The One Who Watches - Raine

The man collapses as the stranger releases his throat. His knees hit the floor so hard the sound cracks through the motel room. He stares up at the stranger like he’s looking at death itself and his face has gone completely gray.

Sweat pours down the side of his temple while his mouth works uselessly, lips trembling around words that never quite form.

"P-please," he finally chokes out.

The stranger says nothing, just stands inside the shattered doorway with one hand tucked loosely into the pocket of his black slacks, expensive suit fitting him like it was stitched directly onto his body. Thick chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, he’s not even broken a sweat.. 

He doesn’t look angry, that’s the terrifying part. I know from experience that angry men shout, and throw things, and spit. This man just watches in cold, certain, stillness.

The groper starts scrambling backward across the carpet, dragging himself away on shaking elbows.

"I didn’t know," he blurts out desperately. "I swear to God, I didn’t know she was yours."

Mine. The word lands somewhere deep in my stomach, but I have no time to process that tidbit because the stranger finally moves. Every step sounds deliberate against the stained motel carpet.

The groper starts breathing harder.

"Please," he says again. "Please, man. I was drunk. I didn’t fucking touch her that much."

The stranger tilts his head slightly.

"That much?"

The groper starts shaking so hard his teeth click together. Two more men appear behind the stranger, I don’t hear them approach. One second the hallway is empty and the next they’re there, both dressed in dark suits, both carrying themselves with the same quiet menace.

The taller one glances at the stranger. "Boss?"

The stranger never takes his eyes off the man on the floor.

"Take him apart," he says softly.

My stomach drops at the same moment the groper lets out a panicked noise.

"No, no, wait, please, I got kids, man, please fucking don’t do this."

The two men grab him before he can crawl away.

He starts screaming and his fingers claw uselessly into the carpet while they drag him upright.

"Please! I’m sorry! I’m fucking sorry!"

Nobody reacts, not me, not the stranger, not his goons, not a single person in the motel.

The strangers pale gaze lands on my face and holds. It feels physical, a hand around my throat.

I should look away, avert my eyes and be submissive. Instead I stare.

Up close, he’s even more beautiful. Beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful.

Sharp jaw covered in dark stubble. Straight nose that looks like it’s been broken before. Thick dark hair pushed carelessly back from his forehead. His mouth is hard, almost cruel, but it’s his eyes that ruin me.

They don’t soften, not even when they drag slowly over the bruises already darkening on my wrist. Something ugly lurks behind his eyes.

The groper screams again as the men drag him into the hallway. I hear one of them mutter, "Should’ve kept your fucking hands to yourself."

Then a sickening crack echoes from somewhere outside and the scream cuts off abruptly.

I flinch, the stranger notices as silence settles heavily through the ruined motel room and I’m suddenly aware of how exposed I am. Wet clothes cling to my skin, my hair is a matted mess and my hands have not stopped trembling.

Pathetic.

The stranger’s gaze drifts over me slowly, taking in every detail, I don’t think he even realizes how intimidating he is.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe he enjoys it.

"Thank you," I whisper. My voice sounds wrecked.

He says nothing which sends heat crawling into my cheeks.

"I didn’t know what to do," I continue quietly. "I tried to get away and he just..."

The stranger’s jaw tightens.

"You froze."

It isn’t a question, a statement of fact and shame punches straight through me, I wrap my arms tightly around myself.

"I was scared."

"Fear gets women killed."

"You think I don’t know that?" I ask before I can stop myself.

The stranger steps closer, I immediately step back, the movement instinctive to protect my already shattered emotions. His eyes drop to my feet, then slowly lift back to my face.

"What’s your name?"

I hesitate. "Raine."

He repeats it quietly. "Raine."

The sound of my name in his mouth does strange things to my heartbeat.

"You work here?"

I nod.

"That explains the bruises under your eyes."

"I need the money." My face burns.

"This place should be burned to the ground." He says it casually as his gaze sweeps around the motel room with open disgust.

"You can’t just burn down a motel because you don’t like it," I mutter.

One dark eyebrow lifts. "Can’t I?"

