though Y/n was sure that his age hadn’t been bothering him as much as it had been that day, “That’s crazy to me…..how can we all be so….far apart?”

Taken aback, Y/n paused, trying to gather the most appropriate words, though, when she fell short, she simply asked, “I thought you were okay with this…..us….our age,” his age. They’d never really talked about it, but Y/n never considered that they’d have to; even if he was older, she and John had always been on the same page when it came to the life they wanted together.

“I was, I think I still am. Its just…..I went to pick her up and…you’re gonna think its the stupidest thing,” he breathed and Y/n promised him that she wouldn’t, “She told one of her friends that I turned fifty last month and then this first grader looks me in the eye and calls me the oldest man in the world.”

“Babe,” Y/n scoffed a soft chortle, “They’re kids, they say ridiculous things all the time.”

John groaned pulling away and sitting up so their eyes would meet, “You promised you wouldn’t think it was stupid.”

“I don’t,” she defended, her hand formerly tangled in his soft waves moving to cup his face, his gray flecked beard rough under her palm, “I promise you, I don’t.”

John frowned, “Look, I know its silly and they’re kids so they just say whatever’s in their heads, but it just got me thinking. What if its okay now but one day you realize you’ve given your best years to a man almost twice your age and you regret it? What if I’m never the husband you deserve and the father she deserves cause I spent my….younger years doing all those terrible things?”

Y/n’s breath hitched and she quickly blinked her tears away before bringing her other hand to his face, pulling him closer as she simultaneously arched towards him, “You have been more than the husband that I deserve since the minute we got married. And you have been the best father that a little girl could ask for since the moment we knew we were having her, and nothing you did back then changes that.”

Bringing his forehead to hers, John slumped his shoulders, and just like that, her man of a few words started rambling, “I guess I’m just worried that all the bad things I’ve done are gonna catch up to me, and remind me that I don’t deserve all of this. I mean what if that’s why it all happened so late in my life? You know, cause I can’t ever imagine us separating, so what if as soon as I forget that I’m this old, life just-”

“Hey, every day that we’re all together, every memory we make with her, every moment we spend together, it takes us a little further away from the bad stuff, alright? That’s all behind you, and the big scary thing that way in front of you comes long after she’s all grown up. John,” Y/n pressed her nose to his, “Our family, your age, isn’t some divine punishment. The way Adeline loves you is proof that you’re a much better man than you give yourself credit for, and you know what? You might be older, but that just means you’ve had all these experiences and they’ve made you the man I and your daughter, who was super worried about you before she went to bed, love,” she kissed him, quick and hard, “I’ll love you even when you’re too deaf to hear me say it, old man.”

John chuckled, swiping a chaste peck off her ready lips, “Even when I’m deaf, I won’t forget what it sounds like when you say it,” he admitted softly, lips still close to hers, “Thank you for giving an old man a life better than anything he could ever dream of.”

She hadn’t even wanted to go out, but Alice had been insistent on taking the dog, their family’s little golden cockapoo, Benji, to Florence for a walk around the city. They’d been there for a while by then, at least two hours and had found themselves in a square framed by small, picturesque shops with a gorgeous fountain at the center. Alice was closer to the fountain with Bengi, throwing a little ball and giving him treats as they played fetch, while Anya hung back a little, strap of her small handbag and the leash in her hands, close enough to call them over if needed but far enough to allow her daughter to feel like she was getting an opportunity to be independent.

Her eyes were trained on the pair, a soft smile gracing her sun kissed features as she watched them play. She must have been a little too far off in her own little world to notice much else going on around her- or hear the man coming up behind her, and so, when someone touched her arm and called her name, she jumped, yelping in surprise.. It was something that seemed to happen quite often since the accident; Anya could lose hours on end just slipped into a daydream, not thinking of much, simply rapt in hazy memories that felt more like dreams slipping through sand.

“Anya?” Trying to shake off the fog surrounding her brain and awaken her eyes, she shifted to regard the man who’d moved to stand in front of her, just a little off to her left. Him, she knew him. The life she had with him though, it felt like it was light-years in her past, and Anya couldn’t remember the last time they'd seen each other, before she’d gotten married perhaps.

Still, the sight of him made her smile softly, “Christopher,” his name came easily, “Hey, how are you?”

He looked a little older than she remembered, flecks of gray had started showing up in his dark waves and he’d grown his beard out. Christopher also looked enormously surprised to see her, Anya almost thought that he looked like he’d seen a ghost. “Ani,” he gasped, his eyes roving her frame, lingering on her midsection for a handful of seconds, and confused by his surprise, Anya freed on of her hands, transferring the folded leash to the hand gripping her mini Birkin- an anniversary present from her husband- and placed her left hand protectively over the small swell off her stomach. “I can’t believe its you,” he brethed, words laced with awe as he brashly leaned in for a hug, one she was too startled to return. “I thought you were-”

“Mamma!” Just as the words had broken from his lips and Christopher had let her go, Alice and Benji came bounding towards Anya. As much as she’d have liked to think she took care of her daughter, Anya knew that Alice was being trained to look after her.

“Sometimes mamma forgets,” her husband says, “Sometimes she needs help. Always look out for your mamma, okay?”

“Mamma,” Alice reached to hold Anya’s wrist, “Are you okay?” When Anya glazed down, a pair of big brown eyes were gazing up at her, brimmed with concern.

“I’m fine hunny,” Anya hummed, glancing at Christopher as her faltering smile, “Uh…Christopher, this my daughter, Alice,” she took a breath, once again transferring the items between her hands so she could take Alice’s small hand in hers, “Ally, this one mamma’s old friends.”

“I didn’t know you had friends,” Alice frowned, and suddenly, Anya realized that she didn’t, not really. She actually can’t remember the last time she’s spent time with a friend, she can’t even remember if she has any.

Nervously, Anya chuckled noticing the concerned glint in Christopher’s eye, and she could tell he wanted to say something about it, but instead he quipped; “You know, you haven’t called me that…..since….wow,” he chortled, “It’s been a really ,long time, I still can’t its you” he paused, mood sobering once more and after a moment, he glanced at Alice, “You named her after your mother,” he noted.

“Yeah,” Anya nodded and was about to explain further when someone cleared their throat behind her.

“Ladies,” John stepped beside her and Anya’s breath hitched. She always did that when he walked into a room, she didn’t really know why, but her heart would sometimes speed up too and while she usually tried to convince herself that it was because she was excited to see him, deep down, Anya knew it was something else. She doesn’t know what it is, but it was something. “Gelato!” He announced, pressing a kiss to the side of Anya’s face as Alice erupted into a fit of excited laughter.

John told Alice to put Benji back on his leash, which she did, before offering her a waffle cone filled with two scoops of strawberry gelato. “Who’s your friend babe?” He peered curiously when Alice stopped paying attention, much to focused on her snack. She can’t quite tell, but she swears there’s an edge in his words.

“Actually I think we’ve met. I came to your house a few years ago-”

“You two have met?” Anya gasped, confused as she looked between them. She thinks she should remember that, but she really doesn't, and Anya can hardly fathom an instance where her husband would have met the man who was almost her husband without her being there.

John shrugged, “Can’t remember. We might have, I’m not sure.”

“Yeah with Lilly, I was actually looking for you,” Christopher addressed her, his face falling at the mention of her sister. “You’d been…..missing.”

Lilly. Lillian.

A body in a pool of blood. A face so bloodied it's unrecognizable

The memories of a bad dream bellies up and fades almost instantly.

Knitting her brows, she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, “Missing?” Anya repeated, befuddled. Suddenly, the sun’s heat seemed to quadruple and there were bright spots dancing on her vision. Trying to shake off the dizziness, Anya drew in a couple slow breaths, replacing her hand on her stomach and feeling the gentle patter of their second daughter’s kicks against her palm. “I don’t….missing?”

It isn’t the word exactly that sparks the reaction, but what it means. Christopher is suggesting that she’d been gone, vanished. But that doesn’t make sense.

She’d met John at work, they’d gotten married and she’d gotten into an accident before they found out they were having Alice.

Maybe he’s talking about her stay in the hospital- which she also doesn’t recall- or when they’d moved to Connecticut during her recovery.

“You okay sweetheart?” John’s voice rang through as the only clear thing she could hear, it was like his voice, soothing and familiar was piercing water and wind to get to her.

Swallowing thickly, Anya nodded, “Yeah I just…..” She exhaled loudly, eliciting a dry, anxious chuckle, “I’m really hot all of a sudden.”

Through her blurring periphery, she saw John turn to Christopher, “I’m gonna take her to sit,” he said hurriedly, “But it was great seeing you again,” he rattled off.

“But I thought-” Anya didn’t hear the rest of his sentence, she didn’t even get to ask what he meant or say goodbye before John led her away, beckoning Alice along. He led them to a quieter part of the square, behind the fountain where the pathway was lined with a clothing boutique, an antique store and a jewelry shop.

She doesn’t think she can count how many presents John has bought her from those very stores.

A pair of authentic art deco earrings after she’d had Alice. A cashmere sweater last Christmas. A gorgeous tennis bracelet when they’d found out they were expecting again.

“Is this any better?” John asked cautiously, just as her mind started to settle and her vision began clearing. She was still incomparably warm and her loose sundress felt way tighter than it actually was, but Anya thought she was faring a bit better than she had been about fifteen minutes earlier.

Anya hummed, nodding as Alice fidgeted between them, making a mess of her little white top as she ate her gelato. “I don’t know what happened back there,” she admitted sheepishly.

“Well, it is really hot,” John sympathized, “Maybe this’ll help. The woman at the counter asked me if I was sure about my order three times after I asked for mango and mint chocolate chip together,” he chuckled softly.

“Its so good though!” Anya laughed, trying to discard her earlier spell, popping a spoon into her mouth and humming at the taste.

“I’ll take your word for it, and stick to vanilla,” he mused, using a napkin to wipe off Alice’s mouth before starting his own desert. Watching them, Anya’s smile grew fonder; he’s such a good father, she doesn’t think she could have dreamed up a better life with anyone else.

He’s perfect for her, he and Alice and their new baby; they’re everything she needs……maybe that’s why she doesn’t have anyone else.

“Alright Ally-pants,” he tickled her side, “Why don’t we finish our gelato and get home so mamma can get some rest, yeah?”

“Okay papa!” Their little one beamed, just as Anya lapsed into silence beside them, trying to shake the remnants of the strange feeling that had crept up on her while they were talking to Christopher.

Meeting Christopher at the square had been a close call, too close and John had preferred to leave those in his past. Christopher was supposed to stay in the past, he’s the one person that can unravel John’s entire life. He’s the one loose thread that can’t be clipped. As far as John could tell though, he hadn’t had a chance to say anything too damning; not about Lillian being dead or ‘missing’, or Anya herself being presumed dead- and John knew that she’d been considered dead.

A sibling rivalry gone wrong, that was the headline splashed across the front of magazines and newspapers.

Still, Anya hadn’t been the same since their run in with her ex, and even if she’d tried to put up a facade of apathy towards the interaction, John could tell it had affected her. She’d been slipping more than usual, off in her own world since they’d gotten in the car and barely snapping out of it when he or Alice tried getting her attention. Every time John looked at her, and she looked away, he could swear she was trying to put all the pieces together; the memories prompted by whatever trigger words that Christopher might have uttered, anything that seeing him might have jogged. And John needed to fix that before any….lasting effects set in.

He’s worked too hard to get them there, to turn them into the happy family that they are now.

They’re having another baby, he can’t lose her like that.

For a moment, when they’d gotten home and John had watched Anya help Alice out of the car, fumbling over simple things like undoing the buckle of the car seat and taking Benji off his leash, he’d contemplated tracking Christopher down and putting an end to things altogether, just to ensure nothing like that ever happened again. But he was retired, John had been adamant in reminding himself of the fact.

Retired. Reformed. Better.

He has everything he needs, he doesn’t need to kill again. Not even if he misses it. Not even if he dreams about it sometimes or lays awake a night looking back on the life he used to have.

The feeling of blood soaking his clothes. The sounds of breath leaving a body. The haze of dying eyes.

He misses it……sometimes. But most times, John would look at the woman of his dreams and their little girl, whose smile looked kind of like the one her mother used to have, and he’d be content. He was happy, and before them, he’d never been happy- he’d never had enough. With them, he had more than it.

“Hey,” he stepped past the threshold of the sliding back door of their rustic Tuscany villa, calling out to Anya, who was cozied on a porch swing, vacant eyes cast towards the sprawling backyard, were Alice was playing with Benji in her little clubhouse.

Shaking off whatever she’d been thinking of, Anya blinked quickly and glanced his way, a small smile brightening her tired features. Her smile, it soothed his worries a bit; if she was smiling, that meant things were still okay, he still had time to undo the damage done earlier that day. “Hi,” Anya patted the spot next to her, and when John sank down in it, she leaned into his side and he instinctively put an arm around her smaller frame.

Humming, she closed her eyes and John angled his head to peck the crown of her head, breathing the scent of her shampoo. “What were you thinking about just now?” He probed gently, not wanting seem like he was prying.

Anya sighed softly, “Christopher….” John inhaled sharply, holding his breath in anticipation for her next words. Her pause was a bit longer than one would expect when having a conversation an adult, she’d changed so much over the past few years and John easily recognized that her altered behavior had been the product of his attempts to recondition her; all the sedatives he’d pumped into her before they found out she was pregnant, all the time he’d spent convincing her that she’d been in an accident and that they were already married, discarding any memories that opposed his narrative and then the anti-psychotics he’d kept her on, just to keep her quiet.

Sometimes, maintaining the charade is exhausting, but when he looks at their life and Anya says she loves him and Alice calls him ‘papa,’ it's all worth it.

“Um….” Anya exhaled heavily, finally remembering their conversation, “He mentioned Lilly, it’s been so long since we talked,” she shook her head, “I don’t even what our fight was about, I was thinking about calling her,” Anya chuckled dryly, “But I can’t remember her number…..or where I’d have it.”

Sighing heavily, John leaned his cheek on the top of her head, “You know what happened,” he’d only told her the story about a dozen times, “I called her after the accident, Ani. She said-”

“I know what she said,” Anya shook her head, “I mean, I don’t know what she said, I know what you’ve told-”

“She said you were dead to her,” John cut her off, hoping the apparent harshness of a falsified occurrence would repel her from the idea of attempting to contact someone that she didn't know was already dead.

“I remember, it's just….she’s my sister John, what if I did something to hurt her? You know, I wouldn't want our girls to fight like that one day, so maybe I should…..lead by example,” Anya shifted and it was John’s feet planted firmly on the worn cobblestone floor keeping the swing steady as she did. “I know what she said must have been horrible to hear,” she reached over and affectionately squeezed his thigh, one hand still absently resting on her bump. “But…..” she shrugged.

Surprisingly, it was the most coherent she’d been in years; they’d had conversations, long ones about important things, but none about her past. She never remembered enough to talk about anything before the first few months of them being together, and even if she didn’t remember that afternoon John could tell that she was close. And it scared him. “I know,” he reached up to caress her cheek with the back of his fingers, “But this I just don’t think this is the right time to go digging around in the past. Getting stressed out over this stuff….its not worth the grief," John reached out, placing a hand next to hers on her stomach, feeling their gentle movements of their daughter under his palm. How lucky is he, to have done such horrible things with hands and still use them during the most beautiful pleasures of his life? Holding his wife’s hand, rocking their daughter to sleep, feeling their baby kick.

She was about to counter his words, John could see it on her face, "Have you taken your medication today?" He asked abruptly.

She blinked quickly, obviously startled, "Uh….no, we left in such a hurry this morning. And honestly, I feel fine,” Anya shrugged casually.

Trying to mask his annoyance, John pressed, “But you weren’t this morning.” when Christopher almost ripped his entire life in half.

“Yeah but….I guess I just got flustered,” she squeezed his thigh again, and that time, John laid his free hand over hers, “I’m fine though. Besides, I don’t like the way they’ve been making me feel these days,” Anya admitted.

“You have to take your meds,” he stressed, trying to meet her eyes, though Anya averted her gaze, instead turning to look out to where Alice was playing with Benji. “Alright,”” he relented, “Maybe you can skip ‘em today. Why don’t I get you something to drink. Iced tea?” He offered.

“Uh, sure, thanks,” briefly, she turned and smiled, before reverting her gaze to Alice. She played well on her own, and John often thought he saw much of himself in her; even at five, she’s tough, serious and doesn’t seem to appreciate having to interact with anyone that isn’t him or Anya, not even kids her own age.

She used to have a nanny, she quit after a few too many biting incidents.

Preschool didn’t go very well either, she pushed a classmate off a jungle gym. Now she’s home-schooled.

She was good with Benji though, there hadn’t been any incidents there yet, but John wasn't worried, as long as she loved them, and they loved her, everything would be fine. She won't hurt the baby, right? Shaking off the troubling thoughts, John rose from the porch swing and headed towards the back door.

