Slay Bells Ring

Chapter Seven – Holly

I groan as I come to, everything a little fuzzy in my head. I don’t really remember where I am or how I got there, and it takes me a while to open my eyes. When I do, I find I’m in a tiny bedroom with a lone window showing the thick snowfall outside, a winter wonderland.

Oh, right. That’s where I am.

I try to get up, but all I can do is sit up because my wrists are fastened to the two corners of the headboard with rope. “Motherfucker,” I whisper when I realize that asshole knocked me out and tied me up using my goddamned rope. I’m pretty much in the same position Kane was in—minus the straddling part.

“You have quite the mouth on you, don’t you, kid?” Kane’s deep voice fills the air, and I whip my head to the other side of the room, finding him standing there in the doorway, holding onto my knife.

It takes everything in me to not gulp when I see him. Maybe it’s my position on the bed, but he doesn’t look like a drunk anymore. Standing there, his height is on full display, along with his wide frame. Beneath his long-sleeved shirt, I can practically see his biceps bulging.

Oh, and he shaved.

It’s not the closest shave, and I can’t help but assume he used my knife to do it. He still has some dark stubble on his square jaw, but the unkempt beard with flecks of gray is gone—along with fifteen years.

Without the ugly beard, he doesn’t look like a middle-aged man whose only purpose in life is to drown his sorrows in the bottle. No, he’s still very much in his prime, and even though he’s ancient compared to me, I hate that I admit to myself he’s not too bad to look at.

“I told you,” I say once I get over the change of appearance, “I’m not a fucking kid.”

“Right.” Kane walks into the room with a swagger he most definitely didn’t have before. It’s like night and day. He went from drunk old man to badass assassin just like that. He stops when he stands at the foot of the bed, his blue eyes cold as he mutters, “Holly fucking Cooper.”

I can’t decide whether I want to stare at his face or at the knife he’s toying with as he stands there, so I split my time looking at both.

“Did you really think you could waltz in here and take out a seasoned hitman like me?” As he asks the question, he tilts his head and narrows his stare, like he truly thinks I’m the dumbest person alive for even trying something like that.

“I’m not as helpless as you think I am. I’ve trained—”

“For thirteen years, I bet—but that’s the difference between you and me. You’ve had thirteen years, but I’ve had my whole goddamned life to learn everything there is to know about the human body and every weapon you can imagine.”

I roll my eyes. Can’t help it. Smells like a whole lot of bullshit in here.

Kane must not like my attitude, because he wanders around the bed, stopping when he stands beside me. “Thirteen years is nothing,” he whispers. “A drop in the bucket. Only an idiot full of pride would think he—or she—knows everything there is to know after thirteen years. Even now, I’m still learning.” He sits on the bed near me and lifts my knife, drawing my attention to it.

Swallowing hard, I ask, “So, what? Are you going to kill me? Torture me and then kill me? Have your fun with me and then torture and kill me?”

The chuckle that rises from his chest is low enough to give me goosebumps, and the off-the-shoulder glance he gives me only adds to the way my breath catches in the back of my throat.

“I’d ask you what kind of man you think I am, but I already know.” He runs a finger along the dull side of the knife, drawing it along the steel slowly. “And, for the record, while I may be a killer and an occasional torturer, I’m not a rapist. Let’s make that clear.”

“Oh, well don’t you deserve a pat on the back for that,” I huff with a frown.

He laughs again, and since he’s sitting on the bed, I can feel the old, spring-filled mattress shake when he does. “You are something else, Holly fucking Cooper. What am I going to do with you?”

“You could let me go and let me finish the job I came here for?” I suggest.

The way Kane stares at me after that tells me he’s thinking. I don’t know if he’s actually weighing my suggestion or not. Doesn’t matter. It’s not like I really think he’ll let me go, hand me my knife, and let me stab him in the chest.

A minute passes before he says, “Tell you what. I’ll let you go, but I’m not going to let you kill me. If you want your pound of flesh, you’ll have to work for it.”

His words are slow to sink in, and by the time I realize what he said, he’s already leaning over me and using my knife to cut me free. One wrist at a time. I really do hate being this close to him, but in a situation like this, what can you do?

Once I’m free, he gets up and moves away from the bed, watching as I rub my wrists and glare at him. “I’ll even give this back to you for now. I’m curious if you really know how to use it, or if you’re just full of yourself.”He tosses the dagger at me.

The knife lands on the bed between my spread ankles, but I don’t go for it right away. A part of me wonders if this is a trap of some kind. I’ve lost the element of surprise though, so at this point, I need to keep throwing spaghetti on the wall to see what sticks.

“Well?” Kane asks as he cocks his head and arches a brow. “Are you going to grab the knife and come at me, or are you just going to sit there and stare at me?” And then, the asshole, he smirks and says, “Show me what you got, kid.”

At this point, he knows I hate being called that. I haven’t been a kid for a long, long time—something he knows. Something he’s the cause of. I had to grow up fast because of him.

I grab the knife and get to my feet.

