WICKED | WILLIAM FRANKLYN-MILLER

⟶ 12 | MINE, NOT YOURS

TRIGGER WARNING!

Knives, Stab Wound, Mild Violence.

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[WILLIAM]

⑅

THERE ARE MANY THINGS I WON'T TELL HER, and details of death is one of them. I know she won't be able to handle it—she's the kind of person to tell a licensed killer to stop killing.

A part of me has grown to be...attached to her. Not in a 'attached due to my job' way, but in my own terms. I can be honest with myself when I say that. When I got demoted from my original position, I thought I'd hate being stuck babysitting a spoiled rich-girl.

She's not spoiled. She's not rich. I don't hate her.

There's something alluring to the way she doesn't give a damn about me, and I like that. She doesn't care that I'm supposed to kill people; in fact, she yells at me for it. She hated even being near me, but now she questions why I don't walk beside her.

It's a dangerous thing to feel attached to a person, but I don't regret it. Perhaps it's part of my job as well. If I hadn't had my eyes on her for as long as I did, then I wouldn't have noticed the lurking threat.

"God I've missed you," her sod-of-a-boyfriend said.

Relationships are far from my area of expertise, and I'm proud to say I've never been in one, but I can tell when a man is using a woman for his own benefit. Kent does that to Lovey, and it drives me bloody insane—she's good for his publicity, she's beautiful, she's possibly good in other areas (which I will not be thinking about), and she's oblivious to the fact that she means practically nothing to him.

I'm not insinuating that I'd be a better option for her, because I'm not an option to begin with. I'm simply giving my opinion on the situation.

I had half a mind to follow them to the restaurant booth, but something caught my eye. A waiter brushed past me when I first walked in. A second waiter did the same not even a minute after I walked inside. From behind the kitchen door, I noticed a chef glance in my direction for more than he needed too.

Nobody had eyes on Lovey. All of their eyes were on me.

Shit.

I almost didn't register the shadow of a fist sweeping towards me, too shocked to fathom a response. I caught it in the palm of my hand, just before it could hit me square in the face.

"Alright then," I frowned, "let's dance."

Tightening my grip around the caught fist, I twisted my attacker's arm until I heard a loud crack ring out into the air. Then the scream. You'd think they'd think twice before picking a fight with someone who was trained to kill—no mercy or hesitation.

Kicking the wailing man to the ground, I did a quick sweep around the room, counting six men. Five of them I analyzed quickly; there was one burlier man I knew would be more of a challenge.

I like to think of these situations as a masquerade. Everyone knows who everyone is by the glimmers of their face, but no one knows anything about each other—but that doesn't stop us from dancing. In this case, fighting. I don't know who the hell these men are, and they sure as hell don't know me, but we're both here for the same reason.

So, let the party start.

I took the first man down by bashing his head into a table. It flipped over on itself, forks and napkins cluttering around my feet like an avalanche. If it was just the two of us, I would have debated killing him, but that wasn't the case. I had other people to dance with.