In the kitchen, he got a jug of iced tea out of the fridge, and as he stood at the counter, an arched window mounted just above it, John could still see Alice throwing the ball and encouraging Benji to go get it, at some point, he even heard her ask Anya if they could go for a walk down the hill and John couldn't see his wife from that angle, but he did hear when she reported that she was tired and that it was too late anyway. Filling the glass halfway, John bent over for a moment, rummaging through a usually locked drawer until he located a little, orange tinted plastic bottle with the label scratched off. There’s another bottle upstairs in their medicine cabinet, Anya thinks it's medication for the ‘brain damage’ that has resulted from a car accident she’d been in while John knows that those little two hundred gram pills are the only thing holding his elaborate ruse together.

For a moment, guilt hampered his actions, though John was quick to discard it, instead shaking three pills out of the bottle and laying it on a wooden chopping board. Its more than her usual dosage of two pills, but he thinks one more for good measure will be enough to combat the effects of earlier that day. Ensuring that he was still alone in the kitchen, John used the gray, granite pestle to reduce the tablets to a small pile of off-white powder before mixing it into the half glass of iced tea. Topping off the glass, he got metal straw out of a decorative, ceramic cup on the counter and situated it in the tall glass before returning to the porch.

“Iced tea for mamma,” he teased, offering her the glass and Anya giggled softly as she took a long initial sip of her drink. Once again, when John resigned next to her, she snuggled against him, and as usual, the feel of Anya reminded him that everything he’d been through was worth it- and he’d do it all again, just so he could end up with her. Albeit, he would fix some of his mistakes;

Not take that job in London, so she wouldn’t cheat.

Handle things differently after swiping her out of the house; maybe actually get rid of her cellphone and laptop.

He definitely wouldn’t kill her sister; even if her body had come in handy, he’d only needed it because of the missteps he’d made.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Anya hummed, straw lingering between her lips as she encouraged him to continue, “We should get out of here.”

She elicited a sound of confusion, “Like…..for dinner or something?” Already, he could hear the medication having its effects, the subtle slowness of her words, the way they seemed like they were bouncing on air.

“Like move,” he corrected. It made sense, if Christopher found out that they lived in Italy, it could open a can of worms and rip his life to tatters, but if they left before he could pick up on anything; before he started putting even the most minuscule and inconsequential pieces together, then everything would be solved without John having to temporarily desert his retirement. “I’m thinking Greece,” one of the smaller islands specifically, where they're unlikely to have any detrimental run-ins, “The beaches are gorgeous, I could teach Ally how to swim. It’ll be amazing.”

Anya scoffed softly and shook her head, presumably to ward off the haze, “There are beaches here,” she reasoned, “Beautiful ones,” she sighed and John’s hand slipped from her shoulder and reached forward to cup her baby bump. He liked feeling the babe’s pattering kicks, it was soothing and made him feel a little more human than usual. Meet nice women and have beautiful babies with them, real men did that, as long as John was a father and a husband, he was a man, not a monster.

“Why do you wanna move?” Anya inquired drowsily.

John shrugged nonchalantly, resting his cheek on the crown of her head, breathing the smell of her shampoo. It might have been summer, but she smelt like the best parts of spring; the wild berries, the fresh air and the sweetness of milk and honey. “I just think its time for a change of pace is all. And think about it, you could spend the rest of the pregnancy with the beach right at our back door. Then we have the baby, we'll put her crib by the window and the waves will put her to sleep-”

“We said the quiet here would calm Alice and she cried all the time,” Anya giggled. She was right though, Alice had cried so, so much. For days on end, she’d wail until her little throat was sore and sometimes, John swore she was doing it on purpose, just so they’d be miserable.

But this baby’s gonna be different, because she’ll be like her mother, and not like him. She’s gonna be easy, and she’ll like the waves.

“Time for a change……” Anya repeated coolly, and her breathing grew a little ragged with tire, “Mmmm, I guess it would be nice.” They’d hadn’t been sitting like that for too long, though the medication, all crushed up and in her drink, would probably work a bit faster than normal. Heavily, she sighed again, that time sitting up and reaching for her temple with two fingers.

“What’s wrong?” He feigned ignorance, his hand gliding to her back so he cold affectionately rub up and down her spine, “Talk to me sweetheart.”

She winced at the word and sympathetically, or maybe regretfully, John did too. “I’m….maybe I'll go take my meds after all, my head hurts and I suddenly feel really out of it.”

No, no, no, that’ll be way too much. “You know what? Maybe you just need some rest,” weaning the glass out of her white-knuckled clutch, John helped her stand, and just then, Alice came bounding up the porch steps. “Why don’t you go lay down, I can stay out here with Ally.”

“Mamma, can we wanna have a tea party?” Alice interrupted, tugging at the skirt of Anya’s maternity sundress, “Please,” the girl flashed her mother her best puppy eyes, a look that was practically impossible to say no to.

Licking her lips, Anya brushed her hand through Alice’s soft, brunette strands, “Baby, mamma’s gonna lie down for a little while-”

“Are you sick?” Alice frowned deeply, tilting her head curiously as she continued, “Is the baby sick?”

There must have been something about the way she said it, because John didn’t miss the snap of Anya’s head and the moment of sharp clarity in her eyes, before if quickly dissolved. “Not sick,” she smiled weakly, “Just tired. But maybe papa will have a tea party with you.”

Grinning, John reached to pull Alice into his lips, and when he pressed a series of quick kisses to her soft cheek, she laughed wildly; besides her first cry, and not the years worth of others, her laugh must have been his most favorite sound. “Papa would love to have a tea party with Ally-pants. If she wants to have one with him.”

Briefly, he caught Anya flashing them a grin as she lingered in the doorway for a moment, her smile oddly enough, fading as she retreated into the house. Benji darted in after her, sensing that she might have needed a little company and when Alice’s laughter died, John sent her to collect her toys; they preferred teaching her to clean up her messes instead of having someone else do it- a lesson that her father should have learnt a little better.

When she was through, John led Alice into the house, helping her wash grass and dirt off her hands and then sending her up to her room to get ready for their tea party. Before John headed there himself, he stole a peek into the master bedroom, finding Anya already laid atop the made sheets, tuned on her side and cradled by pillows meant to support her back and tummy, with Benji protectively laying on the floor right next to her, watchful eyes cast upwards.

John liked seeing her like that, so at peace and untroubled, though often, he wondered what she was dreaming about. Him, perhaps? And if it is, is he her fantasy within reach, or is he her worst nightmare?

Her feet are a little sore from walking around the cafe all day and there’s a strand of hair that refuses to stay in her ponytail, constantly falling over her face instead. She’s brushed it away from her face probably the dozen times already that afternoon. Anya is in the midst of doing it again, just after she’s finished wiping down a table that formerly hosted a trio of very messy teenagers, when he walks in. She can’t remember his name, even if she’s probably written it on his cup a thousand times, but she does know his order; black coffee with two sugars. He’s dangerously handsome and often, when Anya’s mind strays to the gutter, she figures that he might be good for a fun weekend or two.

He always dresses nice, so maybe that weekend could be a little exotic- he obviously has the money.

His wealth is not what attracts her though, Its the little awkwardness that he exhibits every time she goes to take his order; the way he gets flustered when she tells him to have a nice day and how he stumbles over his very simple order sometimes; it makes her feel powerful, how can a man of his nature be so timid around her? Him in his designer leather jackets and five hundred dollar jeans and her, serving coffee and wearing a ten dollar apron.

She leaves him be for a while, not wanting to come off as desperate, and tends to other customers in the interim. Though, eventually, she grabs the French press off the counter and quickly whips up a fresh batch, shoving a handful of sugar packets into her pockets before setting off towards him, “Refill?” She peers and while his response is a blur, she fills up his mug anyways and then offers him two packets of sugar. He thanks her and just to get the ball rolling, she says with a flirty wink; “No problem, anything for one of my favorites.”

And then suddenly, things shift.

She’s in a club, drunk out of her mind, but she swears he’s there too. On the other side of the room and they definitely make eye contact, but when she blinks, he’s gone again.

There’s a car outside of her apartment, a nice car. Too nice to be from her community. There’s a car at his house. “.....such a weird coincidence…..”

There’s the car again, parked outside the restaurant. Their place, but Christopher’s saying something about how much he still misses her, and how he hasn’t really dated since they’ve broken up. She tells him she still loves him too, but she’s seeing someone.

Everything’s going by so quickly and Anya feels as if she’s watching a movie set to pay fifty times its original speed. Memories, fragments and made up moments flit past her eyes in blurs of hazy color while distorted sounds whistle past her ears.

Things seem to slow down when she's in her apartment though, and while Anya doesn’t quite understand why, she feels terribly alone and horribly scared. There’s a phone, a loud one, and when it rings, she knows she isn’t alone. He’s lonely, he said he is. She feels for him, even while knowing that he’s done something. Something bad, something twisted.

Time is flying again as a familiar nightmare takes form. A moment is mounted around her and it makes Anya feel like the walls are closing in on her. A body. The blood. The teeth.

It’s all just a dream sweetheart. Its all just a dream.

How many times has she heard those words? Too many.

Lillian. Anya was nothing more than to scream her name, shout it at the top of her lungs, even if she knows her sister can’t hear it. She wants to rip the man to shreds, the man who destroyed her life, but she can’t quite see him. Anya knows him though, maybe a little too well. Maybe if she thinks hard enough, she’ll see his face, maybe she just has to reach. She knows those eyes, those hands. That voice in her head that’s lying to her, she knows it. If only she can just-

With a startle she awakes and the words are being cast by the same voice into the dimness as he gathers her in his arms, “It’s all just a dream sweetheart. It was just a bad dream.”

Sitting up with aid and a struggle, Anya let John take her into his embrace. It was warm and familiar, though, for some reason, she couldn’t help but associate it with the horridity of her nightmare. “Its okay,” he rasped against her hair, and between them, she could feel her baby’s frantic movements, not doubt stirred by her frenzy. “I’ve got you babygirl.”

Tears leak from her sleepy eyes and Anya let herself sob, hoping that the act would rid her of the nightmare that had seemed more like stowed memories. “It was horrible,” she heaved into his shoulder, hugging John tighter.

“I know,” he cooed, “But its over. We’re here now and its over. It was just a dream.”

For a moment, she swears it happens; the click. The one thing that pulls the figments of her dreamscape together and makes it one, hellish whole. The face, the voice, the man and his touch, it was all him; John. But it only lasts a moment, if even that much. A millisecond of clarity. The fog clears and the fleeting dream that flashes before her teary eyes is, very briefly, more than just a dream. They’re memories, her memories.

But it doesn’t last.

The cloud befuddling her mind resumed its white thickness and that moment of evanescent clarity is gone. Anya actually thought that she might have preferred it that way, because if those dreams were really memories, then her perfect life, the happy marriage and beautiful family, would all just be a lie. And if it's a lie then the man who she’s hopelessly in love with is the same one who’s ruined her life, and when she says their little girl is a lot like her daddy, that might not be such a good thing. That was why Anya succumbed to the haze, squeezing her eyes shut as she borrowed against John’s shoulder and held him tighter, shuddering when he did the same.

She loves him. She loves him. She loves him.

And he loves her. They have a family, she’s happy- most of the time. That’s what matters.

The rest is just a bad dream, she tried convincing herself of it, drilling the thought into the furthest reaches of her mind. It was all just a dream, just like he said. Or maybe, she thought, just maybe ignorance is bliss and it doesn't matter anyway.

He did say that one day she’d forgive him too.

*****

After everything, it’s finally happening. They’re finally happy.

“I love you too,” John was slow and gentle in shifting his face, the tips of their noses brushing before he’s finally able to capture her lips in a languid, impassioned kiss. His free hand reaches out, draped on the pillow, just over her head so he can touch Anya’s forehead, swiping away a wispy strand from her brow, “I knew this would work out for us,” he added quietly, between languid lip-locks.

Anya hums, “Of course you did.” Her words are a little sharp, but John is too caught up in the moment to notice it, “But I’m sure you didn’t know this was going to happen.”

That time, John’s brows knit, “What are you-” His words are cut off by a sudden, sharp gasp and a pain right in the center of his chest. He’s done it so many times before, used the sharpest blades to cut through flesh and bone- he’s done it for her- but John has never, ever felt it. At least, not like that. He’s never felt what it's like when the tip cuts the first layer of skin or when the rush of blood spills from an injured muscle, probably the most important muscle in anyone's body. He’s never felt it, but now that he is, he finds that above the pain and shock, he’s scared. Its so…final.

“Ani,” he wheezes, a mouthful of metallic crimson pouring from his lips and tricking onto the pillow. Reaching between their bodies and finding the hilt of the knife. Her hand is still tightly clasped around it, and he’s unsure of why but he can’t seem to overpower her and get the knife out. Though he knows it doesn’t matter anyway, the knife, a big one, is buried his heart- taking it out kills him, leaving it in there kills him too.

Even before his last breath, he’s dead.

“How…..why…..?” His eyes are wide and her image starts going blurry as iridescent spots dance on his pupils.

Despite his failing vision though, John can see the smirk taunting her perfect features, and her giggle, it’s more twisted than anything he’s ever heard, her words though, those familiar ones that he whispered into her ear so many times, those are the ones that haunt his final moments the most;

“It’s just a dream, sweetheart.”

The silent alarm had gone off, causing his phone to beep erratically from its place on his night stand. Though, it was his dream, or rather nightmare, that had woken John with a sudden start. Trying to shake it off, he focuses his attention on the beeping coming from his phone. He usually kept a gun in the drawer right at his bedside, but it couldn’t have been anyone that warranted a gun, right? So instead of getting it out and checking the barrel, John opened the drawer, filled up a syringe from a little vial, and then shoved his tired feet into a pair of slippers. Easing his bedroom door open, John slipped out into the hall soundlessly, ready to strike and subdue at a moment's notice.

Anya was the only other person in the house, maybe she’d somehow gotten out of her room and was trying to get out- but even if she is, John isn’t going to shoot her. Or perhaps, he doesn’t trust himself to not shoot her, which is why he’s left the gun in its place. He didn’t want to kill her, he really didn’t, but she was testing his patience. And his sanity.

All these mind games.

All these lies.

John isn’t sure that he can handle much more of this, maybe it would be better if he kills her. He was just nearing the top of the staircase when a series of harsh thumps erupted in the deafening silence. It sounded like someone was hitting something solid, and maybe trying to break it, further fueling his suspicions that Anya had escaped her new room. Maybe he’s been misguided, once again. Maybe she isn’t ready after all.

Inaudible, hastened steps carried his down the stairs, and as he drew closer to the hallway, the more defined the thump got, sounding more and more like someone hacking at wood. Not very long after, he heard the jingle of metal falling to the floor first, and then came the sound of splinters being chipped away. But it’s way too close to be the front door, it actually sounds like its coming from right outside her bedroom.

Maybe she isn’t out yet.

But that doesn’t make sense because the silent alarm was tried.

And right there, that was when John regretted not picking up the gun; there was obviously someone else in the house. The money question was; who? A muttered obscenity vacated his lips as John crept toward the wall that would shield him from the hall, so he could assess the intruder without being caught. Despite his strategy and his ill preparedness, John wasn’t scared in the slightest; he was ready. Ready to protect his home, ready to kill if necessary.

Cautiously, John poked his head out from the cover of the wall and while the presence of an intruder was surprising, what was even more startling was who’d broken in. The last person he was expecting, though, she should have been at the top of the list given how things had gone down a couple weeks earlier. Dr. Lillian Cohen, Phd in Criminal Psychology and enormously misguided judgment. He could take her, she wasn't much bigger than Anya, it would probably be the easiest kill of his career, and that was not discounting any of the endeavors he’d engaged in during his pursuit of love.

The noise he’d been hearing had apparently been her going at the side of the door with a crowbar, and John could see the broken knob along with a few larger splinters scattered at her feet. Lillian had already stuck her head into the room, though John couldn’t hear her speaking yet, and he took that as his cue; trudging down the hall hurriedly, subsequently grabbing Lillian by the back of her black coat and tugging her to him.

“Ani!” She screamed suddenly as John tugged her out of Anya’s room, “Ani, wake up!”

Slapping his hand over her mouth, John felt her bite down on his palm, and impulsively, he turned harshly, dumping Lillian against the nearest wall. He heard the resounding thump of her head hitting the wall just before she crumpled and went limp. “Fucking bitch,” John mumbled, wiping off the spot she’d bitten on the leg of his sweatpants as he moved to take a peek inside of the room.

Inside, Anya was sitting up, though, John didn’t think she was awake- or lucid- but by the light of the cold moon, he could see her lips moving. Her words were so soft and mumbled that John actually had to strain his ears to hear them; “What’re you doing here?”

She’d turned to him, and John could tell that her eyes were open, though it didn’t seem like she was looking at him. The doctor had said that the drug could cause hallucinations, but that was the first time John had witnessed her having one. He could have liken it to watching someone acting out a dream; he could have sworn she was trying to talk to someone on the bed, but her words weren’t clear enough to hear and the spot beside her was bare. A step forward resulted in a splinter snapping under his weight and Anya’s head immediately turned and she leaned forward slightly, “Who’s there?” Now a little clearer, her urgent words were cast towards the empty chair near the foot of her bed and Anya appeared to genuinely believe that there was someone there, but John was actually off to her immediate left.

