The Way to Hell

Chapter Five: History of a Bad Man

"Sit down," August commands coldly, his hand pushing her bony shoulder, forcing her to sit on the bed. Ingvild's behind lands on the mattress with a bounce, her gaze remaining on the strange menacing man as he moves through the room with harsh steps. An irritated look mars his face as he looks for something.

She exploits the sparse moment of false freedom, searching for his well-concealed arsenal. Liam's words of wisdom from her days of training echo in her mind. "There is always a slip," an absentee of the mind. This large dangerous man might be an equal opponent yet he is just a man.

And this agent of chaos had his plan interrupted, ironic as it may be. In his fine work of hiding most of the weapons from her reach, he remained negligent, keeping his handgun next to the laptop on his desk.

Keep in mind he carries that knife with him. The scar on her torso should be a keen reminder.

"Can I at least have my undergarments back? Or do you plan to keep me here naked, Mr Walker?" she calmly asks.

"I don't plan to keep you," August speaks with no real emotion in his voice. He has left her clothes to dry on the radiator throughout the night. Her tactical suit is still damp but her ridiculously small underwear and bra seem to have dried. He picks them up, then carelessly throws them at her face before grabbing the large medical kit.

The garments are warm and pleasant to the touch. Ingvild manages to slip into her underwear beneath the bathrobe with haste before August returns to sit in his chair.

Appearing determined, he unzips the blue medical bag, preparing some bandages and pulling out a bottle of antiseptic. "Open up," he speaks, gesturing at the white cotton robe around her body.

She stares at him oddly, her hands latching onto the fabric.

He sighs, rolling his eyes at her. Fine lines of irritation are drawn on his forehead. "The bandage is wet and needs to be replaced. Do you want your wound to get infected?"

Cautiously she observes him, wondering what brings a malicious man who tried to kill her only a few hours ago to tend to her wound. It seems like any action he performs is robotic, as if he is still in the CIA, following protocols. Curiosity sets her mind, driving her to follow his request with obedience and untie the cotton bind that holds the robe together.

August keeps his leer on his face, whether she is frightened by him or not he can't determine. She seems trained in hiding or faking her emotions.

'As most women are.'

His fingers pry the robe open, just enough to uncover the fusty bandage on her torso.

Carefully, his eyes descend from her face to her chest, unable to ignore the way the fabric hangs on the edge of her small perky breast. The roundness of it appears tempting enough to sink his teeth in and leave a nice, bleeding bite mark for another scar on that beautiful pure skin.

'You love it when they're pure.'

He brushes that vampiric thought away, trying to keep a clear, indifferent mind as he begins to peel the medical tape from her pale flesh.

The coldness on his face is mesmerizing. There is not an inch of care as he removes the old bandages and exposes her ghastly injury. The crescent line is bulging out, looking purple and irritated while the damaged skin around the area of the wound is white with a tint of blue. She stares at it with almost clinical fascination, her gaze tracing the shape and the amateur-looking stitches without saying a word.

'Not even a complaint about damaging her fine-looking body?'

"You haven't answered my question." His deep voice disturbs her exploration, forcing her to avert her gaze to his face. He is stern, focused on the wound as if he has any care for her well-being. Using the back of his fingers, he moves one side of the robe to further examine the status of the stitches.