Chapter 16: Codename: Blackheart Chapter Sixteen

It’s 9:03 am when Alec’s eyes begin to open. It takes him a moment to adjust to his surroundings, but then he spots me leaning against the wall opposite the bed and he immediately becomes alert. It’s a struggle to not laugh. He’s quite amusing. 

“How long have you been watching me sleep?” he asks uncomfortably, his voice a little croaky from sleep.

“Seven minutes.”

“That’s creepy,” he states, scrunching his nose. The way he scrunches his nose is kind of cute.

“Creepier than trying to kill you?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.

“I suppose not,” he snorts.

“For someone with your rap sheet, you’re awfully jumpy,” I taunt him. His jaw clenches and he looks up at the ceiling; hit a nerve I see. I remain silent and after a few minutes, this begins to bother him. 

“Have you decided if you’re going to kill me or not?” he asks in a soft voice. He sounds so… defeated, his face lost in thought.

“I’m leaning towards not.” 

His head snaps to mine in shock, “What? Why?”

“I take my contracts seriously, but since my contract regarding you was built on a foundation of lies, I see no reason to uphold it,” I shrug.

“How do I know this isn’t a trick?” he asks, distrust evident on his face.

“You don’t.” 

His jaw clenches in anger, “I fucking hate all of you.” I raise my eyebrow in amusement at his remark. “You all disgust me and you, you’re a fucking psychopath!” he seethes.

“Funny, I don’t recall finding a psychology degree in your background check. What makes me a psychopath exactly?” I tease.

“I watched you murder a man last night! You were going to murder me! You murder people for a living. You’re fucking sick,” he spits.

“Do you eat meat?” I ask him. I know the answer, but that’s beside the point.

“What?” he asks in confusion.

“You heard me.”

“Yes…what does that– ”

“So how do you feel about farmers who breed and raise animals and then slaughter them to sell the meat for you to eat?” I inquire. 

He rolls his eyes. “That’s not the same thing. They’re just doing their jobs,” he argues. 

I smile at his response and for a moment he just blinks with wide eyes; probably surprised I have human emotions. “Exactly. They’re providing a service, as am I. It’s nothing personal. I take no sick pleasure from what I do, nor do I have some uncontrollable urge to kill. People hire me to do a job and I do it, simple as that. Besides, I’m hardly killing pillars of the community. It’s a job and nothing more. I’m not a psychopath, I’m just immoral,” I calmly explain.

“Are you seriously trying to justify your line of work?” he asks incredulously. 

I walk over and lean over him with my hands on either side of his head as I look into his eyes. His ocean-blue eyes latch onto mine and neither of us breaks contact. He gulps hard and I note his intoxicating cologne. It’s subtle and not at all overpowering. It compliments his natural scent instead of masking it. 

“You don’t get to act superior. You agreed to be part of a plot to murder me, and you don’t even know me. If I weren’t good at what I do, it would have been me dead in that alley last night and I doubt you’d have shed a single tear for me. So don’t act like you’re a fucking saint and I’m the reincarnation of Lucifer,” I say with more force than I intended to. I don’t ever talk this much to people while on the job, but this isn’t my normal job either.

The room is silent for a few minutes, nothing but the sound of our breathing as we continue to maintain eye contact. This close I can feel his breath hitting my face and see the stubble coming through on his chin. I notice the small scar next to his ear and can’t help but feel curious as to where he got it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

Now I’m blinking in surprise. I didn’t expect that. There’s genuine guilt in his eyes and it’s… unnerving. The only time I hear apologies is when someone is begging for their life. It’s always a last-ditch effort in hopes I’ll spare them, but I never do. That’s not why he’s saying sorry though. He means it.. It has me speechless. I slowly stand up straight and while I sort out my thoughts, I notice him slowly looking over every inch of my body. There’s nothing lascivious about it. Although I do detect a hint of desire in his eyes, there’s nothing overt. 

I lean over him again and unstrap the ties around his wrists and ankles, ignoring his stunned face and step out of the room, leaving the door open. I sit down on the couch in the living room with my gun on the coffee table. I open a paper bag and pull out a spinach, feta and egg white wrap, placing it next to a Brazilian mocha cola iced coffee. I relax and respond to a few texts from my parents, then finally hear Alec slowly approaching the living room a few minutes later. I can see him lingering in the doorway from my periphery.

“Bathroom is the door to your left,” I say without looking up from my phone. There’s another moment of silence before I hear the bathroom door open and shut. I couldn’t very well have him ruining my bed sheets, now could I? Blood I’m fine with, piss and shit, absolutely not and not in my bed. 

Once he’s done in the bathroom he joins me, but he continues to stand there lingering. What a freaking wimp. 

“Those are yours,” I say jutting my chin towards the wrap and iced coffee. 

He slowly sits down keeping space between us and pulls the items towards himself. “How long were you watching me?” he asks suspiciously.

“Three weeks.”

“Explains how you know what I like for breakfast,” he says, his tone a mixture of impressed and irritated.

“Also how I knew your passcode,” I say as I hand him back his phone. “Too bad you deleted everything.” His mouth sets into a tight line as he takes his phone from me. Even in a tight line, his lips still look soft and plump with their peachy colour. Just another alluring feature of his. I’m glad I didn’t kill him because now I get to enjoy looking at those features up close.

“You put a tracker on my phone or something?” he questions.