“This is all just a dream, sweetheart,” John offered, trying to put her mind at ease.

Anya seemed to debate getting a little closer to the foot of the bed, though, instead she eventually laid down again, breathing going a little shallow as she laid against the pillow. She was still mumbling slipping back into a slew of incomprehensible words and as John backed out of the room, on far more cautious steps, he ordered quietly, “Go back to back to sleep sweetheart.”

When John was safely out of the room, easing the door shut and already thinking up ways to remedy the broken lock as soon as possible, he turned to deal with Lillian as he did, only to find that she was nowhere in sight;

Fuck.

It’s four am and John has accepted that despite his best efforts, things have gotten out of hand.

Anya is screaming bloody fucking murder, his floors are ruined, he’s pretty sure that a piece of glass cut him near the elbow and he’s kneeling in a pool of blood and teeth.

It really isn’t his proudest moment, but alas, John is always quick to adapt and he is determined to overcome. Anya’s anguished shrills were hard to distinguish at first, her words were hampered by her volume, but when John did hear them, they threatened to break his heart. She couldn’t see him like that, he didn’t want him to see him like that. Not as a monster, not as a thing she feared. Not again.

Her tears, in that moment, didn’t have the same arousing affect as they had before, though, it was primarily because Anya was hurling the worst insults her broken mind could come up with, right at him. “No,” John elicited a pained breath, “No sweetheart,” his hurried motions as he tried to close the small space between them caused the spilt blood to splash up around him. Reaching out, John was desperate to make things okay for her again, to make her forget about what had happened to Lillian. What he’s done to her sister. “Sweetheart-”

“Don’t call me that you fucking creep!” The shrieked order was like a jagged edged dagger hacking through his heart. No no no. This is worse than when he’d brought her there, she’s completely turned from him now- and John has come too far to stand it. “You sick son of a bitch, you killed my sister!” She cried, pushing Lillian’s cooling body off her lap with frail arms.

“For us,” he attempted to reason, but Anya was already stumbling towards the stairs at the entrance of the living room. She is not getting away. Her movements were rigid and weighed down by the wearing sedative, yet she was still impressively fast. Just not fast enough; John was able to tackle her after just two long strides and with practiced fluidity, he’d gotten the needle out of his shallow pocket, bitten off the protective cap and had shoved it into her arm, pushing down the top a little faster than he probably should have.

Getting close to her ear as he cradled her weakening body, John murmured, “It’s gonna be okay sweetheart,” breathing heavily as sleeplessness and exertion weighed heavily on him, John stole a moment to kiss her messy hair between moments spent soothing her whimpering frame, “It’s just a dream, this is all just a dream.”

If her mind was in as much disrepair as John suspected, then he still stood a chance of fixing things with Anya, he’d just have to convince her that she’d actually been hallucinating, and he could do that. “It’s all just a dream sweetheart,” the whispers slowed to a halt and mere minutes after he’d injected her, Anya had been reduced to a sleeping mess in his arms, re-assuming her untroubled peacefulness and leaving John free to do his bidding.

Charlie and his crew were at the house, thoroughly cleaning the inside, ridding it of any trace of Lillian- and Anya. They’d agreed to empty the shed at the back of his house too, and by lunch that day, it would be like the sisters had ever set foot in his home. The mess the crew was cleaning though lacked a body. Said body had been bleached, wrapped in plastic garbage bags and had been stuffed into the trunk.

His escape plan.

He’d come up with the idea on a whim, quickly deciding that Lillian’s body would prove more useful to him than it would Charlie; if he did things right he could dump it in just the right place and when investigators found it, she’d look so much like Anya that they’d rule out her disappearance as a murder. He even had someone to blame it on; who better than the sister that had been faking her grief, the one that had been bitter with her since before their mother had died. The one who disappeared shortly before the body was discovered.

Employing his quick wits,John had managed to conjure up the idea within minutes of Lillian's death. It was why he’d destroyed any chances of the police using dental records to identify the body and had ensured that bleach burns had scorched any defining marks. He'd even cleaned his prints off the crowbar so he could plant it at Lillian's house.

There really isn’t a thing he hasn’t thought of.

He’s even packed the teeth with some of the things he plans on traveling with, for safekeeping

It's funny cause a year ago he would have never figured that things would get that far.

If only Anya had just been better. More compliant, less of a fucking liar.

Anya was laid in the backseat, soundlessly asleep and completely unaware of what their future held. John himself wasn’t quite sure, but he did know that they had to get out of New York. Short term, he’s thinking Connecticut, long term, he figures that somewhere in Europe will do nicely.

He hadn’t packed up much, there hadn’t been much time as John had been hoping to be out of the city by day break. In a few duffel bags, he’d gathered a couple guns, some clothes for himself and Anya, the rest of the drug he’d been giving her, all the cash and gold coins in his possession, his passport- she would need a new one- and some toiletries for her. The pit stops, the first at Lillian’s house in the suburbs to plant the weapon and gather her things to make it look like she’d skipped town, and then the second to dump her body off an abandoned dock at the Hudson River, had both been covered before sunrise, and just as planned, John was speeding out of the city before ten am, only stopping once to dose Anya one more time before their next stop.

West Cornwall, Connecticut; Early May She couldn't seem to take reign of bearings; when she’s awake, it feels like a hazy dream and when she's out, her worst nightmares torment her.

"It's gonna be okay sweetheart, we're gonna get you better soon."

The image of her sister, laying in blood while her throat goes hoarse as she screams. It's all just a dream.

A heaviness in her limbs that she's never felt. The thick film over her vision that makes everything seem like smudged watercolor. His face. The room. Everything.

"I don't think this is one of the side effects," he says too himself, "You shouldn't be this sick."

"Ani!" She screams, "Ani wake up!"

At times that Anya was vaguely aware that she was being fed or bathed or doing anything that people usually do, but even those moments had passed by like fever induced hallucinations. It had probably taken her weeks to properly wake up.

Though, even when she does, Anya is confused.

Her head hurt and nausea twisted her empty stomach as her eyes slowly fluttered open. The ceiling above her was plain yellow with a dome fixture set into the center, and it was completely unfamiliar to Anya. She’d struggled, but eventually, Anya managed to sit up, propping her weight on weak elbows so she could drink in her new surroundings. The room was simple and quaint, with patterned, yellow wallpaper to match the ceilings, fitted to the walls while an open window shielded by sheer curtains to her left allowed warm light to trickle into the small bedroom. Victorian furniture was peppered about the room, a small dresser and wardrobe next to each other against the wall to her right, a rocking chair facing her near the door, and of course the bed, adorned with plain white sheets.

There wasn’t anyone inside, though the door was slightly ajar, “John?” She called hesitantly, swallowing thickly as their nausea worsened rapidly. If she doesn’t remember anything else, she remembers him; him at her apartment….she thinks. They’re still together, they have to be because every memory that floats by features him. Shifting on the bed so she could transfer her weight to one elbow while pressing her free hand to her stomach, Anya called out to John again, still not getting a response.

Where is he?

Is she still dreaming?

Swallowing thickly, Anya let a disquieted breath part her lips, and when the feeling became near overwhelming, she started the tedious task of getting out of bed. Her limbs were like jelly and coordination was trying, but eventually, Anya got to the equally small adjoining bathroom. She’d stumbled and had almost fallen a few times, but she got there. And it was just in time to drop to her knees harshly and spill bitter bile into the porcelain bowl.

Before Anya could catch her breath, she was retching again, though that time, she felt a hand on her back and a familiar presence behind her. She hadn’t even heard him come in, though, she figured she was too busy being sick to notice. “It's okay,” he whispered against her hair as her stomach spasmed, “I’ve got you, it's alright.”

At first, Anya wasn’t sure what she was supposed to feel; reassured by his apparent concern or frightened because she couldn’t really remember anything, but after a couple more rounds of spilling her empty stomach into the bowl, she found that she was comforted by John’s presence. Besides, he won’t hurt her, right? He wouldn’t take care of her like that if that’s his intention.

“Done?” He probed gently after a stretch of silence filled by heavy breaths. When she sat up a little, his fingers moved to brush some hair away from her face, and he mumbled something about how she’d been sick like that quite often recently.

But she can’t remember. Or can she?

His mumbled words sparked a memory….a night where he’d held her just like that. Or was it a morning? A glass with water brought to her lips. John trying to bring crackers to her mouth before she fell asleep again.

It’s all so blurry, she isn’t sure whether or not her mind is playing tricks on her.

Her throat felt raw, a result of bringing up nothing more than water and stomach acid, but she still managed a weak; “Yeah.” The response was even softer than his question, and as she stood, Anya leaned on John for support, allowing him to get her water and then put some toothpaste on a brush for her. “Thanks,” Anya shuddered when John kissed her hair again, offering her some privacy to freshen up and promising that he’d be just outside if she needed him.

With feeble hands and leaning on the sink for support, Anya brushed her teeth and then splashed some water on her face. The nausea was still there, but had settled significantly, though she still felt off. She probably couldn’t explain it if anyone asked her, but Anya could tell that something was different- not wrong, just different. And that was when it caught her eye;

A little bag next to the tub, a box of tampons sticking out of the top.

When was the last time she'd had her period?

What day is it?

Stumbling out of the bathroom on wobbly knees, she found that John was sitting on the mused bed, and for the first time, she noted the bandage on his left arm, near his elbow. What happened? “You doing okay babygirl?” He stood, meeting her at the door, and through it all, Anya was still trying to do a bit of calculation in her head.

Her memory is as good as mud, though she distinctly remembers his hands on her body and the feel of him nestled inside her. That night. When was it…..seven, eight weeks ago? She isn’t sure, time seemed to have become secondary to her. Its one of the last things there though, one of the few memories that she’s sure is real.

“I uh….” They sat and Anya desperately grasped at the drifting pieces, trying to pull them together; that night with John…..in her apartment? The bad dreams.

It's just a dream sweetheart.

The strange soreness in her breasts, the nausea, the occasional twinge in her lower tummy and the distinct firmness when she’d passed her hand there earlier. She just couldn’t seem to make sense of the possibility, but nonetheless, she turned to meet John’s dark, bottomless gaze as she began timidly, “Can you um…can you get me something?”

John knitted his brows, raising a hand to cup her face, “What is it sweetheart?”

The simple pet name sent a pang to her head and Anya winced, attempting to shake it off as she powered through with her request- possibly an odd one for someone who couldn’t remember anything from the past month and a half or so. “Can you…..get me a pregnancy test?”

*****

“Yes, you can,” John stressed firmly on his end, and she could hear how serious he was being without even looking at him. “It’ll work out fine, come on,” he urged, his tone suggesting that he wasn’t too pleased that she’d chosen to fret instead of just submitting as she usually did, but what they did in private was one thing, she couldn’t just let John into other parts of her life like that, especially when there was so much up in the air. Their contract was a week from being up. She hadn’t even given him an answer yet. And things had been weird since they got back to New York. “Don’t be a brat about this.”

“A brat?” She shot back; offended. “You don’t get to call me that right now. And you certainly don’t get to just pick up the phone at ten am on a Monday morning and tell me to quit my job so I can come work for you.”

“I’m not telling you to quit,” John argued, exasperated; they’d been going around in the same circle for almost half an hour, and Y/n was getting tired of it too. “I’m asking you, and hoping that you can see that this will work out for both of us. Y/n,” he sighed, and she could almost picture him, standing at that sprawling wall of glass in his office, fingers at his temple as he tried to convince her to quit at the bank. He’d called earlier, summing up the story of how he’d fired Amanda, his assistant, and needed a new one. Soon. Then, John had started the process of easing in why he thought Y/n was the perfect replacement. Obviously, it wasn’t going too smoothly.

With a heavy sigh, she turned to face the mirror behind the line of faucets, not greeted by the sparkling city as John probably was, but instead with her own reflection. She looked the same way she always did, same eyes, same hair, same favorite green blouse. Same everything. Same woman that had fallen for the man on the other end. The one who was only resisting his offer because she was scared to get hurt, even if really, she’d already gotten hurt. John had made it exceedingly clear back in Carolina that he never saw her as anything more than his sub. And now he wanted her to be his secretary. Well, legal assistant. “I’m not even trained as a legal assistant,” she countered weakly, “What makes you think I’m gonna be better than Amanda?”

Really, his offer was a good one; his firm paid well, a bit better than the bank, and even if he’d never truly be hers, at least it would give her more time with John. But that seemed to be half the problem too, time with John. What was the point of being around someone, spending so much time with them, only to inevitably lose them?

Over the line, Y/n could hear him sigh quietly, right before his voice dropped an octave, and his words, so soft and cool toned that she almost didn’t believe them, even if that was all she wanted to do. John had no reason to lie to her, right? “You’re gonna be better because you’re you.”

As usual, he always knew what to say, but he was a lawyer, so that was half his job. The other half was being able to persuade, and Y/n was without the slightest doubt, was sure that he was good at that too. There was a reason they’d put his name on the door after all.

She knew, full and well, that no matter how long they spent on the phone that morning, it wouldn’t change her answer. Neither would the arguing or the resistance, there was nothing that could change her mind because from the very minute he’d made the offer, despite every fear that broiled in her veins, scaring her to the point where having John discard her was probably the worst thing that could ever happen to Y/n, she knew what her answer would be. Even if she argued, he’d convince her anyway. He was good, too damn good. He could make a murder a saint and John Wick could change her mind with just a handful of words.

You’re gonna be better because you’re you.

“Okay,” she absolved, bending her head, abandoning her reflection and watching as stray droplets in the rounded, porcelain basin tricked towards the drain, gravitating towards it at a pace so slow that it may not have been noticed. “Okay, let me just…...talk to my boss, I guess.”

John’s end was silent for a moment, and she could hear him breathing softly before he spoke again, “Good,” he sounded relieved, but Y/n couldn’t be sure. “Call me when it’s over,” and before she could say goodbye, he’d hung up.

Even after she'd shifted the car into park and long after Y/n had turned off the engine, she sat inside, parked outside of John's townhouse, toying with the key in her hand. Usually, she'd be excited to go inside, and most times, Y/n would lose time anticipating the next time she would see John. Being with him meant the world to her, he meant everything to her. She'd put him on a pedestal in her mind and given him a crown bejeweled with her heart. Y/n had given herself to him almost completely. He was her religion, her crime…..her punishment.

And still, it never seemed to be enough to make him love her.

She had quit her job earlier that day, to work for him. To further bind herself to a man who could never return her love. And after she'd called him with the news, he had invited her over for dinner and so they could spend some time together. Y/n knew full and well what that meant, and it certainly wasn't cuddling to a movie.

As always, she had gone to him without protest, without voicing her troubles. But after she'd stopped in front of the familiar house, those troubles had kept her glued to her seat as she tried to sort her tumultuous thoughts before making her way to his front door. Before the thought of John used made her giddy and his touch made her drunk, but lately, all it could do was make her cry.

Or maybe it wasn't him, just her realization that the John she'd created in her mind was coming apart at the seams, revealing his true self, the John that wanted to keep her around, but only as an employee and a contractually bound plaything.

And still, Y/n loved that John, possibly more than the one she spent months fantasizing about. She would love him until it ate away soul and left behind a shell that would cling to his memory.

A brief ding from off to the side, on the passenger seat sparked her attention and when Y/n glanced at the illuminated screen, smiling faintly at the text, because despite the heaviness he'd put on her heart, his concern gave her hope.

"Are you okay?"

Taking the phone in her hand, Y/n quickly turned to the house before returning her glassy stare to John's message. "Yeah," her fingers hovered over the letters as she debated a lie that would dismiss his question, "I'm just," no, backspace, "My mom called," her windows were tinted enough to hide the truth, thankfully, "Locking up now."

"Okay."

After collecting the rest of her things, she plopped her phone into her handbag and by the time Y/n was nearing his front door, John had already pulled one side open for her. He was still dressed as if he'd not too long before gotten in from work; with the sleeves of his dark grey dress shirt rolled up to his elbows and the top buttons undone from when he'd pulled his tie loose to remove it. A large part of her still wished she could be there to see that one day, be the woman that would greet him when he returned home, undo his tie after caressing his cheek, tell him she loved him and missed him all day and have him return it readily.

But that wasn't her. Y/n wasn't sure if anyone would ever be that lucky.

"Hey," she summoned a smile upon getting him in the foyer, melting into his touch when John placed a hand on the small of her back to pull her in for a kiss.

"Hi," he reached to caress the apple of her cheek with his thumb. "How's your mom?"

"Huh?" She knitted her brows before Y/n remembered the little lie she'd told him from the car, "Oh, my mom; she's fine. I texted her to tell her that I was changing jobs and she called to find out if I was okay."

"Are you?" John inquired, helping her out of her coat and relieving her of her handbag, "I think I came off a little strong when I called you this morning. And I'm sorry about that," he sighed, "But I do have faith in you, and I know we can make this work."

"It's okay," her smile tightened a bit and Y/n hoped that John wouldn't notice, "I think it can work too, and I'm sorry about being so stubborn, I shouldn't have given you such a hard time."

