That Sik Luv
: Chapter 37

Briony

I’m trembling. My frustrations are coursing through my bloodstream, burning hot with a rage so intertwined with confusion and pain I could burst.

I woke to replace Aero had left the bed cold beside me. I’d assumed it would happen, and to be honest, I was hoping for the opportunity to get some answers about the man of mystery my heart beats for.

A man like Aero doesn’t think traditionally. I knew his secrets wouldn’t be kept in safes hidden in office spaces. No, his secrets would be kept in plain sight. Simplistic minds would never assume his assortment of uncovered documents would be tucked and stored in the most unsuspecting of places.

But after an hour of scouring his home, replaceing one strange door at the back of the house locked shut, and leaving the rest of his place in a chaotic mess of clothing, papers, and about a thousand hidden knives tucked away, I’d all but given up replaceing it. Thinking into the mind of the psychotic himself, I realized he assumed I’d be onto him. Maybe the key was simplicity. He’d assume I wouldn’t go for the obvious, knowing who he is. Who I am. These mind games are fucking with me, the reverse psychology hurting my brain.

Back to the room I went–the room he’d set up specifically for me. I thought to myself, where do stupid people hide money? Under the mattress.

My stomach dropped when I lifted my side of the bed, only to reach under and feel the edge of the wrinkled paper at my fingertips. It practically twisted into a knot when I saw the familiar yellowish-brown textured envelope slide out from beneath the mattress. It sank when I held the package to my chest, feeling the same weight in my hand I’d felt that night, pulling it from the safe.

I ripped into it, immediately pulling out documents and flipping through them.

I flipped so fast my brain couldn’t even retain the information correctly. Names, dates, certain words popped out at me and flooded me with a wave of uncertainty and panic.

Certificate of birth.

Callum Westwood.

Veronica Fields

United States Vs. Aero Westwood

Alastor Abbott.

Margaret Moore.

St. Augustine’s Hospital.

Felony murder.

Briony Strait.

What is this? What are these documents in here for? Nothing is adding up, and why is my birth certificate part of this? I’ve been tied into whatever sickening history Aero carries, and he’s held this from me.

My whole life…is a pool of deception and lies from the powers that be. According to the birth certificate with my name on it, it says I wasn’t even born in 2002, but in 2004, at a different hospital, in a completely different town.

This has to be wrong. Some sort of sick, twisted mistake.

I’ve been swimming in deceptions. Drowning; slowly, the bubbles drain from my lungs of my past life until I’m left fading into the numbing sounds of the deep water surrounding me.

That was, until he found me.

I can only hope there is some sort of explanation for this. That Aero has answers to clear up whatever I’ve discovered. That he will justify his reasons for keeping this information from me, and will take this painful piercing sensation in my brain and make it stop.

However, a dark place deep inside me knows there’s some truth to this. An intuitive reasoning within my mind is feeling some sort of release because every part of my past that made little sense now does.

The eternal stain of condemnation. The Devil’s Doll.

Now I stand facing the man who’s somehow found a way to get me to uncover my truth, crawling on floors for him, pulling out documents, exposing my very own hidden past by replaceing it in his maze. He wanted me to be my own hero. Even now, as he stands against this tree, only giving me my answers if I learn to fight for myself.

“Fuck me up, darling.”

I crave a hug. An embrace. I want to collapse into my brother’s arms. I want to call Mia and cry to her, let it all out and give my burdens to another. I want my parents to return from their African mission trip to wrap their arms around me, tell me everything will be alright, and to focus on God’s will. To put my faith in Christ and let him handle things for once.

One thing is for certain, Aero isn’t that person. No one handles his fate besides himself. His idea of empathy is proving I won’t kill him in this masochistic display of a knife lesson.

Holding the knife as he instructed, my heart races, and the inability to breathe has my chest tightening. So much is weighing down on me at the moment. The attempted murders, the secrets, the lies…

I take a deep breath, attempting to internalize my confusion, my pain. Closing my eyes, I envision him against the tree. I listen to the silence of the surrounding forest, still echoing with my heart-breaking cries as I took out my frustrations. Aero’s voice hums in the background, telling me to look at him, yelling out instructions, but I don’t want to hear it anymore. Faith and fate will need to benefit him today. He’s pushed me too far. So far.