“Maybe,” I tease with a smirk. He looks between me and his phone, eyeing his phone like it’s a mini Trojan horse out to get him. Again I have to try not to laugh. “Eat,” I tell him.

“Why did you get me breakfast?”

“Do you always ask this many questions?” I ask, trying to bite back my exasperation.

“When it comes to the woman who tried to kill me, yes. Last night you wanted me dead, this morning you’ve gone and gotten me breakfast. Is this some strange torture tactic?” he asks, watching me intently. 

This time I actually do laugh; I can’t hold it in. “Ah, yes. The old ‘give them bathroom and breakfast privileges until they sing like a canary’ technique. Such a classic,” I say sarcastically. 

He rolls his eyes. “Can you blame me for not trusting you?” he asks as he sips his drink.

“Let’s not forget who set who up here and that said person is alone with me in my apartment. I have no reason to trust you any more than you have to trust me. Stop acting special,” I scoff. At that, he goes quiet. 

He eats his food and drink, and no more words are spoken between the two of us. The silence is only mildly uncomfortable, but I barely even notice. I’m sure it’s much worse for him.

“Thank you for the painkillers last night. They helped a lot,” he says softly. I’m finding this guy very interesting. Whatever he says, whether in anger or in a gentle manner, is full of sincerity. He comes off as a heart-on-his-sleeve kind of guy. This life is definitely not for him. Just how did he get himself roped into all this is what I want to know.

“I figured. I hit you pretty good. Do you need more?” I inquire. 

His face softens just a fraction at my question, “No, I’ll be alright. But thank you,” he says sincerely again, and I simply nod and put my phone down. “Is that a Russian accent?” he quizzes.

“I suppose it can sound Russian.”

“What’s your native language?” he asks curiously. Why does he care about this?

“Romanian.” 

He blinks in surprise, “You’re Romanian?”

“No.” 

This makes him frown. I can see him getting a bit irked by my short answers which is partly why I’m doing it. He’s fun to wind up and it’s easy too.

“Why are you letting me live?” he asks in a serious voice. Ah, onto the big questions.

“Who says I’m letting you live?” I retort with a malicious smile. Ha, I can almost see the colour draining from his face in rapid time.

“But… you said you won’t kill me,” he says anxiously.

“I said I won’t kill you, but that doesn’t equal letting you live. After all, you’re part of a big plot that backfired and now you’re a liability. Do you really think the people who set this up – people like Peyton Grigoras – are just going to let you live?” I can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he puts what I’m saying together and realises I’m right. Now he’s definitely gone as white as Casper. 

He leans back taking slow breaths. “What do I do?” he asks worriedly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“If I were you, I’d go home, pack, get the hell out of town and change my name. Do you know how to change your identity, Alec?” I ask him pointedly, looking him in the eyes, “A supplier such as yourself should be well-versed in the art,” I say casually.

He glances at me for a second before looking at his empty drink on the table. “I can figure it out,” he says stiffly. Oh, I’m sure you can.

“Then start there,” I say with a shrug. “That or kill them before they kill you; either or.” 

He shoots me a glare, “Not all of us are cold-hearted killers,” he spits. I ignore him and his hypocrisy. “You never did tell me your name.” 

I say nothing, going back to my phone instead. I’m in a group text with my parents and the two of them are arguing about who makes the best tort smetannik and I’m trying to keep a straight face. Tort smetannik is a moist honey layer cake with tangy frosting, and it is to die for. It originated in Russia but is quite popular in Moldova and the truth is, Dad makes it the best, but I’m staying out of this fight. I like my head where it is. 

“Are you seriously not going to tell me your name?” he asks in annoyance. 

I put down my phone and look at him blankly. “Blackheart,” I say flatly. 

He stares for a moment and then snorts, “Fitting. But what is your real name? I’m sure you have one.”

“That’s the only one you’re getting.”

“So you can know my name, but I can’t know yours?” he huffs. 

I grin. Yes, grin. “Precisely,” I say with amusement. 

He stares like a deer caught in headlights then shakes his head. “I’m not calling you ‘Blackheart’,” he states firmly.

“Then you can just call me Heart. But I doubt you’ll be calling me anything after you leave,” I tell him with that grin still plastered on my face. 

It is weird to smile this much around someone I was planning to kill, but it’s surprisingly effortless. Alec grimaces and I find his discomfort amusing. It’s its own form of torture, just not the kind I’m accustomed to. 

After some procrastination and more pointless questions, Alec finally gets his shoes and jacket on and I walk him to the door. 

“I guess this is goodbye,” he says, taking a deep breath. I hand him a piece of paper. “What’s this?” 

“My street address. So you know how to get home from here,” I explain. 

He looks at me with intense curiosity before shaking his head. “Thanks again for not killing me,” he says with a half-smile. 

I chuckle. “Let’s not meet again,” I tell him as I open the door for him. “Good luck, Alec,” I say gently as he suppresses a flinch.

“Goodbye, Heart,” he says. I can see the trepidation in his eyes. 

With that, he leaves, and I close and lock the door behind him. I lean against the door and check the time. 11:05 am. 

The thing about all this is, I can’t even be that angry about it, this is the life I chose. Most of the time I’m doing the killing and sometimes someone is trying to kill me. You’ll never hear me say my life is boring, that’s for sure. And hey, I got to have a hot guy tied up in my bed, so that’s a plus.