His apology had surprised her, and when John dismissed hers, Y/n was even more taken aback. "You had every right to," he took her hand, lacing their fingers, "But enough of that, I have a surprise for you. I think you'll really like it."

Scoffing a soft chuckle, Y/n let John lead her up the stairs and then down the second floor hall. At first, she thought they might have been heading to his bedroom, though they passed the familiar door without John even giving it a second glance, and it wasn't long before they had reached another staircase, this one spiraling with a gleaming, gold varnished railing.

"Come on," he started before her, unlocking the door to the top. Claiming her hand once again, John led her out to the rooftop, decorated with white furniture and matching fencing against the walls. The area was clearly set up for entertaining, with a small bar off to one side and a long table set up in the center of the space.

Gasping quietly, Y/n drank in their surroundings, in awe of how stunning it all was. He didn't seem like the type, but if he wanted to, John could throw quite a cozy garden party there. Potted plants with cheerful, colorful blooms lined the guard rail and dim, in-ground lamps added an intimate yellow glow to the beauty. The view of the city was magical, looking like something from artwork or a movie with the city lights dancing in the darkness, and they were far enough for the disrupting noises to be muted.

"John….." She breathed, amazed and smiling softly at the candle lit spread on the table. Did he…..perhaps….just maybe, change his mind on the nature of their relationship? Everything just seemed so romantic that Y/n couldn't help but let her imagination go a little wild.

"I don't usually come up here," he grinned, clearly pleased that his efforts had been successful, "But I knew you'd like it, and I thought we should celebrate the fact that we'll be working together now."

Immediately, something from her chest dropped all the way to her stomach and Y/n's eyes glazed over. Of course he hadn't changed his mind, she was being ridiculous in thinking he might have.

"Right," Y/n beamed through the pain, "That's…..that was so sweet of you to put this together."

"Only the best for my favorite," he winked. His favorite. Y/n was his favorite. She wondered if he told that to all his subs or if he really meant it. She knew very well that John could tell you exactly what you wanted to hear to make things go the way he wanted, he'd made a career off it. "I almost forgot, I got you something, for how good you were on our vacation."

Slipping his hand into his pocket, John proceeded to produce a thin, rectangular, velvet box. "You didn't have to," Y/n admonished softly as he offered it to her.

"Of course I did, I promised," he pecked the top of her head, urging his present into her hand, "Open it."

Nervously, she thumbed the box open, her jaw hanging slack as she revealed the contents; an elegant blend of glistening emeralds and white diamonds all strung together on delicate, white gold to form a gorgeous tennis bracelet. “Oh my god,” the words parted her lips in nothing more than a muttered breath. In their time time together, John had bought her a car, he’d started paying her rent after moving Y/n into an apartment that she probably couldn’t afford on her own and he’d taken her on a trip via private jet to a lavish summer home, and yet, it was that one, exceptionally stunning piece of jewelry that felt like too much. “It’s beautiful, but I can’t accept this.”

“Hey,” he tilted her head so Y/n would meet his eyes in the dimness, “Of course you can,” he laid a chaste kiss on her lips, trying to coax her into accepting his present, “What’s wrong? Are you still upset about this morning?”

“No, it’s not that,” Y/n shuffled away from him, exhaling a shaking breath as she gently eased the box closed, “It’s just…...what if I said no?”

From behind her, Y/n heard John inhale sharply and he cleared his throat before speaking, “Then I would respect your decision, but everything I’ve given you, even that bracelet, it would be yours, you know that.” As he approached her, his steps were soft and she could feel him near her, though, John hadn’t dared to reach out, “Do you want to say no? You can tell me the truth, I won’t be mad.”

She wondered if he’d feel anything if she said no. What if he didn’t? What if he’d just move on to the next girl that suited his tastes. What if Y/n was as replaceable as she’d convinced herself that she was. “No,” Y/n shook her head, “I mean, I don’t want to say no,” but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to say yes either.

“If you want to think about it, then that’s fine,” he finally reached out, placing his palm on her shoulder, he took a deep breath, “And if you don’t want the bracelet, we can get you something else. But you’re getting a present and that’s not up for discussion.”

She scoffed a soft giggle, turning to face John and reopening the box. The stones glittered in the low light, their richness harboring no doubt. It was so beautiful and briefly, Y/n contemplated that John, seeing as he’d fired Amanda early that morning, had probably chosen it himself. “No you don’t have to do that, I love this one. Thank you,” she leaned in for a hug, sinking comfortable into his embrace.

“Of course,” he was the one to pull away first, clearing his throat as he continued towards the table, taking a bottle of champagne out of a bucket of ice, “Now,” John fiddled with the wooden cork, his bicep straining against the sleeve of his shirt as he pulled on it expertly, his attempt ending in a resounding pop and a puff of white smoke oozing out the mouth of the green tinted bottle, “Why don’t we celebrate your new job?” He filled up two delicate flutes and handed one over, probably not even noticing the way Y/n’s smile faltered.

Dinner had gone over well with soft conversation, and Y/n couldn’t remember the last time that she and John had actually talked that much. It must have been on the night he’d proposed their contract. It was nice, though, after they were through with their meal, she could tell he was getting ready to go silent, and instead of trying to pry anymore words out of him, Y/n stood from the table, going to stand at the railing, nursing a glass of red as she stared, hypnotized by the beauty of bright, twinkling city lights dotted in the large windows otherwise darkened high risers. As the evening had wound down, the air had taken on a chill and occasionally, a gentle breeze would ruffle the leaves of the potted plants.

At some point, John came to stand behind her, pressing his front to her back and snaking an arm around her waist. “I like this skirt on you,” he mumbled, burying his face in her neck, sucking bruises on her supple skin as one of his hands searched for the hem of Y/n’s skirt. His breath fanning her neck was hot and when John’s rough touch inched up her smooth thighs, the tips of his fingers brushing her lace clad cunt, Y/n shivered. “Are you cold?” He probed, nipping on her skin.

“Not really,” she mumbled, melting against him, feeling the familiar heat of desire rushing to her center. Clumsily, Y/n tried to set the glass down on the concrete banister, barely registering the shattering as it fell to the ground. John didn’t seem to notice, or care, either, instead urging her to turn around and subsequently pushing her skirt up.

“Good,” he kneaded her ass roughly before pawing at the band of her panties, sending them down her legs. Harshly, he pried her thighs open, situating himself between them and letting his arousal press into her skin. Already, Y/n could feel her earlier turmoil melting away as she reached for John’s strong shoulders, her nails sinking in. “Is this okay?” He’d already gotten started on the top buttons of Y/n’s blouse, the cool air making her nipples strain against her bra.

“What if someone sees?” Her breathing was heavy, and Y/n’s body was aching for more, though, she was still coherent enough to wonder if John’s neighbors were nosy, or even worse yet, spiteful enough to call the cops

“Then they’ll know you’re all mine,” he growled near her ear, pushing her blouse off her shoulders. His hands slid up her shoulders, journeying to cup her still restrained breasts. “We can go inside if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not,” Y/n returned brashly. She trusted him, and besides, there was a rush that accompanied being that exposed. The danger of knowing that they might get caught was thrilling and made her crave him even more. “Please,” she whimpered needily as John hooked his hands under her thighs. Y/n’s legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, her mind was far to fogged up by overwhelming lust to be remotely bothered by the loud clatter that followed him sliding her onto the edge of the table, delicate china and crystal glasses shifting around noisily, the rest of the wine falling over with a thud and spilling onto the floor, unnoticed.

“Sir,” the rasped plea joined the rustle of John’s pants as he freed his cock, the sight almost making her drool. A mumbled utterance had her gripping the edge of the table in heady anticipation, knuckles going stark white.

“Patience Princess,” the gravel in his low voice sent shivers down her spine and sparks to her center. With a hand circled around his swollen shaft, its rosy tip glistening with a dribble of precum, John took a step forward, simultaneously pulling Y/n forward with his other hand, positioned low on her back. Expertly, he lined himself up with her glistening entrance, sheathing his cock between the warmth of her thighs without further warning. A lewd moan prompted her lips to hang agape, and her toes curled.

Stirring up a pattern of rigorous albeit controlled thrusts, John drilled into her, and despite its apparent sturdiness, the table rocked as a reflection of his aggression. She was barely aware of one of her stilettos slipping off and hitting the floor with a quiet thud, the the air of a frigid New York evening nipping at the tips of her toes and sending goosebumps up her spine. That, added to the feeling of John buried so deep in the haven between her thighs that she swore he was in her stomach, was enough to render Y/n completely thoughtless. Her mind had been emptied of coherent thought, and all she could recognize, in the most innate way, was the way it felt to be so profoundly connected to someone; so intertwined with John that her body was completely at his mercy. She was always at his mercy, a vessel abused at his whim and fancy.

And she loved it.

Roughly, he yanked one leg up to his hip, holding it in place there as he reached under her blouse, palming her breast through her padded bra and pushing her down towards the table in the process. Propped on her elbows, Y/n grabbed fistfuls of the tablecloth, bracing herself as John fucked her into the hard surface. “I want people to hear you,” she heard him speak through barred, gritted teeth, “I want them to know how good I’m fucking you.”

Per habit, Y/n had been holding back, suppressing languid moans and depraved, pornographic cries, but upon him permitting otherwise, loud yelps joined John’s rabid breaths. Yelps that turned to cries as the pleasure mounted, and when his hand vacated her thigh, joining the other that the neck of her silk, emerald shirt, tugging it open so harshly that the stylish buttons popped off and scattered as the chilly air brushed her skin. “Sir,” she heaved, barely noting that John had just reduced her favorite blouse to tatters.

“That’s it Kitten,” he encouraged, rolling his hips aggressively, reminding her with each stroke that he liked it rough. “Get loud for me,” he ordered, pulling her up to his chest so he could hastily undo the clasps on her bra, helping it it off her shoulders after hastily getting the remains of her blouse off before letting it billow to the floor and soak up the long spilt wine; rich green growing heavy and darker in the puddle of crimson. “Louder babygirl,” he grunted, words locked in his clenched jaw.

His assaulting rhythm was hard to keep up with, and Y/n’s nails dragged along the soft fabric of the tablecloth as she she clenched her fists tighter, a couple of her nails breaking as they met the ridges of the intricate pattern on the table's top, “Joh-Sir!” She corrected herself immediately, “Sir! Ah!” Ragged, breathless, pornographic gasps leapt to the city, bounding towards the skyline and beckoning the rest of the New York to their sin. “Please….please….” Desperately, she sought permission to erupt, eager to explode with the mouthing pleasure as pressure bubbled in her center.

Gliding one hand up her back, John laced his fingers in her hair, giving her locks an unapologetically violent tug, and seconds later, his mouth was searing hot kisses and bites to the column of her throat, paying particular emphasis to the fragrant skin near her pulse. He could have siphoned every drop of her blood from her being right then, and she wouldn't have cared. John could destroy her, and she would thank him;

Love him anyway.

“Do it,” he commanded words accompanying rapid breaths cast into her neck, two words exuding his seemingly unending power, “Come for me Kitten, God I want to feel you squeeze my cock.”

Her cold toes curled and Y/n struggled to arch towards John’s body as another tug of the material clasped in her white-knuckled grip resulted in another loud clatter. A series of loud, erotic noises escaped her gaping lips and she could feel her legs beginning to stiffen as her pleasure built towards its explosively euphoric crescendo. Her bare heels found the backs of John’s thighs, pressing in, the fabric of his black pants rough against her cool feet. A pronounced gasp broke the buzzing air and Y/n’s head, still tossed back, lolled to the side, just as John’s assaulting grip on her tresses loosened slightly. A vibrant kaleidoscope erupted behind squeezed shut lids as her pussy clenched around John’s sheathed length while sparks danced on her heated skin. Quaking legs joined the bursts of ecstasy rushing from her clenching core just as haggard breaths morphed to hollow cries.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” John praised crudely as he rode out her orgasm with harsh rigid thrusts, the movements of his hips sputtering as his impressively faultless stamina wore thin. “God Kitten,” John grunted, pressing his forehead, wet with exertion, to hers, “You feel so good coming around my cock,” another collection of brief, throaty sounds were fired into her ear and without any further warning, she felt a tell-tale twitch against her center, followed by the distinct feeling of hot laces of his product drenching her walls. His cum coated her core, mixing headily with her own juices as a slow drizzle stickied their thighs.

It always felt good when he finished inside her……it made her feel like she was worth something to him. It was an act of amatory intimacy, there was trust in it and it may have been a stretch, but Y/n liked to think that there was love in it too- perhaps though, it may have been one sided.

When John gingerly pulled out, a pained, albeit subdued, breath fell off her lips, and as sense returned to her formerly carnal being, Y/n assessed the havoc they’d wrecked. The table was in disarray, there was wine on the ground, getting to her fallen shoes and probably soaking his Italian soles, and of course the crystal glass nearer to the railing was shattered. For the first time too, Y/n really noticed the cold, and the frigid air against her skin elicited a sharp shudder.

“We should get you inside,” his words intruded on her slow-to-come thoughts, and Y/n only really acknowledged them when she realized that his arms had come around her once more, that time in an attempt to get her into his dress shirt. With utmost care, John closed up the buttons at the front, flashing her a brief grin when he was finished, “You’re sexy like this,” he winked and she blushed.

“Thank you Sir,” Y/n cast her head down, catching a glimpse of her destroyed blouse, something in her head whispering that she may be more like the tattered fabric than she’d like to admit. Once beloved though forgotten in the wake of its ruins.

Would he forget her when she was ruined?

With an almost inaudible hum, Y/n’s faint grin dissipated, melding into a frown, yet John didn’t seem to notice, and instead of seeking the reason, he moved to gently gather her in his arms, as if she were feather light. As if she were nothing. “Your shoes are ruined,” he began, “And I don’t want you to accidentally cut your feet.”

Awkwardly, she nodded, settling against the safety of his chest, head lolled against his shoulder as he began walking. She couldn't his footprints it at first, though from the minute John set that first foot on the top step, tiled in pale yellow, the burgundy of the wine stood out brightly on the floor. Before he'd continued, Y/n caught one final, somewhat skewed glimpse of his rooftop, left a mess by their almost public deeds and Y/n let herself become reacquainted with that unsettled feeling gnawing at her, the one that reminded her that like everything else in his life; his house, his cars, his designer suits, she was just a pretty thing that he could afford, one he called on whenever he saw fit- her new job was a testament to that. And like pretty things, Y/n thought, she would one day, very easily, be replaced.

*****

What if she makes a break for it at the first chance?

What if an inch of freedom makes her yearn for a mile?

What if it hasn’t been long enough?

What if, like before, she’s playing him for a fool?

What if, like a fool, he’s falling for it again? No. Because this time, John is prepared, he’s been watching her every move, he’s been privy to the thoughts she’s belted onto a page, he’s had her, in her changed and subdued form. Finally, he had taught Anya, trained her enough. All she needed was a little conditioning.

It’s only taken four arduous months, but she’s finally ready. Mostly.

With a hand steady on the center of her back and the other firmly gripping her shoulder, John walked her to the house, through the back, glass sliding door and into the kitchen. “Welcome home, sweetheart,” he muttered as he kissed her hair, and with wide eyes and agape lips, she surveyed their surroundings.

“Home….” she whispered, gaze darting around the kitchen, occasionally shifting to the backyard. “Home?” The word was echoed a bit louder that time, and Anya glanced at the floor, white marble decorated with dark veins under her small feet, clad in a brand new pair of pretty sandals. “When do I go back?” She turned again, that time to look at the shed in the distance, her former home.

“You don’t,” he clarified, “This is your home now,” with his hand still on her back, John urged Anya further into the house, following her eyes as they observed locked drawers and cabinets-that was why it had taken two weeks to move her to the house, John had needed time to prepare. Install locks on drawers and cabinets and prepare her room.

“We’ll live here…..together?” Anya probed as they stepped deeper into the house, through halls he’d taken her through before, passing doors she’d been casually acquainted with prior to their relationship taking a couple wrong turns, the locked door to the basement, a half bath midway through the hall, his office a little further up and finally, near the stairs; the downstairs guest room.

Her new room.

“We will,” John hummed absently. Their steps were soft and slow, and it took longer than it ordinarily might have to get to the downstairs bedroom, and even when they were there, and John was getting the key out to open the door, his movements were unhurried.

Upon pushing the door open, John gestured for Anya to enter first, though she hesitated and her brows were knitted in confusion, “I thought you said…..”

“You need to stay down here for now,” he explained without doing as much as alluding to the reason why. It was simple though; its just too soon. Anya needed to settle in, get used to their new dynamic before John could take her up to the bed that they’d one day share. It was too soon, she just wasn’t ready. “It’ll only be for a while,” he reasoned, attempting once more to herd her into the room.

When John finally got her in, he didn’t give her too much time to look around the room, which was quite simply decorated, with white furniture set up on the beige carpeted floor against white walls and a full window that displayed the foliage that bordered the property on the left side of the house, before urging her to sit on the foot of the bed and then sinking to his knees in front of her. “You said you were moving me to the big house so we could be together,” she was frowning, but John could sense the frustration driving her words.