I hate the way he watches me, like an animal, a predator who knows he stands tall at the top of the food chain. Totally unbothered by me or my knife. Confident and smug, like he can see the future and he knows this can only end one way.

And if it ends in my death? So be it. Whatever. At least I tried to give this asshole what he deserves.

He pushes off the wall, and we spend the next few seconds circling each other. Kane grins and says, “Come on, kid, let’s dance.”

Oh, that’s it. He wants to dance? We’ll fucking dance.

I go for him with the knife, knowing he’s going to either block or dodge. He ends up sidestepping my outstretched arm entirely, but I’m still in motion so I swing my arm back around. He blocks me by hitting my wrist with his.

How do I respond to that? I twirl around and use my other arm to elbow him in the gut—a move he’s clearly not expecting, because my elbow finds its target and I hear him grunt. With my back to him, I drop my knife-wielding hand to my side, flip the knife so it points backward, and try to stab him like that.

But the jerk grabs my wrist with his hand and easily stops me. Seriously, it’s like I’m a feather trying to break down a brick wall all by my lonesome.

“Not that easy, I’m afraid,” Kane whispers as he pushes me away and rubs his abdomen—which I regret to know is just as solid as the rest of him. The man is built like a mountain. “And you only got me there because I’m a little hungover.”

I spot his bag laying on the floor next to the dresser, and in it I see more bottles. God, the man really did come here to drink and drink and drink, didn’t he? Given the fact that his booze is about the only thing that seems to matter to him and how obvious it is I won’t be able to take him on head-to-head, I opt for a different tactic.

“What are you—” Kane starts to ask, but the moment I make a beeline for the bag with the booze, he shuts up.

I pull out the first bottle I can get my hand on and hold it up between us, and just like that his slightly amused expression morphs into one of rage. “These damn bottles are pretty important to you, huh? I mean, it looks like alcohol is all you brought with you. It’d be a shame to waste them.”

The half-smile he gives me after that is more like a snarl. Kane takes a single step toward me, his hands balled-up into fists. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He said I’m used to getting my way? I bet he’s used to intimidating people into doing what he wants. Like me, now: if I was anyone else, I would carefully set the bottle down to avoid his wrath.

But I’m me, and I want to piss him off just ‘cause.

My fingers loosen around the glass bottle, and as it falls from my hand I innocently say, “Oopsie!” The bottle falls to the floor and breaks, spilling its contents every which way and sending small glass shards everywhere.

In hindsight, not the smartest thing to do when your feet are only wearing a pair of thick socks, but whatever.

He practically growls at me. Yes, the man actually growls . I pick up another bottle, and he says, “Don’t.” A single word, a warning, but what’s he going to do? Kill me? Joke’s on him. I’m already dead.

Everything that happens next happens in a rush. Before I can drop the next bottle, Kane rushes at me, expertly avoiding the glass on the floor while outstretching his hand to grab the bottle from me. He’s so focused on saving the booze that I don’t think twice about what I do while he’s distracted.

I stab him. I stab that motherfucker right in the chest the same moment he saves that blasted bottle from its early demise at my hand.

Only the knife doesn’t go deep enough, not nearly deep enough to stop him in his tracks and make him fall to the floor, dead. On his left pectoral, the damned thing only went in an inch or so thanks to me not putting enough muscle behind it.

Shit.

Kane, now standing directly in front of me, less than a foot away, pauses as he glances down at his chest—basically eye-level for me. We both spend the next few seconds staring at the knife protruding from his chest, and neither of us say a word.

Kane is the one who acts first. He takes a single step away from me, and he turns somewhat to deposit the bottle safely on the bed; the man must feel it’s safe there since he stands between me and the bed. Then he reaches for the handle of the knife and pulls it out like it’s nothing but a scratch, a teeny, tiny flesh wound.

“Your aim was a little off if you were going for my heart,” he informs me. “And you’ll need to put a lot more muscle behind it if you want to stab to kill.” The tip of the knife drips red with his blood, joining the spilled alcohol on the ground. A wetness blossoms on his chest, darkening his already dark shirt.

I don’t know what’s worse—that I tried to stab him and failed miserably or that he doesn’t sound upset about it in the least? Most people would wince when they pull a knife out of their body, but Kane? He didn’t even blink.

At this point, I don’t know what to do, but I do know one thing: I don’t like being caught between his body and the wall. More space between us would be welcome.

I take a single step to the side in an effort to go around him, but the moment I do, instant pain erupts in my foot, shooting up to my ankle, and I can only say a single word: “Fuck.”

Without glancing down, Kane already knows. “You didn’t.”

I bite my bottom lip and lift my injured foot. There’s a new, burning addition to the bottom of my sole: a nice, broken bottle shard. It stings ten times worse than I imagine a regular glass shard would thanks to how wet with alcohol it is, and my sock is already bloodied.

“You did,” Kane mutters. “What a killer you are.”

That remark pisses me off, and I act without thinking. I try to punch him, but doing so requires me to take a step forward… and I step on another goddamned shard with my other foot before I can land the stupid punch.

