Atlas - Roberts Alyne (читаем книги онлайн без регистрации .TXT) 📗

Gaining her trust was harder than I thought it would be. Understandably, Stella had her assumptions about me and my family. In most circumstances, she would be right. I was ruthless, a killer, and had no room for soft spots. But true to my ethics, I would protect my own and keep my word. I had no desire to kill her without reason, but she seemed determined to give me one.

I placed the clothes on the marble sink in the bathroom without being noticed. When Stella finally came out, a cloud of steam followed her. I sat on the bed holding antibiotic cream and bandages.

"Your hands," I told her.

Stella looked down at her knuckles, seeming to notice the blood and cuts for the first time. Hesitantly, she walked over to stand in front of me and offered her hands to me. Taking both wrists with one hand, I used the other to grab her chin and forced her to look at me.

"You do something like that again, I won't patch you back up," I warned her. I roughly let go of her face and spread some cream on her fingers.

"Why are you now?" she asked, trying to bend and get a look at my face.

I looked up and into her eyes. She could see how empty and cold I really was. "Because I'm not done with you."

Stella wisely chose to shut up and let me finish up cleaning her hands. I ignored her flinches and hissing as I put the bandages on. I was beyond pissed that she was hurt, but I couldn't coddle her. She needed to respect and fear me enough to never try something like that again.

"Lift up your shirt," I asked her when her hands were taken care of.

Stella took a deep breath before she lifted the flannel shirt to expose her stomach, keeping her breasts covered. There were scrapes and bruising on her ribs from pushing through the small window. One large gash decorated her stomach and I touched it gently, causing Stella to jump away.

I grabbed her hips, pulling her between my knees and running my fingers over her stomach. The skin was soft and warm under my cold hands. Stella held her breath while I inspected her body. I tickled down her ribcage, checking for any broken bones under the purple skin. The cut was the worst of the injuries so I cleaned it with alcohol and covered it with gauze.

I reached up and cupped her cheek, tilting her head to look at her face. The scrapes on her face from running in the brush were minor. They should clear in a day or so. I moved my fingers gently through her wet hair, feeling for any cuts on her head. Stella's eyes closed as she tipped her head back and I drug my fingers through the long strands. My hands trailed down her back and to her hips.

"Anything else hurt?" I asked, still holding her between my legs.

"Don't think so," she answered, her voice low and breathy.

I stood before I decided to pull her onto my lap. My chest rubbed against hers as I did, and I heard her sharp inhale. I smirked, letting her know that I had heard, and I pushed her back a few feet.

"Go to bed," I told her as I pulled the wingback chair from the corner across the room.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "Are you . . . are you staying?"

"Fuck yes, I'm staying," I told her as I sat in the chair with my back to the door, facing the bed. "It's either this or I tie you up again. Or you can go to the basement. I obviously can't trust you alone."

Stella shook her head but climbed into the bed quickly. She pulled the covers over her and I reached up to switch off the lights. We were plunged into darkness and silence and I could hear her staggered breathing. Tomorrow, I would come up with a new plan. I would feed her, forcefully if needed, and I would figure out a way to keep her inside and give me what I needed.

VII

Stella

I could feel it in my bones that something was wrong. Sitting up in my bed, I could see light in the hallway. I rubbed my eyes and waited for them to focus. When I heard the voices, a chill ran down my spine. It sounded like crying.

I crawled out of my bed and tiptoed to the doorway. I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears, but I forced myself into the dim hallway anyway. I could barely breathe with the feeling of doom and fear swallowing me, but I needed to see. I needed to know what was happening. I hoped I was just being paranoid and that nothing was wrong. 

I wasn't being paranoid. My mom was kneeling on the kitchen floor. Her face was in her hands and she cried quietly. My dad knelt beside her, looking ahead with determination and hate. Something was very wrong. The man I thought was the strongest and bravest man in the world was on his knees in our kitchen while my mom begged for their lives. 

My feet were glued to the floor as the gun pressed to my dad's forehead. I held my breath and prayed the scene in front of me wasn't real. I watched, frozen in horror, as the sound of the gunshot blasted through the silent night. Red splattered and another blast sounded, silencing my mom's screams. One scream continued to pierce the air louder than any gunshot.

I fell to the floor as I watched the blood pool on the tile. The kitchen my mom cooked countless dinners in was red instead of black and white. The room my parents, my brother and I talked in every night was ruined. The two people who meant the most to me had just vanished before my eyes. The dark figure who took away my world vanished just as quickly, as I crawled into the pool of blood my mom and dad were drowning in. 

My own scream filtered in my ears along with my name being screamed. I didn't want to leave yet. I wanted to save them, but it was too late.

"Stella!"

I was being shaken and my name was being yelled. I forced my eyes to open and look around. I wasn't in my kitchen. The floor was carpet and not the checkered tile covered in red. Strong hands held my face, and as the tears dried in my eyes, a face appeared.

"You with me?" Atlas asked. He looked at me with shock and curiosity.

"Yeah," I said with a rough voice. My throat hurt like I had been screaming. I probably had.

Atlas let me go and leaned back on the bed, watching me carefully. I ran my fingers through my hair, finding it damp from sweat. My clothes were wet under the warm robe and my hands felt clammy. My breathing was still coming in hot pants.

"Bad dream?" he asked.

"Something like that," I answered. A dream would imply that it was fiction and not real.

I tore the robe off, tossing it to the floor. I needed to cool down. I could feel Atlas watching me and I knew he wanted to ask a million questions. I would never answer them. I had never told a soul what I had seen that night, and I didn't ever intend to do so. For a while, I thought that was the only thing keeping me alive. Now, I wasn’t too sure.

"If I go get you a drink, will you try to run?" Atlas asked.

I shook my head. I didn't think my legs would hold me if I tried. I was finally feeling the consequences from my escape attempt. I hung my head as Atlas quietly left the room. When I was alone, I let three tears go—one for each part of my heart that was taken from me.

I jumped when the door opened again. Atlas came in with a glass and shut the door behind him. His shirt was only held closed with the last three buttons, exposing most of his wide chest. The shirt used to be white but was now covered in dirt smears, and one sleeve had a small rip. His hair was unruly and his face had a little more scruff than I had remembered.