“No,” using a pen from his pocket and a bit of extra force, John broke the zip tie acting as cuffs on her hands, “I said it was time to move you to the big house, and that’s what I did. You’re in the big house now,” John felt like he was explaining the whole situation to a child, and while he was a man of commendable patience, he truly didn’t feel like elaborating on his motives.

“You’re just gonna leave me in here?” She looked like she was about to cry, and the look on her face was doing something to him, it was like, the strangest mixture of empathy…...and arousal.

He likes seeing her like that, he’s never realized it before, but her eyes are gorgeous when they’re all full and glassy. “You can’t just leave me here.”

“I’m not just-” Jesus. Swallowing down his irritation, and standing with purpose to douse the strange twinge that had started nagging at him since he’d spotted those tears- he really can’t believe he’s never noticed it before, how effortlessly stunning Anya is when she’s just like that. “I’m not leaving you, you’re just not ready yet.”

She stood too, and he was almost at the door when she probed urgently, “When will I be ready?”

He doesn’t know, John genuinely doesn’t know. How long will it take to reintroduce her to their relationship? Weeks? Another four months? A year? “When I say you are,” he offered gruffly, and while it ached him to treat her like that, he seemed to find strangest pleasure in seeing her so teary and desperate. Desperate to be with him.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s what he likes.

“You can’t do this to me again,” Anya clenched her jaw, following him to the door, “You promised,” in an act of pure desperation, she grabbed his arm to pull him back when he was already halfway out the room, and it was purely reflexive when he easily took control of the situation, grabbing her and then holding Anya by the neck. He’d planned for exactly that type of situation, that kind of silly reaction, just so he wouldn’t do something rash like throw her into a wall or hit her again.

But the alternative isn’t necessarily something he wants to do either.

Its for her own good though, that was the thought that drove John as he relented to doing the very thing he’d been avoiding. “You can’t do this to me again,” she repeats harshly, clawing at his arm, nails digging in and resulting in angry red lines in some places and broken skin in others. “You can’t leave me!” Already, she was hoarse and his arm was still warped awkwardly around the base of her throat, holding her against his chest while Anya’s nails dug into his forearms. John reached into his back pocket, feeling around until he’d gotten what he was looking for. A syringe of Diazepam, an injectable sedative and before she’d even realized he was holding it, John had gotten the needle into her arm.

For as long as her rapidly weakening muscles allowed it, she continued clawing at his arm, trying to get it off her throat, though the drug was fast working and it wasn’t long after he’d removed the needle did John feel Anya go limp against him. “I didn’t want to do this to you,” John sighed softly when he finally gathered her in his arms, “I knew you’d act this way. New house, new rules,” he continued mumbling as he took her over to the bed, subsequently laying her unconscious frame in the center of the mattress before taking the time to remove her sandals and then shift the duvet around to tuck her in. “But it’s okay,” when she was firmly secured under the covers, John reached out, one last time, to brush some hair away off her cheek, “One day this’ll all just be…...a dream. It’s just a dream sweetheart,” he leaned down, pecking the side of her head, letting his lips linger in her hair so he could spend a few more precious moments reveling in her scent.

As he neared the door for a second time, John threw his sleeping love one final glance, and the sense of pride that surged to his chest was completely unmatched; they’ve come so far. And there was just a short way more before everything was as they were meant to be. It had been hard work, from turning the shed in his backyard into an exact replica of Anya’s apartment, to proofing the entire house in case she somehow got out of that bedroom and then finally, explaining his fibbed reason for wanting several doses of a sedative to completely put someone out without causing too much damage to the Continental's- he'd said it was for a job but it was really because Anya had started having nightmares since their night together, violent ones, the kind that hadn't been hushed by caresses and sweet nothings.

The drug has cost him more than he prefers to spend on something like that, and he's needed it far too often for the price to go unnoticed, but it works.

Makes her a bit of a wild card, but it does work.

She's been quite a costly endeavor.

But John has the money and she’s worth it. The life she can give him, that’s worth it too.

"Ani!"

"Ani, wake up!"

It was hard to decipher just how long she’d been out for, but when Anya sat up groggily, she was still tremendously sleepy and the room felt like it was spinning around her. Every thought she’d tried coming up with was muddled and confusing; all broken words and disjointed sentences. There was no coherence in her mind, and similarly, she couldn’t seem to get a proper handle one what was going on around her; was there someone else in the room or was it a shadow being cast into the chair? Was it really raining or was that just a sound in her head? Is she even awake?

Eliciting a soft groan, Anya sat up a bit more, patting the sea of sheets around her as if it would do something to ground her spinning mind. But it didn’t work and instead, the more she tried to steady her thoughts and focus on one, singular thing, the more she spiraled. It was quite unlike everything she’d ever felt, or rather, Anya thought it was quite unlike anything she’d ever remembered feeling.

Has she ever felt anything like that?

Shallow breaths were punctuated by thick swallows and her head felt heavy. At the feel of a hand on her back though, Anya jumped, and without reaching for the lamp at her bedside, she turned to see who it was. She couldn’t really tell where the light was coming from, and there wasn’t much of it, just a bluish glow that didn’t seemed indigenous to the room but it was just enough to aid her sight and poorly illuminate the man beside her, chest unclad with the sheets gathered at his midsection. It was a strangest thing, because as far as Anya could recall, they hadn’t shared a bed in a long time. But his hand was on her back and it felt real, mostly. “Chris?” She peered down at him, observing his tousled dark hair and the way the dimness cast shadows on his face.

“You’re just dreaming,” he reassured, touching her spine in a backhanded caress. For the first time, Anya realized that she wasn’t wearing anything more than a thin, satin nightgown, which is strange cause she could have sworn that its only the beginning of spring and the nights are still pretty cold. His touch though, she could feel it through the fabric, though, not its warmth but merely its weight. “You’re just dreaming,” he repeated.

Her mouth was still uncomfortably dry and his words seemed so far away, “What?” Something’s…..different. Something’s wrong. This isn’t right, it’s not real. The thoughts went over and over in her head, but Anya couldn’t seem to get them to stay still, and instead, they circulated in her mind so quickly that she could hardly grasp them.

“What’re you doing here?” The rasped words hurt to come out, and her throat felt like there was a lump of cotton lodged in there, hampering her ability to breath- and swallow whatever saliva she could manage.

“Just go back to sleep,” he urged, hand still on her back and his words weighed down by an urgency that doesn’t seem warranted by the moment. Though, arguably, Anya wasn’t quite sure what the moment warranted, and his peculiar words didn’t help in the slightest.

Ahead, on the chair near the window, there still seemed to be someone sitting there, and curious, she leaned forward, trying to make out the figure shrouded by the shadows. It might have been a trick of the poor lighting, but Anya could have sworn that they were leaning forward too, as if they were trying to get a better look. “Who’s there?” The hoarse whisper seemed to echo, and she didn’t notice it immediately, but the hand on her back vanished.

“This is all just a dream, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. She could only ever recall one person, one man, that called her that. The voice is eerily familiar too, but none of it makes sense, why would John be here when-

A cautionary glance to her left proves otherwise. There’s no one there. Where’d he go?

“John?” Again, her breathing quickened, and shifting to her knees so she could crawl to the foot of the bed, further disturbing the mused sheets as she did, Anya tried to get a closer look at John as he sat, still leaning forward, on the elegant, white armchair near the corner of the room, “What’re you doing here? What’s happening?”

It’s hard to explain, but somehow, seeing him makes more sense than being in bed with Christopher.

“Go back to sleep sweetheart,” she could barely see his face, but Anya could tell he was smiling. It was in his tone, that uncharacteristic lightness that seemed just a tad taunting, that menacing glint that she’d learnt to associate with him.

“Go back to sleep,” Anya muttered to herself, and suddenly, her eyes felt heavier than they ever had. The urge to just lay down and submit to slumber was overwhelming with a concomitant physical weight on her body as the heft in her head traveled. The words, more of an order each time it was replayed, go back to sleep, suddenly seemed like the only thought that she was capable of processing, and when Anya found that she was just too drowsy to even think of moving a muscle, she succumbed right there, letting the abyss of unconsciousness take her.

A bang, followed by a clatter and the sound of shattered glass startles her awake.

When Anya jolted up that time, she was surprised to find that she was wearing denim shorts and a simple, thin sweater with arms long enough to fall over her wrists, not the night gown she thought she’d been wearing earlier. The sweater though, she remembers it, John had brought it so the zip ties wouldn’t bruise her skin.

The zip ties…..what zip ties?

A further, albeit quick examination proved that she wasn’t slumped awkwardly at the foot of the bed either, and there was no one sleeping next to her- or sitting in the chair near the window. For a solid minute though, the room was completely unfamiliar, and while that time she recognized that the cool light brightening the blackness to a dimness was from the full moon hung over the top of the aged trees, it still took a handful of minutes for Anya to remember that John had only brought here there earlier that day. The big house. Clearly, she remembered when he first said he was taking her there, it had given her hope, finally, she’s good enough, but John had lied. He’d brought her to the big house and then locked her up again.

Like a doll.

Like he doesn’t really love her.

The thought is nauseating. Another commotion startled Anya out of her thoughts, and a combination of curiosity and fear prompted her to push the sheets off her legs and stumble into a standing position. The carpet was soothingly warm under her feet, but upon standing, she was thrown off by the dizziness that crept up on her. It was hard to find solid footing too, and suddenly, she could hear several voices at once in her head, all saying the same thing in unison; “Go back to sleep.”

But that time, she doesn’t listen.

Persisting, Anya braved through the grogginess, staggering away from the bed and dragging herself to the door. On her way there, she stumbled twice, tripping over her own feet, and vaguely, she thought that that was how it must feel to be drunk and hyper-aware at the very same time. It was like she could feel and hear everything around her, the softness of the carpet under her bare feet, the energy in the air, the noises just past the door, while being completely at her body’s mercy,

When she reached for the knob, it was startling to find that the whole thing had been in pieces, while the edge of the door- right where the knob should have been- appeared to have been reduced to a section of sharp splinters and jagged pieces. It had been left very slightly ajar too, and without thinking, Anya reached into the sliver of space between the door and the frame to pull it open.

With sealed lips, muddled thoughts and uneasy legs, Anya ventured into the hallway. To her right, the living room wasn’t too far off, and when a crash originated from that direction, it must have been a miracle when she found the strength to run towards it. It wasn’t easy though; Anya’s limbs were unusually heavy and she’d almost fallen a couple times, all while those voices in her head continued to press;

“Go back to sleep.”

And then, when she finally flounders into the living room, Anya wishes she’d listened.

The ear-piercingly blood curdling scream that bursts her lips is undoubtedly real.

She hears it. John, who’s white t-shirt is saturated in blood, hears it. His neighbors a mile away probably hear it. The outburst sucked the air out of her lungs and her mind was reduced to even more of a mess that it was two minutes prior. It had to have been a dream. It's a dream. It's a dream. It's a dream.

It’s a fucking nightmare. The worst one she’s ever had.

He’s over her bloodied body with a pliers and nearby, a glass end table is completely shattered, the shards painted with flecks of blood and there's a crowbar nearby, almost lost in the mess.

“Lilly!” Crashing to her knees after she’d fumbled down the trio of shallow steps that led to John’s living room, not caring that she was kneeling in blood. Her sister’s blood. She can see it because the lamp that’s fallen over near the sofa is still on. She can see everything. “What have you done?” She cried, unable to even look at John as she reached for Lillian’s shoulders, using up every bit of her failing strength to pull her sister’s mangled body into her lap. “What have you done? Oh my God,” the overwrought words tumble off her lips so incoherently that they sound merely like panicked babbles.

There’s blood everywhere.

Too much blood. Coming from her mouth. Oozing from her stomach. A lot more drenching her hair. It’s everywhere. No one bleeds that much and lives. In that moment, every ounce of resentment that Anya had felt for her older sister; the anger that had persisted after she’d called her selfish for leaving home to chase a dream, the fury that had gnawed at her when Lillian got her PhD while she made coffee for strangers and finally, the misplaced blame that Anya had cast on her sister for the failure of her own dream- it was all gone. All gone, only to be replaced by gut wrenching grief and incomparable horror.

Her sister. Her only family left. The only other person in the whole world that had the same memories she did;

Gone.

Devastated by the worst mixture of emotions she’d ever felt, Anya rocked back and forth as she held the unmoving, unbreathing and dead-heavy body. He didn’t speak, though, if he did, she couldn’t hear him, and when a cry of accusation was finally formulated, she lifted her head, only to find teeth littered on the floor around him, bits of bone white barely visible amongst he puddle of blood, the words poured out in the most damning of tones, “You did this.”

And then it falls apart.

Like the tears that rain from her burning eyes. Like the blood that spills from her sister’s wounds. Like the light that pours from the lamp, boasting John’s most heinous crime yet; that protective shell that she’s built around her fragile mind lolls off. John isn’t the man that loves her. He isn’t the one that’s moved heaven and hell so they can be together. He isn’t some lonely, misguided outcast. He’s a monster.

Completely, undoubtedly, unashamedly a monster.

He stole her life. He murdered her sister. “You-” Her breath heaved and Anya felt bile bitterly rise in her throat, threatening to spill out onto the floor and worsen the gory mess, “You fucking monster!”

“No,” for the first time since she’d gotten there, Anya heard him, “No, sweetheart,” on his knees, splashing around the the crimson pool gathered, and staining, the hardwood, John crawled over to her, trying to take her into his arms, only for Anya to push him away, “Sweetheart-”

“Don’t call me that you fucking creep!” The tears were hot on her face, just as the blood on her hands and legs had started cooling. It pains her, but with a hasty shove, Anya pushed Lillian’s body off her lap, staggering to her feet so she could make a break for it, “You sick son of a bitch, you killed my sister!”

“For us,” she heard him say, though, his pleas for reason go without regarded as she staggers in her attempt to get away from him. It’s so hard, her legs can’t seem to cooperate.

She couldn’t have made it far, or at the very least, far enough, because she’d barely been running for seconds- she hadn’t even reached the steps at the entrance of the living room- before John had tackled her. The weight of his body pinning hers down was unlike anything she'd ever experienced; like an anchor keeping her caught in the worst of a storm.

Her head hits the floor too, and she swears the pain radiates to the base of her spine.

But maddened and hungry for escape, she persists through stabbing pain and blurring vision.

“It’s gonna be okay sweetheart,” he soothed, hot breath fanning her ear, his words shaking as he attempted to lull her, as she thrashed weakly under him, desperate for freedom. “It’s just a dream, this is all just a dream sweetheart,” there are those words again. There’s that feeling again; that slight pin prick in her arm, followed by a reinvigorated, liquidy weight coming over her body, as the words echo in her mind and the world fades to black;

“It's just a dream sweetheart.”

*****

It’s been turning over in my head for a while now, there isn’t much else to think about. I’m not sure if that’s the way you intended it. When I don’t think about it, my old life haunts me, the woman I used to be, that bad person, she haunts me. She's a bad person, yoou made me realize that, John, she hurt you, immeasurably so, and that wasn’t right. So now, I understand what you’ve done, how necessary it was.

I’ve already told you that everything I’ve done, with Jeremy and Christopher was intentional, though, it was never my intent to hurt you. I also never meant to fall for you, or for anyone. For a long time, I've been so unforgivably destructive, so irresponsible with hearts and so damn selfish-my sister always said I was selfish, she’s right.

A long time ago, before I came to New York, our mom was sick, Lillian left college for a while to take care of her. I took the first flight to New York when James offered me a full ride to Julliard. She hates me for leaving, I hate her for hating me.

I had a dream, you know?

The last time we saw each other, it was at her birthday party a few years ago. It was at that restaurant you took me to on our first date. We got into a fight that night, afterwards, she had her stupid PhD and I didn’t have anything to show for running away. I don’t really remember how the rest of it went, but she called me a self bitch when I told her I didn’t regret leaving.

She was so hurt, it was all over her face. Because our mother was dead, she is dead, and I wasn’t there and I still don’t regret any of it. Because I’m selfish, that’s who I am John. I couldn't stay in New Jersey and take care of my mom, not when New York seemed so much better.

The point is, I'm horrible, and I don’t know why, I don’t understand it, but there was a thrill in hurting you, in saying that I’d missed you when I tried to fill your space with someone else. Tried and failed.

He wasn’t like you, John. None of them were ever like you. You cared despite what I did. You loved me even when the ugly things I did probably made me an ugly person.

To this day, you are the strangest man I’d ever met. You knew everything that no one would expect you to. Everything that you probably shouldn’t have. The flowers, the restaurant, the wine. The words, you had all the right words, though, not many of them. How rare is it to find such a kindred soul? Someone who knows you so effortlessly, or perhaps, someone who puts that much effort into knowing you. I smile when I think about that night, that magical night.

Do you think about it too? Do you think about how much has changed since then? Did you always know that you were going to do this?

This place makes it seem like it.