I keep my eyes closed and hold the handle out before my face, throwing it by the blade in one fluid motion, like a dart, as he instructed.

Hearing the blade hit something, I open my eyes, replaceing dangerous ones filled with fire glaring in my direction. The knife hit the tree just above his right shoulder, as instructed. However, it appears I’ve nicked his neck. Blood, as red as the blood pumping wildly through me, leaks from a minor wound. I gasp, dropping my hands to my sides.

“Ask,” he demands in a dark tone, angry as he pulls the knife with his fist from the tree behind him.

My eyes trail down to the envelope, and my mind runs rampant.

“A-am I, or was I…adopted?” My eyes well with tears at the word.

“No.” he answers simply, walking away from the tree, approaching me.

“Then why is there a birth certificate with my name on it from St. Augustine’s? I was born here. At St. Francis. And the dates,” I stutter. “The dates are off.”

He ignores my rambling, reaching behind his back and pulling out three more knives from somewhere. No is the only answer I get. Asshole. He holds them out for me, but my brows pinch and my glare lifts to replace his as his hand holds them out for me to take. He shrugs and drops them on the dirt before my feet, proceeding to walk away.

Planting himself before the tree again, I eye the length of his lean legs beneath his black jeans, admiring the strength of his toned physique without him knowing. He turns, giving a light head nod, urging me to continue.

My lip curls in disgust, but it only intrigues him further. I can tell by the way excitement dances behind his darkened eyes, the way his fingers roll into his fist as his tongue skates across his bottom lip. Even from this distance, I see it.

Picking up a knife, his deep tone startles me.

“Left shoulder,” he commands.

Blood boils beneath my flesh. I don’t know what I’m doing, but if pain is what he wants, I’ll give him a slow death with my inability to hunt. Keeping my eyes open this time, I hold the blade between my thumb and fingers, using muscle memory in an attempt to repeat what I’d already accomplished. As soon as the blade leaves my fingertips, I know it’s shanked. The knife misses the tree entirely, flying past him to the left.

But I threw a knife. I get an answer.

“Who’s Veronica Fields?” I ask, anxious for the answer.

He retrieves the knife before answering, and I pick up another from the forest floor. Settling himself before the tree again, I watch as his jaw flexes.

“My mother.”

I feel an ache in my heart for him. I’m reminded of what he told me about her.

“Throw,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.

I can’t stand his one-word answers. They infuriate me. I set myself to throw another, aiming for the same spot he’d already instructed. He never flinches when I throw. He doesn’t cower or move at all as the knives hurl towards him. I can’t understand it, and it only ignites my rage.

The handle of the knife bounces off the tree above his head as it falls into the dirt.

“Why do they want me dead?”

“You sure that’s the question you want to ask? You already know the answer,” he comments smugly, picking up the knife.

You pushed and pushed… You just kept pushing. His words spring to life in my mind.

These games. This man. The answers he knows but won’t convey. I’m breaking.

“Answer me!” I scream in frustration.

“Because you weren’t meant to be, Briony! If you would’ve just shut up and played pretty housewife, you wouldn’t be in this fucking mess. But no,” he snaps. “You needed to conquer their world too, didn’t you?”

“That doesn’t make sense to me, Aero!” I pick up another knife from the ground. “It’s not enough!” I chuck it at him.

It hits the tree above his head, sticking into the bark at a strange angle. His eyes widen slightly, but he shifts back into his cool demeanor yet again. It pisses me off. I want red fiery anger from him. I want him to react to me. For some strange reason, this small action is driving me crazier than ever.

“Give me everything!” I scream. “Tell me everything!”

I grip another blade from the dirt and hurl it towards him. This one sticks into the tree to the left of him, above his shoulder. I hit where I’d intended. A ghost of a grin forms as his lips pull up in the corner. He’s enjoying this. This sick and twisted fuck is enjoying my emotional outrage and turmoil.

That same anger they have taught me to cover and sit quietly with Christ, the questions I’ve always wanted to ask but was never allowed, the rules I never quite understood but was expected to obey… All of my past is catching up to me, and I’m breaking. I’m losing any self-control I thought I’d retained from all my years at The Covenant.

I’m out of knives, or so he thinks. All but one left. I reach behind me, into the back of my white camisole, and pull the sentimental blade, given to me by the teacher himself, from inside the tight fabric. It’s time for his test.

