J&O Pt. I
Homicial Ideation
Homicial Ideation
Owen couldn’t fall asleep. It wasn’t that the fact that she was half sprawled half draped over his body that was bothering him. Except that she had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder and now his left arm was losing circulation. The appendage was trapped between them, her arm draped over his middle and her head was pressing into his shoulder.
No the arm wasn’t bothering him so much as the ridiculous circumstances that brought this particular woman to lay uncomfortably on his arm. The circumstances didn’t even bother him so much as the increasingly obnoxious feeling that he didn’t even mind her sleeping on him that way. The fact that he would let her sleep that way until his arm became painful tingling dead weight before he moved her, that’s what was bothering him.
He sighed and watched her sleep in the faint moonlight seeping through half curtained windows. A feline ear flickered when he expelled his breath. The pale light illuminated the angle of her jaw and cheek. How rude of her to fall asleep on him in that endearing way.
Owen had been fucking Julianna for the past few weeks. It was just a little diversion, a usual game of conquest, until he got bored. Or that was the mindset he’d been trying to maintain. Their fucking, as it were, was more than that, much, much more. Owen didn’t know it yet. Or wouldn’t admit it. Being honest with himself wasn’t his strong suit. Neither were matters of the heart, which made Owen feel like his name--Hart--was a kind of misnomer.
A man named Hart whose mother’s heart was ripped out by the woman to whom he was trying very hard to not give his own heart. Surely some deity had scripted this ridiculous tragi-comedy.
When did he plan on tiring of her? How many times had he had her already? Wasn’t it enough? Surely if she something secret hidden between her legs that no other woman he’d ever been with had, then he would have already found it, right?
If she were just another notch in his belt, he would have gone bragging to his friends about fucking her already. But he hadn’t told anyone about this one. He couldn’t exactly expect anyone to sing his praises and give him the typical ‘atta boy for fucking someone he’d been assigned to assassinate. For fucking the woman who orphaned him by killing his mother. For carrying on with her while he yet claimed to be in a relationship with another woman, who was conveniently never around.
He couldn’t even begin to explain his very unprofessional conduct with his target. He also couldn’t explain why she’d even come to work for him except perhaps for novelty-sake for a jaded Queen. A little game for the bored kitty cat to play with one of her once victims. If she was the cat that made him the mouse right? Maybe he was another Hart for her to play with. Or just another heart to play with. Which was it, or was it both? Maybe she liked the poetry of tinkering with a Hart’s heart.
Or did she pity him? Pity what a mess she’d made of one impressionable human’s life?
He told himself she’d been a test for him, to see how much he could shut off his humanity. To see how far into depravity he’d sunk. He had wanted to make her his. He wanted her to satisfy his sexual whims until he was tired of her and then he’d finish her off. Yes, he had let her sleep next to him--wanted her to-- to make her trust him. Until the day he’d spill her blood all over his sheets. That betrayal would be much better suited to the murderous queen. That would show her to mess with Harts. Or hearts? It was all very confusing for the young man.
So, what stayed his hand when she slept next to him? There was a perfectly good round in the chamber of his gun stashed in the bed side table.
He told himself a bullet to her brain while she slept would be a mercy killing. She wouldn’t even know he had done it. She wouldn’t even suffer that much. That wouldn’t do.
Cutting her throat would likely be the bloodiest way to kill her quickly. She would likely wake when he cut her and he could watch the realization of his betrayal play out on her face for some brief moments before she lost consciousness. All that sticky thick blood running over her neck and chest ruining his sheets and soaking deep into his mattress. He brushed locks of her hair away from her neck, tucking them behind her ear. Index and middle fingers started feeling for the veins that carried the most blood but paused to feel and mark her pulse instead. It was a slow and very relaxed rhythm. He told himself that any enjoyment he got from slitting her throat would be too short lived though.
Strangling would perhaps be best. It would be slower than cutting her throat. She would wake in horror and fight against him for her life. Yes, strangling her to death would be the most intimate way to kill her. He could really stare into her emerald eyes while she died--to study the effect of terror in them, of course. If he looked close enough he might see his own reflection staring back in her eyes. His fingers brushed over her collarbone tracing it to the soft skin at the hollow of her neck. He told himself this way wouldn’t work, it left too much to chance. There were ways to get out of a choke hold. And he was aware that Julianna was stronger, more powerful than she let on. And there was that pesky demon that had perhaps a stronger will to live than even Julianna did. No. It wouldn’t work either. Or so he convinced himself.
Owen shrugged his shoulder gently against the weight of her head. When she stirred he slipped his tingling arm around her to draw her more comfortably against him and guide her head to lay against his chest. She settled without waking fitting snug against his body in the crux of his arm as it regained circulation.
Owen couldn’t kill a...friend. Yes, of course, that’s what she was, his friend. There wasn’t anything truly serious in protecting or caring for a... friend.
No he couldn’t kill her. Especially not when her breath came so slow while she slept, not with her warm leg slung carelessly and familiarly over his, not with the scent of her shampoo on his pillow and his aftershave on her neck.
If only he were as diabolical as he’d imagined himself. But he wasn’t. Some assassin. Gently cuddling the woman he was supposed to be expelling from the game of life. No, he was bumbling around and acting like an idiot hoping he wouldn’t get his heart ripped out...by a friend with a history of ripping Hart’s hearts out.
Bitch, I'm limited edition.
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