This place. It was hell, at first, sometimes it still is. You come, you leave. You hurt me, you leave. But when it’s not hell, when you’re here and you look at me like I’m something special, this place is heaven. I think I’ve just realized that somehow, you have become my version of heaven. You are every bad thing I deserve and every good thing I’ve never wanted.

Love. Devotion. Ugliness, like me.

You care so completely, it’s unheard of for affection to run so deeply that it becomes an affliction. You love so deeply, I don’t think I deserve it. Do you deserve love? Maybe you do, maybe I can give it to you. I think I can.

For every reason to hate you, there are a dozen more to love you. My God, there are so many, you said you’ve killed, real people with real lives. You’ve stolen mine. But you’ve been lonely haven’t you? Alone in this violence; in the blood and the bodies. Above those reasons, that one makes me love you the most. You have chosen me to fill your loneliness.

It was so scary, it still is so scary. What can a man possibly expect of a caged bird; loyalty without choice? What can the bird expect of a man? To live at his whim? Yet still, the bird loves the man and the man loves the bird. It’s quite confusing, I fear you, tremendously. I love you, enormously.

A man who keeps something caged is a monster, but I’ve learned John……monsters can be beautiful.

Beautiful people John, they can be ugly on the inside. We can be ugly together. Be ugly with me.

Yours; Ani.

Late March John had read and reread her letter almost a dozen times. He was beginning to memorize every word of her confession. Her self-proclaimed ugliness…..the love she claimed to have for him. She had burned him, her flames lapping furiously at his skin and he’d been left to lick salted wounds every time she’d been selfish. But she had written that letter as something of a peace offering; it was what he’d been waiting for. His love returned, his heart fulfilled.

Still, John couldn’t decide if it was euphoric or disappointing. Does he hate her for realizing that he is a monster, or is he grateful that she loves him despite it? He should be happy, its only everything he’s dreamt about for just over a year.

Or is he just disappointed that Anya isn’t all he’d made her out to be?

Where’s the perfect, sweet girl? How could he have fallen for someone so manipulative and selfish? Someone who didn’t care about the havoc she’d wrecked on his life and who could only bother to write him a letter as a plea for forgiveness. How had his judgment fail him so sorely?

She’s never been nice, or good. She’s always just been selfish and completely disingenuous.

Setting it down on the coffee table, John retired further into the comfort of the sofa. He was trying to sort his thoughts, attempting to separate the woman he’d created in his mind from the one sitting in the shed in his backyard. The process wasn’t particularly one he wants to engage in, John never wanted to be wrong, especially about her, and the further his mind spanned, the more he realized how confused he’d been in the beginning. How foolishly naive he’d been when he first laid eyes on her. The woman who smiled coyly when handing over his change was also the one that had lied to his face. The young girl who seemed so innocent was the one who had cohorted him into essentially assaulting her. The pretty thing that he’d watched sleep had hurt him just because she could. Because Anya had been playing games while he’d been falling in love.

And still, somehow she’s still perfect for him.

And she loves him.

“She loves me,” he murmured under his breath, leaning forward and once again reaching for Anya’s journal. His fingers roved over her name carved in cursive on the front, and as his thoughts strayed from separating the Anya in his head to the one he’d grown to know, John found himself growing more acquainted with the fact that he did still love her. There was still some of the woman he’d known from the coffee shop, she was still the first person who’d ever willingly held his hand. Anya was still the first person to ever love him. And if not for the sake of anything else, he can forgive just so he can keep her love.

But he will forgive her for other reasons too.

She may think she’s ugly, he may have seen every bad thing that she is capable of, but all is not lost. He believes in her inherent goodness, that sweetness that oozes from her smile, that medicine that is her touch, he believes in it. She’s different, she just has to accept it.

Perhaps its time for another approach.

Reinvigorated, John was about to stand when the doorbell rang, forcing him off of the sofa and towards the front door. That’s strange, before Anya, he’d never had visitors. Yet, on the way to the door, John still hadn’t bothered with checking the doorbell camera, he did however swipe a gun out of the drawer of a bureau in the hallway, stuffing it into his belt at the back of the jeans, before pulling his sweater over it.

Before he could even close his hand in around in the knob, the person rang the doorbell and John mumbled an incoherent quip about patience before yanking it open.

Shit.

On his porch stood two figures he’d only seen in pictures or from afar. He knew what they were for though, and he couldn’t help but feel like things were just catching up to him at the most inopportune time. A woman, eight years Anya’s senior but still her spitting image and a man who had taken her to bed just before John had let himself spiral and basically kidnap her. Okay, actually kidnap her. Concealing his unease with his usual stoicism, John cleared his throat, “Can I help you?”

“Yeah,” Christopher stepped forward, offering his hand, “John right? Wick?”

Hesitating, John appraised them, just standing on his front steps, probably there to find out where Anya had disappeared to. It’s okay, you’ve got this. “Yeah,” he relented, accepting Christopher hand, shaking firmly before doing the same with Lillian. “What’s this-”

“My sister,” Lillian cut him off, folding her arms and setting her shoulders square, “You were dating her right? Before she disappeared.”

More abrasive than her sister, Lillian didn’t seem like the type to entertain excuses and goose chases, she wanted to know where her Anya was, and she was determined to find out what had happened. It was funny how much she still cared after everything that he’d just read about their relationship. Pretending to be surprised, or worried, or whatever’s supposed to be the right emotion for the situation, John widened his eyes, “We went out a couple times…..but I don’t know what happened to her, your guess is as good as mine.”

“Guess?” Lillian scoffed incredulously, “My sister’s fucking missing-”

“Lilly,” Christopher grabbed her forearm gently, presumably to calm her down, and when she pressed her lips together in a hard line, he turned to regard John with a renewed firmness, “We just need to know if you know where she might be. Last time I talked to her, she said she was in Paris with you.”

“Well, I haven’t been to Paris in over two years,” perfect, it’s the truth and it’s not like they can argue with that, “We haven’t talked in…..weeks,” John shrugged, stupidly digging himself into a deeper hole, “And-”

Her head snapped up and Lillian’s eyes, which were so much like Anya’s, went wide, “You talked to her, what did she say? Did she say where she was?”

Shaking his head dismissively, John rattled off the first thing he could think of, “Not much, I’d called her because we hadn’t talked in a while, she didn’t seem interested. Figured that was her way of breaking up with me.”

“Breaking up with you?” Lillian’s sharp, maybe a little too sharp; she keeps track of small details, smaller than the ones he’s been taking note of, “You said you only went out a couple times.”

What a stupid choice of words. Wincing at such a silly mistake, John tried eagerly to slow the erratic beating of his heart. His palms were already sweaty and while he’d never been worried about getting caught, he’d also never left a victim alive. There were so many loose ends, too many. Her computer and cellphone, both dead, but still in his basement. Women’s clothes that were just her style and size in his closet. Her in the fucking shed in his goddamned backyard.

He swears he’s an idiot sometimes.

“I mean, I figured she didn’t want to go out again,” John played it off, hoping her sister would believe it, “Haven’t heard from her since.”

“You sure?” Christopher stepped forward. He was about a head shorter than John and had one of those faces that suggested he wasn’t the confrontational type, though John figured that where Anya was concerned he might be different, not dangerous, just different. But he can’t kill him because then Anya will hate him and John really doesn’t want to deal with that.

Lillian though, she may have to go. But he doesn’t want to think about that right now.

He just needs to get them the fuck off his porch.

“I’m sure,” John gritted, “Look, I don't know what you’re expecting to find here, but I don’t know what happened to Anya.”

“You say that like you’ve got something to hide,” Lillian gritted, ripping her arm away from Christopher’s grasp, “There’s something about you, you know?” Unafraid, she stepped closer, a fire in her eyes that burned so bright it suggested that he might have been more of a handful that her troublesome sister, “I don’t know what it is,” she was so close, John could just reach out and squeeze her neck until it snapped, “But if you did something my sister, I’ll find out, and you’ll-”

Standing firmly, John stepped closer so she’d have to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, “I’ll what? I told you, I don’t know where your sister is. Not get the fuck off my porch before I call the cops,” the empty threat didn’t appear to phase her, but Lillian did stand down, letting Christopher take the lead.

“Look, I know it’s not cool of us to come here and accuse you of something, and I promise you we’re not,” he briefly glared at Lillian, who’d set her jaw so tight that she might have been grinding her teeth down to dust, “We just wanna find Anya,” he spared a minute to rummage through his pockets, eventually getting a business card out;

Christopher Holloway Senior Vice President, Holloway Enterprises Realty, Banking, Technology.

There was a series of contact numbers and an email address, all leading to Mr. Senior Vice President. “If you know anything, hear anything, give me a call. We’re just trying to figure out what happened, that's all.”

John read the business card again, reluctantly agreeing to call if anything comes up- nothing will, but he does have appearances to keep up. After their mumbled thanks and a stiff goodbye, they finally turn to leave and John barely waited for their feet to touch the bottom front step before he’d shut the door. How the hell did they even find his address? He’d supposed that Anya had told Christopher about him during one of their in person meetings, but his address, they shouldn’t have been able to find that.

But Christopher does have access to most of the real estate records in New York, given his positioning at such a renowned company.

Offering the ivory card another glance, it’s contents gave him hope for Anya yet. What kind of person broke up with a man who stands to inherit half the city? The genuine kind. She might have been a lot of things; deceitful, selfish, infidelious, but somewhere beneath her self-proclaimed ugliness there was a good, genuine person. Someone that didn’t care about money or status, someone who could forgive even the most ghastly transgressions. There’s something of the woman he’d first fallen for in there, and he can bring it out in her, John knows it.

His love can do it, he’s absolutely certain of it.

Setting the card down in a drawer in the kitchen, John holds her journal close as he heads to the shed at the back. When he was finally there, each lock was opened and then locked once more with ultimate consideration for any probable circumstance. He doesn’t even take the keys in; even if she makes it out the door, the gate is locked and there isn’t a chance of her getting the key. His entire system was awfully elaborate, and John thought that among everything he’d managed in her name, a faultless system that took her escape off the table was the one he was most proud of.

Anya is his. she’s like his little doll, waiting for him everyday so they can play.

She was sitting on the floor when he entered, back pressed the sofa and legs tucked to her chest, and before she’d noticed him standing there, John had caught her muttering softly. Despite his efforts to nudge her out of that shell, the one she’d enclosed around herself, and in spite of offering up her thoughts so easily, there was still the strangest distance between them. It was like he could reach her, but not quite, and John suspected that it was because she’d spent too much time alone. Quiet could be maddening sometimes, he suspected that Anya wasn’t an exception to the rule.

He’ll have to get her out of there soon, before she flips that switch of no return.

“Did you read it?” She lifted her head, tired eyes meeting his, brimmed with dwindling hope. Standing from the floor, Anya dusted off her bare legs, and proceeded to nervously wring her hands together. They were separated by no more than a couple feet of space, her dimming eyes enclosed in dark circles and the bruises on her face more healed than the last time; she didn’t quite look like herself, but she was in there, John can see her.

“I did,” he nodded stiffly, licking his lips. Briefly, he glanced down at the book in hands; he’d made that himself, every page had been crafted and bound with her in mind. For her most intimate and private thoughts, so she could have something that was solely her own, and yet Anya had shared it with him. And though the urge to read everything in there had gnawed at him, John had diligently resisted, mostly. He’d glanced at a few things here and there, just to make sure she wasn’t playing him- or planning something. “Did you mean it?” He set the book down on the small dining table.

“Mhm,” Anya nodded vigorously, taking a cautionary step closer, “I did. Every word,” she reassured, attempting another nervous step, “I-I’ve been thinking about it a lot, I’ve had the time,” she chuckled, but the sound didn’t quite sound humorous, or even dry, “No one’s ever…loved me like this. You could’ve just left, broken up with me. But you did this,” she glanced around and gestured awkwardly, “You must…..care a lot.”

“I do,” the words rushed past his lips and John too drew closer, until Anya was in arm’s reach and his hands were able to find her hips, “I’ve always cared….Ani,” he tested the name on his tongue, enjoying the feel of it. It was intimate, pretty and felt like it had somehow brought them closer. The familiarity that it afforded them, it ushered in a closeness that had never been there; it was a private name only to be used intimately and to know her like that was truly a privilege.

“I’ve always loved you,” he admitted breathily, “Everything I’ve done was for you….for us,” John reached out to touch her face in a backhanded caress, evading the fading discoloration of his healing sin, “I knew you’d understand one day,” he bent his head just as she tipped her chin. Like that, they were almost nose to nose, and he suddenly realized how desperate he’d been to be with her like that again.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice husky and soft, “And I mean it. I don’t understand-”

“You don’t have to,” John cut her off, eager for Anya to just not overthink it. There was a chance for them; all can be forgiven, they can just move on. Like it never happened, like all the heartache nwas never there. “You don’t need to understand,” he reaffirmed.

“I-” His mouth was on hers in an instant, swallowing up any utterance that might have changed her mind. His tongue invaded her mouth, swirling around hers and it had taken a minute for Anya’s muscles to loosen enough for her to respond, and even when she did, it was clumsy. She didn’t seem to know where to put her hands, if they should fall to his forearms, his chest or his neck, and the noises erupting from her throat, surprised and hesitant, proved that she was quite unsure as to what she should be doing.

But nonetheless, she responds.

Tilting her head, Anya shuddered into his mouth, and he could taste the familiar sweetness that persisted on her tongue, so uniquely her that John thought he could get high on it. She was like smooth, full-bodied liquor, and she was like home; intoxicating and tranquilizing at once. “John, I-” Between breaths, she tried to get words in, but they were all lost, unnecessary and destined to be unheard, “......John.” His hands slid lower, seeking the hem of her loose camisole only so he could invade it. He’s missed her skin; its softness, it’s silky warmth. Every touch he’d laid on himself couldn’t compare to the feel of Anya, she had paled everything else by just being who she was.

“Shh,” he soothed, and her hands found John’s hips, just as he was pushing her shorts down, letting the soft, shifty fabric pool around her ankles. “It’s okay,” he promised, moving to guide her hands towards the button and zipper of his jeans, “It’s okay babygirl,” John breathed into her mouth.

When Anya finally undid his pants, he nudged her top off before stepping closer, so her freed breasts were pressed to his wool clad chest. He’s been waiting for this. Anya was still hesitant, though significantly less so, and she eventually encouraged his jeans lower, right after he'd nudged his shoes off, her eyes meeting his as if to ask for permission to help him undress. “Its okay,” he permitted, encouraging her to lift his sweater over his head. Upon being face to face with his many scars, the freshest one being the closing wound under his ribs on the left side, the gash that Anya had stitched closed about a month earlier. It was still tender, and John knew that it would be easy to reopen, but it really was among the least of his concerns.

Swallowing thickly, Anya leaned forward ever so slightly, effort muted by their proximity, and kissed a thin, white line that ran diagonally over his heart. John could quite remember how he’d gotten it, but he did remember that it had been deep enough to boast the white of his bone, and the sheer, physical pain had been nauseatingly brutal, but her lips on his chest, right over the steady beating of his thawing heart was enough to make the distant memory wholly bearable, because had it not happened, that moment wouldn’t have either.

Perhaps that’s why she believes in fate.

When she raised her head, they kissed again, and gently, John turned and guided her to the nearest surface; the small dining table where her journal was the only thing populating the surface. Every touch was soothingly affectionate, and while it was completely uncharacteristic, John wanted to take his time with her, mind her fragility and ensure that he didn’t scare her. He spun her so her back was to his front, and as he peppered nibbles and pecks on the back of her neck, he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her panties, pushing them so they’d slide down her smooth thighs and gather in a pool of scanty, grey cotton at her feet.

His hands roamed the unfiltered beauty; the tapestry that was her satiny, unblemished skin. Leisured and gentle touches, reveled in every inch of warmth she had to offer; roving from her hips to her bare stomach, and then sliding upwards to cup her breasts. He swears he’d never touched anyone like that, he’s never held anyone with that kind of delicacy. “We’re gonna be like this,” his nose grazed the back of her ear, just as John planted a sweet, chaste kiss on the warm skin behind its lobe, “Forever.”

She shuddered at the word, goosebumps rising on her soft skin, and a hitched breath was Anya’s only response. Just after grinding slowly on his erection, Anya reached for his hands, pushing one of them down to her dripping arousal. “John,” she murmured headily when his rough fingers grazed her folds, dipping between a moment later. “Please,” she whined as John slowly worked her clit, feeling the swollen bundle of nerves under his touch.

“Do you want me?” He peered close to Anya’s ear, simultaneously stepping forward so she’d have no choice but to stumble further into the table, practically falling forward. Her legs were spread slightly, a positioning of his own doing so he could stand between her spread thighs. “Answer me babygirl,” he prompted when Anya hesitated.

Another impatient whine burst off her lips, “Yes,” the admission was soft and unclear, “I want you,” Anya whispered huskily, and John was too caught up in the moment to hear the pitiful remorse laced with her words, that thing that would have told him that she didn’t want to want him. Because she doesn't, part of her doesn't. That reminder that says that everything they’re doing there would seem deranged to some.

But John was consumed with passion and desire and above all, satisfaction to hear it; she’s right where he wants her. Somehow, by some miracle, he has conditioned -no- taught Anya that he is right for her, he is all she needs.