With a flick of my wrist, I flip the blade free, then quickly aim directly at his head. His gaze isn’t locked on me anymore. The knives are spread on the ground before him. He doesn’t realize I’m still holding one. He assumes I’m all out.

The blade slips from my fingertips, pulling what feels like the last bit of my old self along with it. I instantly know my aim and trajectory are too on point. The knife hurls towards his head, on a straight path to his face. With a quick snap of his head and a fast hand, he catches it just before it hits him. His chest is heaving as the blood drips down his forearm. He caught the blade with the palm of his hand, directly between those dilated eyes.

His gaze shifts from the mess of his cut before him to my image behind it, clearly shaken in surprise.

I swallow, the thumping of my heart from the anger channeling into pounding beats of absolute fear ringing in my ears.

Aero pushes off the tree and begins stalking towards me.

I take a step back, tripping over my own feet and falling back onto my bottom, before pushing up on the heels of my palms, getting them beneath me again, and standing. He reaches me, gripping my black hair at the nape of my neck in his wounded hand. I gasp as he holds the blade before me, his dark eyes searching mine.

“You broke,” he whispers breathlessly, a sense of wonder and amazement in his gaze as he slowly shakes his head in disbelief. “Baby…you broke.”

He pants heavily over me, folding the knife in one hand as his eyes stay pinned to mine. He tucks it back into the strap of my tight-fitting tank, fingers lingering on the mounds of flesh rising and falling rapidly between us. His thumb intentionally skims across my pebbled nipple, and one soft little flick has electricity running from the sensation to the ache between my legs.

Fear and arousal. So very much alike. Powerful, and at times, all-consuming. Very much like his entire effect on me.

Aero studies me like he’s never seen me before. Apparently, the attempt to kill him has him falling entirely. His brows knit together as he peers over my face, gazing at my lips, then replaceing my eyes.

“I’ll tell you everything,” he whispers softly, loosening his grip on my hair, the promise in his tender gaze. “I’ll give you everything.”

His injured hand replaces my face as his thumb trails across my bottom lip. I’m panting heavily as he kneels into the dirt before me. The bloodied hand makes its way down my throat, slowly trailing further down until my neck and the white of my tanks is covered in his bright crimson blood. Just the way he likes me.

Kneeling before me on the forest floor, he gazes up at me, his hands settling on my hips as his parted lips lay inches from my breasts.

This man. This powerful assassin, who kills before questioning, is on his knees before me, looking up at me like I’m royalty. He’s submitting himself entirely. When I break, he folds.

He looks at me, waiting for me to make my move. The breeze rushes through the trees, a warmth in her push. My hair dances before my eyes, but our direct eye contact never falters.

Two lost souls dancing beneath the flesh, aching to be seen by the other. We speak without words, recognizing the other in the most primal form of communication. Our bodies, our change in breaths, the pounding of our aligned pulses, the rise of the hair on our neck, the way our eyes dilate when looking into the other.

This is my chance. He’s looking for my direction now. I’m in control, and he’s entrusting me with all that he is after witnessing the fight within me. It’s a moment more powerful than him giving me control over his life with a few knives. Even then, he knew he had a way out. He could control an enemy throwing weapons at him. What he can’t control is the release of his heart to mine. A weakness he wasn’t yet ready to embrace.

Slowly and with careful hands, I sink my fingers into his black, inky locks that are wet with sweat, replaceing his scalp. With a gentle embrace, I wrap my palm around the back of his head, his hair weaving through my fingers, the other slowly sliding around the back of his neck. He inhales sharply, closing his eyes tightly. His arms slowly slide around my hips, wrapping around me as I pull his face against my chest. He sighs in my embrace, finally allowing himself to melt into the sensation that once terrified him, allowing the gentle caress of my fingers to massage his scalp through his hair.

“Everything,” he whispers.

He may be talking about telling me everything as promised, but the way the crack in his voice says the word, I get the feeling that he’s surrendering entirely to me. He’s giving me everything he has. Every living, breathing part of him. The pieces I can see, and the shattered ones I can’t. I feel what he feels in this moment together.

My answers to the unending questions are coming, but there’s one thing I know with complete certainty. It’s just him and I in this world of torture and torment. We aren’t like them. We’re like us.

And solidifying that is everything.