OLEANDER
Pain yanked me out of the darkness. It throbbed in my hand and travelled up my arm, before settling in my chest, squeezing and stabbing.
I gasped as my eyes shot open. For a while, all I saw was white—the ceilings, the chandelier, the bedsheets, the walls. My heart pounded against my rib, threatening to burst out as I took in my surroundings. This wasn't my room.
It certainly wasn't as large as this, cool, or even this fancy. I tried to stand, using my hand to push myself up. Halfway through, my knees buckled, and I fell back on the ground on my butt. I winced in pain, staring at my hand. A gash lined my palm in a straight line with dried blood.
My eyes widened, trying to recall how I had gotten it. It only took me a second as it all slammed back into me.
The messy state of my room. The broken picture frame. Blood. The sweet smell of the chemical and those lovely turquoise blue eyes—
"Black!" I exclaimed, panic clawing up my throat. Was I in his territory?
"God, no, please," I whispered, thrusting myself from the ground, ignoring the burning sensation in my arm. My legs trembled, and I staggered to the wall near the bed, just as the door flew open. And there stood my nemesis.
Black. The only name I knew of him.
Six years ago, when I first saw him, I never got a good glimpse of him. Of course, his voice was the first thing I allowed to sink deep into my head because I knew even if I forgot his face, I'd remember that cruel voice. And then his eyes.
But now, I was staring at the monster. Calling him handsome was an understatement.
Dark hair, thick and swept back, framed a devastatingly gorgeous face made for sin and danger. High cheekbones, a squared jaw shadowed by stubble, and his lips… God, those full, sinful lips curved in a crooked, dimpled smirk around a thick cigar. Smoke curled upward, softening the sharp lines of tattoos that climbed his throat, snaked along his jaw, and inked themselves across the side of his face.
My knees weakened as I took in this perfection—no, I shouldn't. I should hate him with every fiber of my being. He ruined me. Just because he was good-looking didn't mean he could get away with everything he'd done.
And then my eyes met his—those eyes I'd never forget. The hatred I felt for this man only burned hotter.
He approached me, and I pressed my back to the wall as if it'd guard me from him.
"You're awake," he murmured.
I said nothing because I had nothing to say. My heart raced, eyes moving around the nearly empty room, looking for something. Anything just to protect myself. My breath hitched as they landed on the table with a glass top. On it were two weapons: a handgun and a dagger. The latter had blood on it.
Like he knew I was staring at the weapon, he chuckled, a cruel laugh that made my skin crawl and stomach twist.
"Go on." He nodded. "You want to kill me, don't you? You have two weapons at your disposal. I'm feeling really generous now."
He was enjoying my despair. This evil in human flesh. He knew he had the upper hand here. It was his territory after all. He could kill me with the snap of his finger.
"Are you afraid?"
But he thought wrong. A sudden rage exploded inside me, and I bolted towards the table, picking up both weapons, not making any choice. I raced back to the wall, pointing the gun and dagger at him.
"You monster!" I screeched. "What do you want with me? Haven't you done enough? You killed my family and won't leave me alone. I did nothing wrong to you!"
Black tutted, shaking his head in disapproval. "Wrong answer, love." He walked to the table, leaned forward, pressed the ember of the cigar into the ashtray, and then straightened. He looked back at me.
"Kill me." He said, spreading out his arms.
My finger curled around the trigger, my legs shaking violently, and my teeth chattering in fear. For the first time, standing in front of this man, I was terribly afraid.
Even with two deadly weapons in my hand, I couldn't bring myself to kill him. Not because some moral code bound me, but because I didn't want to become a monster like him.
After a while, he murmured. "I see. You're just as weak as your father, Jonathan Collins."
I raised the gun higher. It was a good thing my father had taught me how to use a weapon on my twelfth birthday. Who knew it'd come in handy?
"Don't ever mention my father's name in that filthy mouth of yours!" I snarled.
"And if I do?" He asked, an amused smile forming on his face.
"I'm really going to shoot you." My voice shook.
"1, 2, 3," he began to count, his voice mocking.
"Don't come any closer!" I shrieked. But he wouldn't listen.
"6, 7, 8,"
"Please!"
"9 and 10."
I gasped, pressing hard on the trigger. A sharp crack reverberated in the room. Twice. My eyes widened, staring unblinkingly at the man who was in front of me. He gripped my hands, pinning them above my head.
How the hell did he get so fast here? I couldn't fathom it, and the gunshot…I looked down at his chest, where the gun had pressed against, to see blood on his crisp white shirt.
Shit. I shot him!
"Y–you are bleeding!"
"You can't even take a common bullet wound? Fucking lowly humans." He grunted.
I looked up at his face and saw it was devoid of emotion. He wasn't in pain. Not even anger. Just fucking neutral. Who the hell was this man?
"I gave you the chance to kill this monster—me—, and you couldn't even do a good job." He murmured, leaning in close to me. "Tell me, Oleander, what punishment is befitting for the daughter of my enemy?"
He knew my name as well?! I was doomed.
"It's Ivy," I said.
In an instant, Black slapped a palm on the wall above my head. I jerked, staring at him in fright.
"I chose to call you whatever I desire, love," he growled. His eyes suddenly flash a golden, then return to normal. Did I imagine it?
I shivered as he pried the gun out of my hand, and, slapping my other hand, the dagger fell on the ground.
"This should be the last time you'd ever correct me," he said in a much softer tone, pressing the gun to my head. "Besides, I asked you a question. Answer me."
"Kill me," I ordered. "Just kill me so I can go meet my father and brother wherever you sent them!"
"Kill you?" He tilted his head like he was giving it a second thought. "That's tempting."
"I have much better ways to make you suffer, Oleander, and killing you isn't one of them."
I shuddered at the promise in his words, and he hadn't even said the cruel thing he had in mind. What kind of a sick man was this?
"Your body," he mumbled, his eyes slid down my length, darkening with lust. "Is mine. And I'll use it as I desire until I am ready to put my bullets through your head."
My eyes shut tightly as he pressed the gun to my head once more. I spoke through gritted teeth.
"You're a psycho!" I opened my eyes, looking at him, hatred, rage, and disgust burning in them.
"A bloody psychopath, and comparing you to the devil will be an insult to him. I hope you rot in hell!" I spat.
He grinned, eyes twinkling deviously. "I'm in hell, tesoro, and I can't wait to drag you down that path with me."