Just like she is all he will ever need.

“Good,” his digits journeyed just a tad lower, so he could slip them into her tight, drenched, haven. He wasn’t sure if her obvious arousal was just an unintentional consequence of where he’d led her, but John couldn’t have cared less; he’s put in the work and now he’s getting what he wants.

Months of waiting, planning and preying has paid off; she’s never escaping, and he’s settled in the feeling that she’ll no longer try to.

Anya is his.

Responding to his ministrations, her hips shifted excitedly and John’s eager erection, tenting his boxers, was pressed into her back. His fingers worked her with unmatched expertise; vigorous pumps with his thumb pressed to her nub, while his other hand held Anya in place at her hip. Her lewd mewls were more intoxicating than any poison he could pour down his throat and her heat around his finger, mixing with the taste of her skin under his lips, was near enough to get him off. Near. But John wanted more; greedily, he aches for more.

Without warning, he removed his fingers, two stocky digits being wretched out of her, slick with her arousal, and before going any further, he licked them clean and then angled his head, leaning over her shoulder while she turned her head, so their lips could be crushed together, her taste on his tongue as it roved over hers. Hastily, he shoved his boxers down and then nudged her legs open a little wider. With one hand firmly on her back, John guided Anya, encouraging her to bend over a bit more, leaning forward and so she'd be propped by her hands planted on the smooth surface. He didn’t ask for her ready, nor did he offer any real warning before pushing into her.

Her restrained moan was accompanied by his harsh grunt, and with a tight grip maintained on her hip, he began a regimen of controlled and pronounced thrusts, pulling out completely before burying himself as deeply as possible once again. As much as he likes it hot and rapid, without cause or concern for her- or whoever else he’s with- John is determined to extract every bit of gratification from that moment.

What’s that thing about savoring?

The symphony of short, stiff grunts seeping through bared teeth was joined by Anya’s soft whimpers, in sync with each jerked roll of his hips. John buried his face in the back of Anya’s neck, her skin hot against his lips, the fragrance of her hair thrilling his senses. “J-John,” she gasped when his movements quickened, and the air around them warmed.

Feeling her around him like that; a cocoon enclosing him so tightly, her body molded just for his, it was incomparably intoxicating. John had never felt so profoundly connected to someone, and it was right then that he realized; he will never, ever feel that way about someone else. There will never be a connection that spans so deeply, a woman so suited to him.

She’s pulled stings, played people for puppets and in his own way, he supposes he’s done the same with her.

Their crimes may be different, but she’s as bad as he is.

Or is that just something he's willing to believe, just so he can justify the whole thing?

John doesn’t want to think about it. Dismissing his spinning thoughts, John continued peppering kisses towards the front of her neck, one hand still on her hip while the other rounded to the flat plane of her stomach, journeying upwards until he was squeezing and kneading her breast. Alternating between roughly massaging her boob and rolling her pebbled nipple between his rough fingers.

Eventually, he could feel her thighs starting to tense up, and the sounds erupting from her slender throat became increasingly urgent. “That’s it,” he guided eagerly as she managed an erotic moan.

“John…..John….” Anya whimpered, breathless as her fingers curled, nails scraping on the table, leaving her propped on balled fists, “Uh….” Hair was falling over her face, and John could feel the exertion on her skin, melding with the dampness on his. If it weren’t for his hand gripping her hip, she might have fallen forward, and still when her ragged, gasped breaths grew louder, her legs went rigid and John felt the gush of slick moisture ooze out from around his sheathed length, he was taken completely by surprise.

The feel of her pulsating around him was enough to push John to gratification, and like her unmanned breaths, John’s strained grunts grew progressively louder as ribbons of hot product further drenched her walls. He could feel her squeezing him tight, milking him for everything as he rode out their mutual highs.

He lingered inside her until Anya had soaked up the final drips of his product and sticky moisture was leaking down her thighs in slow dribbles, and wetting his. Upon pulling out, John gathered Anya’s quiet frame in his arms, encouraging her to face him. It took a minute, and a bit of urging, but eventually she looked up at him, expression largely indecipherable, though, when he roughly brushed her hair away from her face with clumsy fingers and hasty movements, only to kiss her deeply, Anya responded readily.

She was beautifully breathless, and John pressed his forehead to Anya’s before divulging softly, “I think it’s time to move you to the big house sweetheart.”

*****

Most days, she blamed herself. Maybe she’d taken the whole suburban mom thing too seriously, maybe she’d given a little too much time to Nadine’s preschool, maybe she put too much into being a homemaker and not enough into being a wife. Maybe she’d tied John down in a life he didn’t even want. Marriage, a baby and a house in the cushy suburbs were things she’d wanted, and when they met, John had retired for her, sold his house for her. Read the parenting books, built the crib, painted the nursery and taken on a regular, far less lucrative job for her.

Sure, vintage book restoration paid pretty well, and they still had enough left over from his former life to live significantly better than the average family, but there was no thrill in their life. Once upon a time, John had promised her that she and Nadine were enough for him, but of late Y/n had started wondering if that was still the case.

It had started with one fight, one quip from him about how sometimes the mundane got a little boring, it had escalated with her accusing him of not being fully present in their marriage and it had ended after harshly traded words. He hadn’t moved his things out of their room that night, no, that would be too easy. Instead, they’d kept fighting for months, and he’d started giving her the cold shoulder while she nitpicked everything he did, and just when the thread had worn too thin, John packed a bag he hadn’t packed in a while, not filling it with guns and bullets the way he had a long time ago, but clothes and things from his side of the bathroom sink. By that December, it was like the room had never been half his to begin with.

That evening had been particularly difficult, John had taken Nadine to a Christmas village at the park, one year earlier, it would have been something the three of them had done together, but Y/n knew that her going would have only made for unnecessary tension and their three-year old didn’t seem to mind spending some alone time with her daddy. The trouble had really started when they’d gotten home. John had taken her for pizza without asking Y/n if she was making dinner, and naturally, when they’d gotten home, Nadine wasn’t interested in mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables. It shouldn’t have been a problem, Y/n shouldn’t have been mad, but she was; how dare he not consult her? How dare he take their daughter for dinner without considering that she’d be making something? Y/n’s temper had gotten the better of her and she’d lashed out, yelling at John without even realizing that Nadine was right in the hallway, and everything had gone downhill after that. Her own baby wouldn’t let Y/n give her a bath or tuck her into bed, requesting John for every bit of it.

When John had taken Nadine to bed, Y/n had heard them from the hallway while he’d read their daughter her favorite story and then graciously explained that mommy wasn’t upset with her, she was just disappointed that they couldn't have had dinner together. Hearing that had only made it all hurt worse. And that was how she ended up in their bedroom, or rather, her bedroom, sitting on the foot of the bed with her hands in her face as she cried.

A knock on the ajar door and a familiar baritone interrupted her mini breakdown, “Hey.”

Hastily swiping her tears away, Y/n stood from the bed with a sniffle, trying to pull herself together as best as she could on such short notice, “Hey, um, do you need something? Is-is uh, Nadi okay?” She stuttered, still in shock that John had caught her in a moment of private vulnerability.

“She’s fine, sleeping. She was pretty tuckered out,” he added with a soft, fond chuckle before his expression when serious again, “I just wanted to…apologize,” John rubbed the back of his neck, and as Y/n observed him in silence, she found that his beard had gotten a little more grey since the start of their unofficial separation and while the silver was a good look on him, she wondered if the stress of their failing marriage had anything to do with it. “I shouldn’t have taken her for pizza without texting you. I just,” he shrugged, “We were having so much fun, so I thought ‘why not?’ I’m sorry though-”

“You don’t have to apologize,” if her whole weeping session had shed light on anything, it was that John was allowed to take Nadine for pizza just like she was allowed make her dinner, he didn't need her permission. He had never been anything but a stellar father anyway, and while it did sting to admit it, their latest spat might have been her fault. “You have every right to take her for pizza or whatever. I was just….” chuckling dryly, she tried to blink a new wave of tears away.

John was quiet for a minute, standing near the doorway, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark jeans, “You were just……?”

“Jealous, a little annoyed,” Y/n cast her head down, eyes falling to her sock clad feet, “Sad,” she admitted meekly with slumped shoulders, hugging herself.

“Sad?” She heard him take a step forward, and when Y/n looked up again, she found that John was looking at her in a way he hadn’t in a while, with a softness in his rich eyes, a warmth that she missed.

Licking her lips, Y/n mulled over her admission, she couldn’t even believe that she’d said it out loud and it had been so long since she and John had had a conversation that the neighbors couldn’t hear. “Sad,” she declared shamefully, “You guys were gone…and I started thinking about last Christmas, and the one before that…and her first one. She was so small, we packed so many things into the diaper bag and we went to the mall. And she cried and cried because she hated the music and all the people….”

“But it was good,” John finished, and she could see that he was thinking about it too.

“It was great,” Y/n corrected with a fond grin, “She spit up on your coat, you didn’t care.”

John huffed a soft chuckle, “How could I? She was adorable, she’s still adorable. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to be mad at her,” as he said it, Y/n felt a little sting in her heart- he used to say that about her. With Nadine though, it was different, it would always be true, because she was his little girl.

They were both quiet for a while, and it was so awkward that it made Y/n wish she could just run away from the whole situation. It never used to be like that between them, it used to be so easy to be around him. “I guess we screwed up,” she shrugged mournfully.

John hummed softly, his expression unreadable and he seemed to contemplate his next words carefully before asking, “Can we just pretend that everything’s okay? Just for the holidays. We can go back to the way things were afterwards.” He sounded unsure of himself, and Y/n herself was completely stunned by the offer. Sweeping their mountain of problems under the rug? Pretending to be happy in the midst of the marriage turning to ruins? “For Nadi,” he added, clearing his throat.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, maybe it would be nice to have things go back to the way they used to be, if only for a couple weeks. Y/n did miss John, his laugh as rare as it was, the way it felt when things were good. For their sweet girl. “Yeah,” she nodded vigorously, “Okay. For Nadi”

Christmas Day Through the entire week, they’d done everything the way they had one year before. They went shopping together, drove around to see lights and had meals, all together, like a family. A family that was happy, with parents that didn’t glare daggers at each other and a little girl that was excited to spend time with her mommy and daddy together. Things had been genuinely different between them too, the distance between them seemed smaller and Y/n didn’t find herself dreading the moments that they’d have to spend together.

The day had started with presents, and she and John had managed to get out of their respective beds before Nadine could even wake up, and made breakfast together. She’d gotten downstairs first though, and upon entering the kitchen and finding her at the stove, John simply noted with a smile as she got started on some cocoa, “I was actually coming down to do that. But it’s fine, yours is better.”

She’d blushed, trying to keep her gaze on the small pot and not on John, “You could uh…get started on the waffles, if you want to,” she offered, not wanting him to feel like she was cutting him out of their Christmas breakfast tradition; hot cocoa and Belgian waffles.

“I want to,” John had readily returned, going over to the fridge to get everything he’d needed. After Nadine had gotten out of bed, and Y/n had walked her through her usual morning routine, they’d had breakfast and then opened presents. It had been a complete shock to them both when they’d realized that they’d gotten each other gifts; a stunning designer sweater for Y/n, one she’d seen at the mall and a new camera for John after Y/n had remembered him mentioning that he wanted to buy one before Nadine’s next school play.

The day had seemed to just fly by after that, and before Y/n had realized it, it was past dark, they’d all had dinner and had found themselves sharing a blanket, with Nadine between them, as they watched Elf. It wasn’t even very late, but Y/n was barely being kept awake by Nadine’s fidgeting beside her; her eyes were heavy, her bones were tired and the fact that she’d seen the movie over a dozen times before didn’t really help to keep her awake or entertained.

As tired as she was though, Y/n had not been the one to fall asleep, and upon noticing that John had, Nadine hopped into his lap. “Daddy,” she got close to his face, hands on his shoulders and raven hair shrouding her cute features, “Daddy!” Nadine jumped excitedly, moving her small hands to hit him on his chest.

With a deep inhale, wide eyes and sheer shock, John roused, a little confused about what was happening until he noted Nadine on top of him, “Where's the fire kiddo?” He held her steady at the sides.

“You were sleeping, Daddy!” Nadine scolded, “You’re supposed to be watching!”

“I was!” John defended, “I was watching, I was just…...resting my eyes.”

“No you weren’t,” Nadine argued adorably, ``You were snoring!”

“Was not!” Possibly unconsciously, John turned to Y/n, eyes gleefully alight, “Let's ask mommy,” he said as he pulled Nadine closer so she wouldn’t accidentally topple over and hurt herself, “Was I snoring?”

Regarding John with a suppressed grin, Y/n shifted under the cozy blanket, taking a few seconds before she responded with a giggle, “You were.”

Scoffing, John responded by tackling Nadine; dumping her playfully on the sofa between himself and Y/n, tickling her sides to elicit loud, delighted laughter, “I’m snoring cause my little monster makes me so tired,” John said as he teasingly nibbled on her plump cheeks and little arms. It always warmed her heart to see them together, though that night in particular the feeling was more pronounced and Y/n remembered why she’d fallen for John in the first place; because despite his hardened exterior and all he’d done and faced through his life, there was a softer side of him reserved especially for the people that would cherish it. To the rest of the world, he was the tall and intimidating John Wick, the man you sent to kill the Boogeyman, but to her, and now Nadine. he was John, the loving man who gave his all to his family.

Later that night, after she and John had put Nadine to bed, a joint effort that evening, Y/n had returned to the kitchen to clean up. She hadn’t been expecting him to come back down, it had been a long day and after the tickle session with Nadine, he’d struggled to stay awake through the rest of the movie, halfheartedly mumbling the words to “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” near the end, but just when she’d started packing leftovers into smaller containers, John had returned, wordlessly packing empty dishes into washer. “You don’t have to,” Y/n said softly as he rinsed off a glass casserole dish.

“I want to,” John shrugged, continuing nonetheless.

Carrying on with the task at hand, she was working more from muscle memory upon turning to hand him an empty, ceramic salad bowl, “You really don’t have to,” she smiled softly, and about a week ago, that would have been the moment where she’d have made a harsh quip about how she could do it herself, but instead, she added, “You’re tired.”

“So are you,” John returned her soiree, and for the first time in a long time, Y/n felt something that she hadn’t in a while. The comfort of his presence, the little bubble of warmth that rose in her chest when they were together. There was no awkward stiffness, no undesirable tension, there was just that soothing familiarity, and that swell of unconditional love that used to accompany the mere thought of him. “I just fell asleep first,” he chuckled.

Y/n chortled softly too, and when she finally handed over the bowl, their fingers brushed, “You were never good at staying awake during movies,” she teased.

John hummed, packing the bowl into the dishwasher before turning to face Y/n again, “I don't know what to tell you,” he shrugged, “I guess I just prefer looking at the people right in front of me. The beautiful people,” he reached out, tucking a lonesome strand behind her ear before allowing his thumb to caress her cheek, repeating softly, "Beautiful."

That time, when she blushed, Y/n was sure he saw it. But she couldn’t bring herself to be ashamed. Just for one night, she wanted things to be normal, not just the kind of pretend normal they’d been engaging in where they acted like everything was okay but then went their separate ways at the end of the day, but the real normal, where they shared one bed and the type of intimacy they’d never felt with anyone else. “Maybe you should come to bed tonight, our bed,” she offered, “If you want to.”

John knitted his brows, watching Y/n as she brought her small fingers to enclose his wrist in an affectionate hold, “I’d like that...but only if you’re sure.”

Shifting her head slightly, Y/n pressed a chaste kiss on the inside of John’s palm, quietly permitting, “I’m sure.”

New Years Eve There was about ten minutes left before they rang in the new year. Despite her best efforts to stay awake, not really understanding what it meant but knowing that it was an opportunity to see fireworks, Nadine had long succumbed to sleep after fighting it for about two hours, leaving John and Y/n cozied on the patio in the backyard after he’d taken their little one up to bed. They were huddled under a thick, fleece blanket, an extra layer added to their sweaters and thick socks, and John’s arm was secured around Y/n’s shoulders, while her head was tucked at his side.

The past week had been bliss, and it was a lovely reminder of how things had been at the very beginning of their marriage, and even shortly after they’d had Nadine. They still hadn’t talked about anything though, not about their fights and certainly not about the fact that up to a week earlier, they couldn’t have even tolerated sleeping in the same bed. Y/n knew they’d have to broach the matter soon though, especially with their laxed agreement set to end in mere minutes.

Just for the holidays, they’d go back to the way things were afterwards.

She wanted to soak it up though, every remaining moment of perfectly wedded bliss with one of her favorite people in the whole world. Y/n wanted to forget about it, just for a little while longer, though, John seemed to have other plans. “Have you thought about it?” He tentatively broke the silence, “About what we…do after.”

Exhaling loudly, Y/n put some distance between them, leaving the blanket on her lap though leaning on the arm of the wicker sofa they kept outside, “I have,” she professed, “And I’ve been thinking; what if I don’t wanna go back to that? To the way things were, I mean.”