With the current levels of pain in my feet, my knees give out instinctively to try to lessen that pain. The only reason I don’t fall to the wet floor is Kane—the man catches me before I fall over and, knife still in hand, he picks me up off my feet, bringing my face way too close to his in the process.

I mean, my face was close to his before, but that was when he was tied to the bed and all old-looking with that beard. This is… it’s different and I can’t really explain why.

And what’s worse? Even though I hate this man and don’t want him touching me at all, I find my hands clinging to his shoulders as if I’m scared he’s going to put me down on my injured feet.

I know, I know. Maybe I’m not as badass as I thought. Just a silly little girl in way over her head.

“If you wouldn’t have broken the bottle in the first place, all of this could’ve been avoided,” Kane says as he spins us and walks us away from the mess I made and the broken glass on the floor. And unlike me, he knows where to step and where to avoid.

“Fuck you,” I whisper, although it’s strength is lessened by the fact that he’s literally carrying my injured ass through the cabin while I hold onto him for dear life.

A low chuckle escapes him, and since I’m holding onto him like a spider monkey, I feel that chuckle in my core. His voice is low when he says, “You shouldn’t say things like that, Holly fucking Cooper.”

Ugh, God. This guy’s really getting on my last nerve. I bet he thinks he’s funny or something.

A few minutes later I’m sitting on the edge of my sofa bed, my feet dangling off the edge. Kane had revived the fire, and its heat is the only reason I’m not shivering. Though I’m not too happy about it, I try not to move my feet much while he searches the place for a first-aid kit or anything that might help the current situation.

I literally can’t believe I did this to myself. The only reason it happened was because I was trying to be spiteful and petty; I wanted him to feel a slight twinge of loss when he watched me drop his precious alcohol to the ground. If my parents were alive, they might tell me that this just goes to show being petty hurts no one but yourself.

But they’re dead, and the asshole in the other room is the one who killed them, so I’m not too interested in what my parents might say.

Kane returns with an old kit and a new bottle tucked under his arm. My eyes shift from the bottle to the dark stain on his shirt—where I stabbed him. I was so freaking close. I just needed to put a bit more muscle behind it and I would’ve had him.

“You can’t spend an hour here without drinking, can you?” I ask dryly.

He shoots me a frown before he sets the kit on the sofa bed beside me. The alcohol bottle is placed on the floor near my dangling feet as he kneels down in front of me. “It’s not for me,” he says. “It’s for you.”

I’m seconds from rolling my eyes, but the asshole reaches for my left ankle, and I instinctively pull away. The action causes a sharp sting to travel up my leg, so I give it up and return my ankle to its previous position without saying a word.

Kane’s fingers wrap around my sock, slow to pull it off. I’ll give it to him; he’s very careful while he does it. He makes no sudden moves that might cause the glass in my foot to bury itself even deeper. Once that bloodied sock is off, he goes to the other and does the same. Once both socks are off and forgotten on the floor, he grabs the bottle.

“This is going to hurt,” he warns me as he opens the bottle. Without a second’s warning, he pours some of the alcohol over the bottom of my foot, one after the other, and I wince at the sharp stinging that follows shortly. As he sets the bottle down and goes to grip the bottom of my left foot with one hand, he glances up at me. “This is going to hurt worse. If you need to bite down on something—”

“Just pull it out,” I hiss, my fingers digging into the sheets.

I fixate my gaze on the fire as he goes for the shard in my left foot. I don’t know how deep it is, but I do know it’s on the front pad of my foot—something I apparently place a lot of weight on when I walk or stand.

Man, I really fucked this whole revenge thing up, didn’t I?

If I thought the sharp stinging that erupted in my foot when he doused it with the alcohol to disinfect it hurt, Kane pulling the shard out hurts ten times worse. I’m white-knuckling it even after he pulls the glass out and sets it on the floor—and when he goes to pour another round on my glass-free foot, it takes everything in me to not cry out.

“That one wasn’t too deep,” Kane says as he moves to focus on my right foot. “This one… this one looks a little deeper.”

God, I wish the man would stop talking. I wish—my thoughts go haywire when he does the same exact thing to my right foot. Grip it from the bottom, pinch the glass with his fingers, and pull it out of me.

Fucking hell. This one definitely hurts more. The glass was embedded in the middle of my foot. Even my toes are in agony… and then that agony intensifies when he pours that liquid fire onto it again.

My eyes start to water in spite of everything, but I refrain from crying out. My feet hurt like a bitch, but I don’t want this jerk to hear me cry out.

Kane rummages through the first-aid kit and finds some bandages that look like they’re at least ten years old. “You’re doing great,” he tells me. “Just a bit more and we’ll be done.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

He stops what he’s doing and looks at me. “I could let you do it, if you’d rather not—”

“Just shut up and do it.” As if I want to lean forward and wrap my feet in bandages. No, he’s already down there, so he might as well finish the job.

I have only two words to describe the situation I now find myself in: this sucks.