I swallow hard because everything about him feels dangerous. The confidence. The control. The way he looks at me like he’s already decided something important without bothering to ask my opinion. Calling me his!

The hallway outside suddenly erupts with shouting. A woman yells, "What the fuck is happening out here?"

The motel manager appears in the doorway a second later, Jerry takes one look at the stranger and goes completely white. I've never seen him scared of anything or anyone before. Not even when somebody got stabbed outside reception last winter.

"Mr. Marcello," Jerry stammers.

The name means nothing to me, apparently it means everything to Jerry.

"This is a misunderstanding," Jerry blurts out quickly. "Raine’s one of our best workers, she would never cause trouble."

The stranger finally tears his eyes away from me.

"Your employee was assaulted in your motel," he says quietly. "And you’re worried about trouble?"

Jerry starts sweating immediately. "No, sir. Of course not, sir."

Sir? Who is this guy?

Mr Marcello steps toward him and Jerry actually recoils.

"If another man touches her inside this building," Marcello says softly, "I’ll nail your hands to the fucking front desk. Are we clear?"

Jerry nods so fast it looks painful. "Crystal clear, sir."

I stare at the stranger. At Mr Marcello, who has threatened somebody’s life over me without even raising his voice.

Why?

The thought barely forms before he looks back at me and the room seems to tighten around us.

"You live here too?"

I hate how embarrassed I feel. "Sometimes."

His expression darkens. "Meaning yes."

"It’s cheap."

"So is heroin. Doesn’t make it good for you."

My laugh is unexpected, I can’t remember the last time I used it. A small broken sound escapes me before I can stop it.

My Marcello goes still, shocked I made a noise other than fear. That realisation wipes the smile straight off my face.

His gaze drops to my mouth and the heat in his expression is brief but devastating. I suddenly become horribly aware that I’m alone in a motel room with a man capable of killing people with his bare hands.

A very attractive man.

A very dangerous man.

"How old are you, Raine?"

"Twenty-three."

"Too young to look this tired."

Something about the way he says it almost sounds angry, at me, and I don’t know why that hurts.

"You don’t know anything about me," I say quietly.

"No," he agrees. "But I know what starving looks like."

Humiliation crashes over me so fast I almost stop breathing. I hate that he can see the skipped meals, the exhaustion, the desperation, I hate him for noticing.

"I’m fine," I whisper.

"Bullshit." The word cracks through the room.

My eyes widen. He drags one large tattooed hand down his jaw slowly, studying me with open irritation.

"You look half-dead," he says. "You let strange men drag you into rooms because you’re too frightened to scream. You live in a fucking motel and work night shifts for what? Minimum wage?"

I stare at him. Nobody talks to me like this, nobody talks to me at all.

"I didn’t ask for your help," I whisper.

He steps closer again and this time I don’t back away fast enough so he’s positioned directly in front of me. Towering over me as the scent of him wraps around me. Expensive cologne, smoke, leather.

My heart starts slamming painfully against my ribs.

"No," he says softly. "You didn’t."

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth again, then lower, a full sweep across me and I feel it everywhere. Heat crawls beneath my skin.

"But I helped you anyway." He reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

Instead of a weapon, he pulls out a black card, completely plain except for a silver moth embossed into the center, the same moth tattooed across his throat. He holds it out toward me.

"Come work for me instead."

I blink. "What?"

"You heard me."

"Doing what?"

"Something better than scrubbing blood out of carpets for men who’d sell you for parts if they thought they could make money from it."

My fingers curl nervously at my sides. "I don’t even know you."

A slow smile finally touches his mouth, it’s not reassuring.

"That’s probably smart, Bunny."

Bunny, again. The nickname sends something strange through me.

"I’m not going anywhere with you," I say quickly.

His expression doesn’t change. "Didn’t say you were."

"Then why offer me a job?"

"Because I don’t like seeing things I own treated like garbage."

Things I own, not people, not person, things. Before I can form an appropriately scathing response, he takes my hand.

His palm is huge and warm and rough against mine as he turns my wrist over carefully.

Looks at the bruises darkening already, turns and walks away.

“I’ll be waiting for your call.”