Under the blanket, she was nervously picking at her nails, trying to gauge John’s thoughts from his expression. He seemed surprised, albeit, somewhat relieved. “I don’t wanna go back to that either,” he admitted, “These past couple weeks, they’d made me realize how much I miss you. Miss us. And uh,” he shook his head thinking some more, “I know I started this whole thing, that first fight…..but I want you to know, when I said I was bored…I didn’t mean with us, or our family. It's just, Nadi had just started school, and you were room mom,” John sighed, looking away sheepishly, “I just missed the way it used to be, when we could just pick her up, pack out bags and go somewhere, do something. Be together. I didn’t want us to split up,” he admitted, “I just wanted us to be together again.”

Sighing heavily, Y/n bent her head, admitting, “I guess I just got so wrapped in Nadi’s school and everything else that I didn’t even consider that you could be feeling…neglected,” she shrugged “So when you said that…I thought you meant you were bored with me. And our family.”

“God no,” John exhaled, “I could never be bored of you guys," sighing heavily, he added, "I just miss you so much,”

Nodding, Y/n swiped at the bottom of her eye, finally returning, “I miss you too.” She sniffled, eyes burning, and when John shifted his weight onto his knees as he turned so he could lean towards her, she raised one hand to cup his cheek, marveling at the feel of his stubble contrasting with the softness of her palm.

They hadn’t noticed it, but when he closed the space between their lips, crushing his mouth to Y/n’s in a passionate endearment that professed just how much she meant to him, the fireworks started, signaling the start of the new year. She could taste the beer he’d had with dinner on his tongue, and though they’d been kissing quite a bit that week, that one was different, it was far more promising. It wasn’t the last one, instead, it was the mark of a new beginning for them, a mutual agreement to put the work in. “We have a lot to work through,” she noted breathlessly when they temporarily parted.

“I know,” John agreed, “But I think what we have is worth it, don’t you?”

“I do,” Y/n urged his head closer so their foreheads would be pressed together, “Our family, and what we have together, it’s so worth it.” A shared grin ended their words, and despite knowing that it would take a while to get back to where they used to be, Y/n felt hope raise up in her heart, and when John kissed her again, she could tell he felt it too;

That night, John had felt as if he’d been absolved of every misdeed that had led to that moment, even if Anya hadn’t known of them. People like him, they didn’t just get tender kisses and loving touches, not unless some divinity had pitied their well deserved suffering, and so, because she had insisted on proving her love in a way that was so genuine, John figured that she had to have been pardoned, it was the only thing that made sense.

The creaking of the bathroom door broke his thoughts that morning, and through the steam and the fogged up, blue tinted glass, John saw Anya sleepily striding into the room, trapping the steam by shutting the door again. Clad only in her simple, floral night robe, she wordlessly moved to the sink and reached for her toothbrush, not too bothered with greeting him. John wasn’t mad though, he had spent several nights with Anya before then, enough to know that she wasn’t the kind of person that favored speaking before brushing her teeth.

At a leisurely pace, he washed his hair as she finished up at the sink, only paying vague attention to her as she undid the knot of her robe, thoughtlessly shedding it before sliding the shower door open and stepping inside. “Good morning,” her arms snaked around his waist, hands then sliding upwards until they were flat on his chest and her unrestrained breasts were pressed to his heavily inked back.

“Good morning,” his chest rumbled in a low chuckle as John returned her greeting. Resting his hands over hers, John closed his eyes when she pressed a chaste kiss to the ink adorning his back. She’d asked about them some time ago, his tattoos, and with the memories being as harsh as they were, John had glazed over his time in the marines. He’d contemplated out loud that he regretted getting some of them, told her that it felt like the past was following him around, but Anya countered by saying that she thought they were beautiful, and not just for the rough edge they give him. History was the word she’d used, saying that he should be proud, not just of his service, but also of his perseverance.

She saw beauty where there was nothing but ugly devastation. She saw past the thing inside him that had craved the bloodshed, fed temporarily by his commendable stint in the military, and had said that she loved him. Anya loves him, and for the first time John could say that he had something that resembled normalcy. Waking up next to someone, sharing a shower with that someone, might have been mundane to most of New York, but to John, it was something that was formerly so far out of reach that he had tried killing off the part of himself that ached for it. But Anya had given that to him, and he was never going to let it go.

Pushing his wet hair back to clear his vision, John turned in Anya’s embrace, reaching to lay his hands on her unclad hips. When they were face to face, he leaned down for a kiss, weaning her closer, and she responded easily, allowing him to taste the cool mint on her tongue. She was closer, palms laid comfortably on his sides when they parted slightly, the proximity apparently allowing her to see more than John would have preferred, “Jesus,” she hissed sympathetically, eyes widening as she assessed the angry discolorations littered across his chest. There were some on his back too, though, he assumed the dark ink and peculiar lighting of her bathroom might have hidden them well. Even the night before, Anya hadn’t noticed, albeit, after their tryst in the kitchen, the generic painkiller that she’d offered him after dressing the cut on his head had put him right to sleep, not affording any more time for activities that would warrant an examination of his bruised skin. “How’d you get these?” She looked up, worried gaze meeting his stony one.

The job back in London had been particularly trying, the contract had been to take out a small group that was trying gain notoriety by illegally trading arms. They’d stepped on the toes of a bigger organization, who’d been waiting for the right moment to snuff them out. It would have been an easy one, it could have been an easy one, but what the group had lacked in number, they had covered in brawn, which ordinarily wouldn’t have been an issue for him, except, that time, his mind had been run amuck by images of Anya in bed with a man he’d thought to be dead.

So again, its all her fault.

Though, John wouldn’t dare tell her that. “It’s nothing,” he went in for another kiss, but she barely responded that time, “I promise,” he reaffirmed. He couldn't have her doing a nose dive into his life like that, certain things needed to be kept separate from his relationship with her and while it was getting harder as they grew closer, John was determined to keep his secrets, his secrets until he thought she was ready to learn them. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”

“Stop telling me that,” she argued firmly, “Not when it’s clearly something. John,” she scoffed, “Look at yourself; you’re covered in bruises and that cut on your head is pretty bad.”

Determined to have her back down, John took gentle hold of her forearms, “Don’t worry about it, okay? It’s fine, they’ll heal.”

“Did you get into a fight or something?” God, she’s so fucking persistent. “Why won’t you tell me what happened? You come here bleeding and all bruised up and all you can say is ‘don’t worry’?” Her growing agitation was pliable and he feared that they were about to start fighting over something so trivial.

“Cause it’s nothing to worry about,” his tone grew a little harsh and John finally remembered why he’d never been in a relationship, besides his whole inability to connect with anyone on a human level, it was because he abhorred being questioned. John hated the thought of having to share things he didn’t want to, if he wanted something left alone then it should have been left alone. But Anya wasn’t like that, she was a pusher. She poked and prodded until she was triumphant. “It’s nothing, why can’t you just leave it alone?” Suspiring exasperatedly, John slid the door open and reached for the towel he’d gone in with, sapping up some of the water from his dripping skin before wrapping the fluffy, white fabric around his waist.

Scoffing, without finishing her shower, Anya turned off the water and reached for her robe as she followed John out, “Because it’s-its…..” She stuttered, “It’s fucking insane, if something happened, you can tell me. If the police needs to get involved-”

“No fucking cops!” They would be absolutely no help, especially given his line of work and besides,John has already dealt with the issue on his own. It was the whole point of his job after all. “It’s no big deal, leave it alone!”

“No!” She yelled back. And now they're definitely fighting. She followed him back into her bedroom, where their clothes were still a mess of laundry on the floor.

“Why? Why can’t you just leave well enough alone?” Why does she have to know everything? Things that would get her in trouble. Why can't she just shut her mouth and see that he was trying to protect her?

“Because you're being fucking ridiculous! You wouldn’t even tell me how you got that cut,” she gestured to the wet bandage on his forehead, “You’re keeping something from me, and I don’t know why,” her voice grew softer, and Anya stood in the center of the room, expression forlorn as if it were supposed to make him say something of substance.

Except, it doesn’t. “Yeah?” John huffed, reaching for his jeans on the floor, “Well so are you.”

Shaking her head, Anya watched with feigned confusion as he gathered his clothes and John was internally kicking himself for letting things escalate like that. He didn't want to fight with her, not then, not ever, but she was making it so damn hard. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She folded her arms, shifting her weight from one leg to the next.

As if she didn’t know. John has the footage to back it up! “It means…..” he couldn’t tell her, and he knew that he’d have to tread lightly with his next words if he wanted to salvage their relationship, “It means……” John paused, his clothes all bunched up in his hands. The words, they just weren’t there and he was far too gone with his fury and narrow mindedness to come up with a half decent lie, and so, he grumbled while pushing past her, “Doesn’t matter what it fucking means, I'm done with this conversation.”

Anya was sitting at the foot of the bed when John reemerged, hair still wet and she was looking down into her lap, picking at her fingers. “I don't understand why you’re being like this all of a sudden,” she said quietly, not looking up at him.

Sighing heavily, John shook his head, long having decided that he’d need some time to cool off before dealing with her feelings. He wasn’t used to having to deal with messy emotions, he’d always been more of a repressor himself and hadn't accounted for Anya getting all emotional over frivolous things. She's so strange; she can lie easily but can’t tolerate being lied to. “It’s complicated,” was all he offered, heading for the door that would lead to the hallway.

“Then un-complicate it,” she stood, keeping a comfortable distance between them.

John gripped the knob, hesitating briefly as he considered thrashing out their issues right there, but he was much too afraid that the high tensions would result in another fight, and if his anger boiled over again, he didn't think he’d be able to trust himself then. The things he did when he got mad, they weren't good, and Anya had acquired an unconscious knack for making it worse. With another sigh, he wretched it open, shaking off her sad stare as he left, tuning Anya out as she called after him.

By the time John had gotten home and changed out of his clothes from the night before, his anger was dissipating and guilt had started to creep up on him, telling him that he shouldn’t have treated Anya the way he had. She just wanted to help, and he’d already promised himself that he would forgive her for stepping out on him like that. He hadn’t meant to lash out, not really, but she’d been pushing and pushing and he just thought some things were better left alone. John loved her, he genuinely did, but Anya was just so stubborn.

And caring. And beautiful. And perfect in every other way.

Sinking down into the leather upholstered chair in his home office, John sighed heavily, reaching for the brown, sealed package near the end of the desk. It was a new laptop; the one that he’d destroyed back in London was beyond the point of repair and using his phone for everything was becoming quite irritating. He’d signed for it that very morning, just after returning from Anya’s apartment and was eager to set it up and get back to business as usual, it had surprised John just how much he’d missed having a laptop, it just made navigation easier.

Unpacking it and discarding layers of cardboard, styrofoam and plastic, John gently set the thin, sleek device on the glass desk, carefully opening up the top and using his pointer to press the power button. Easily, he went through the minions of setting it up, choosing language settings and getting it connected to the WiFi, and then came the big decision; to use cloud data or not? Starting fresh, it should have been an easy decision, but there was so much that was still of use. The live feed of Anya’s apartment. The tracker on her phone. Everything he’d logged, or rather hacked into. If his trip to London had proven anything it was that it was all still necessary.

Shaking off his earlier idea of a clean slate, John chose to restore his data, leaning back into the chair as the computer worked, after inputting his email address and passwords. It seemed to go by so quickly, everything coming back from secure files he’d kept from old jobs to every scrap he’d acquired on his beloved.

John had just laid his fingers on the flat keys, about to browse through the updated settings, when a soft ding, accompanied by a notification popping up at the corner of the screen caught his eye. An email. He rarely got emails, John didn't care for leaving a digital trail, especially where work was concerned, and as he opened up the application, it made sense when he discovered that it wasn’t for him.

From: Christopher Holloway Subject: Hey

Ani;

It's great to hear from you! Been too long. How are you?

-Chris

The last name was oddly familiar, John could have sworn that he’d seen it somewhere before, but it was possibly the least of his concerns. Among the more pressing ones was finding out what Anya had sent first, and then trying to decipher what kind of relation warranted this Christopher person calling her by such a charming pet name. Somewhere inside, John wishes he had come up with it.

It took a series of tapped keys and digging around, but John soon found what he’d sought, Anya’s first email in the sent box;

From: Anya Cohen Subject: Hey

Hey, I know it's been a while, I don’t have your number anymore. But I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and thought maybe we could catch up.

-Ani.

Dumbfounded, John read, and then reread the text, trying to squeeze out anything of use. But it was all for naught, the words were as plain as crackers and could have meant that the person she was conversing with could be anyone from an old friend to a distant relative. Obscurity; despite being regarded as quite a mystery himself, John hated it. He wanted to know who Christopher was, why he had such an endearing nickname for Anya and why she had reached out to him.

Did it have something to do with their earlier fight?

It hadn’t been five minutes since Christopher’s response to Anya’s initiating message when she sent something back;

From: Anya Cohen Subject: Hey

It has been. And I’ve been good! You?

The exchange went on for about half an hour, and rapt in their digital conversation, John hadn’t even thought to do a deep dive on Christopher. He was eager to see where it might go, and how much they may divulge, which as it turned out, wasn’t very much; pleasantries, her mentioning that she was working at the coffee shop and him telling her that he’d just returned to New York after a trip to France. There’s been nothing of great effect, at least, not until Anya had suggested that they meet up in person soon. That was when it really got interesting, the person on the other end had offered to meet with her that very day at ‘our place.’

They had a place.

Only people in relationships had places. Her and Christopher's was a bistro in Soho and before John knew it, they were talking about seeing each other in person within a couple hours; it was her day off and he seemed quite eager to see her. Scrambling for his phone, John pulled up her number, first thinking he should text her, then quickly dismissing the idea in favor of calling instead.

The line rang three times, and John was beginning to worry that she was too upset with him to talk when she answered, her voice soft and unsure, the echo of surprise evident, “Hello?” Since they’d gotten into a more comfortable place together, she’d stopped answering the phone like that, it was always ‘hey you’ or ‘hi baby.’ But she was hurt, and probably mad, and it was all his fault.

“Hey, it’s me,” he swallowed thickly, “I’ve been thinking about the way things went down this morning, I think I overreacted. I’m sorry babygirl.”

It took a while before she spoke again, and John hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until her words came, “I’m sorry I pushed you. I just thought I was helping,” Anya sighed, “I didn’t mean to…...make you uncomfortable or anything.”

The whole making up with someone, it was completely foreign to him and John felt like he was stumbling through the whole thing. But that didn't mean he wasn’t giving it his very best. “You were helping, or at least, trying too. I’m just not used to…...someone caring this much.” No one had ever done any of the things she’d done for him; worried when he was bleeding or longed to dot over his bruises.

No one has ever loved him.

“Well you should get used to it,” she huffed, a glimmer of mirth in her lightened tone, “I just wanna take care of you sometimes. I love you, John. And that’s what people do when they love each other.”

Huffing, John slumped further into the chair, draping his free arm on the rest as he reveled in her words. She was right where he wanted her, everything was perfect. They could be perfect.

So why does he have the nagging feeling that he has to keep working himself to the point of exhaustion for the survival of their relationship?

“You're right,” he sighed. Desperately, John wanted to make things okay between them again……and find out who the hell Christopher was and why she and him had a place. “Can I come over, take you to lunch maybe?”

“Uhh…..” Anya trailed off, stumbling over a response, “I-uh, I don’t think I can do lunch. I’m meeting a friend,” she seemed to find her footing pretty quickly, and John awaited the moment where she’d tell him a little more, but it never came, “Maybe dinner? You could come over, I could cook.”

“A friend?” John probed cautiously, nothing wanting to rouse suspicion but also extract more information.

“Yeah…..yeah, you don’t know her,” in actuality, John didn’t know any of her friends, and he was beginning to wonder if it was completely intentional. Hell, he can tell she's lying in that very moment.

Dragging his lower lip through his teeth, John attempted to quell the anxiety bubbling inside him, “Okay, well, maybe I can pick you up at the restaurant and we’ll spend the night here instead.”

“Sure! But um….” God, she's really working in overtime to make sure she isn’t discovered, “Why don’t you pick me up at my place instead, so I can pack an overnight bag.”

She hadn't needed an overnight bag in over a while; there were clothes of hers in his closet, she had soap, shampoo and a toothbrush in his bathroom. But John couldn’t push it, he wouldn’t, but he did know where they’d be and he was certainly going to use that information to his advantage. “Sure sweetheart,” he managed through clenched teeth.

“Great,” he could hear her smile, and for the first time, it wasn’t contagious, “I gotta go, but I’ll see you later baby.”

Seething, John obliged, “Right. Later babygirl.” The line clicked dead, and clutching his phone tightly, he moved it away from his ear only to pound his fists to the desk, ignoring the clatter of his disrupted belongings. He was quickly growing tired of her lies. She’d done it once, about something big, and then still found it in herself to just look him in the eye and profess her so-called love, and John had accepted it because he’d felt the same. But love didn’t change people, they didn’t change the choices they made and John was sick of learning that the hard way.

From then on, there'll be no more lies. And he's going to make sure of it.

*****