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d a y 3 9

d a y  3 9

Fuck.

Oh, fuck fuck fuck.

Why did I do that?

Oh my god, oh my god.

I should've stayed hidden and kept my distance, that was the plan, I wasn't supposed to get involved, but noooooo fucking Rubicund Grant had to come after Melanie in the garage with a switchblade. And then he had the audacity to take a swipe at her throat.

Like Jack the goddamn Ripper.

At first, I thought he just wanted to chat, be a fan, and go the fuck home, but then I saw the ferocity in his posture, the knife tucked under his belt, and I knew he was not here for a friendly chat.

This flavor of chat typically ends with a dead body and a twenty second memorial in the local news.

The bold black print hovered right before my very eyes.

BREAKING NEWS! PRO-NASCAR RACER MELANIE ENDERBY FOUND SLAUGHTERED IN PARKING LOT, SUSPECT IS UNKNOWN AND AT LARGE. SHE IS SURVIVED BY HER SOULMATE, RETIRED NAVY SEAL BROCK ENDERBY, AND THEIR YOUNG SON...

Unacceptable. Just, so so wrong. The opposite of right.

Rubicund shouted her name, her true name, and Melanie turned on him with wide, (but dead) eyes, and I knew there were only one of two ways this could go.

He was going to hurt her. Badly. Maybe even kill her.

And you know what the worst thing was?

It was almost as if she expected it.

Like she was hungry for it. Resigned herself to it.

Judging by the look on her face, it would've been a relief to meet Rubi's blade.

As I heroically leaped from my hiding spot, a tiny, wicked voice in my head spat I was the only one who could touch her, not bothering to question why the fuck I, her bloody assassin, would save her when Rubi was totally prepared to do my job in half the time. Like a fool, I got my hands dirty and swooped in and argh fuck I was so stupid!

A younger, more animal me would've snapped that prick's neck like a toothpick no hesitation, but she was looking straight at me like a startled dove and I couldn't bring myself to. I had to skin this cat six other ways, then. I expected a struggle, but I didn't account for Rubi's albatross wingspan (careless!), and he got a lucky shot in.

Broke my damn nose. Just crushed it like a walnut.

And then my sunglasses.

My fucking sunglasses. Nevermind the dirty hit- Melanie saw me without my glasses!

My red tints were designed to protect my gaze from accidental soulmarking. The lenses were made out of thick plexiglass, strong enough to block meaningful eye contact with a potential soulmate. The company who made them said you could press the barrel of a gun flush against the lens, squeeze the trigger, and the bullet would shatter upon impact. My sunglasses would survive a nuclear fallout.

Like me, they were designed to be virtually indestructible. Literally that thick.

I cannot stress this fact enough.

Convinced, I bought three pairs as soon as I could afford it and wouldn't leave the house without them like a security blanket. Without my sunglasses, I'm defenseless, vulnerable to soulmarking with any random stranger on the street, and that's a no-go for a guy like me.

But tonight Melanie saw me. Back in the parking garage, we locked eyes for a good five seconds, sans red glass between her and me, and that's all it takes.

That's literally all it takes.

(fuck! motherfucking-)

Soulmarks are slippery like that. They squelch out of your grasp like a squealing greased piglet before you even realize you're utterly fucked. You've lost control. The barn is overrun. The countryside is aflame and you're helpless to stop it.

A smarter me would've let nature run its course, but this case has ruined me, has tested my professionalism, and this is what I get for getting sloppy.

Back home, I crash into the tiny bathroom and slap an ice pack on my bleeding face. I should've gone to a clinic like Melanie said, but that would've raised too many questions and I don't know if I could keep up my Charming Knox Personality long enough for them to treat me.

I can't sit down. My nerves won't let me. My face hurts.

I hurt.

This twisting in my gut isn't normal.

She saw my eyes.

Mrs. Enderby - No, Melanie, her real name is Melanie - saw my eyes.

Fuck.

My mom described soulmarking with my dad like being dunked in a tank with electric eels, or getting doused in kerosene and lit on fire in an igloo.

She said she couldn't describe it, but I'd know when I felt it. That day I resolved I would never meet my soulmate if it meant losing my mind (and myself) in the process, and I took precautions, and I was careful, and I did everything right.

God, I was so vigilant and I let that asshole get the jump on me like a rookie-

The thought of soumarking scared me. Still does.

Assassins can't have soulmates.

But those five seconds of eye contact broke a latch in me, and now I can't breathe, and I think I'm having a panic attack and I was stupid, stupid stupid stupid.

(Vanity Fair: 10 signs your Soulmark has manifested post-term.)

(The New Yorker: The Untold Benefits and Risks of one-sided Soulmarks.)

(Teen Magazine: Can you force your crush's soulmark to manifest? The truth will shock you!)

I research my symptoms online and nearly crush my phone.

No.

It can't be.

I try a different website, and take a medical quiz, and watch a video, and keep searching, and hoping, and praying they're wrong.

An itch erupts over my heart. A rash of feeling and emotion.

My chest burns, sizzling across my ribcage, and I tear off my shirt.

I look down and scream.

"No," I rasp. "No no no!"

I stagger to the mirror and take a good long naked look at what's tattooed in cursive over my left pec.

One word. Seven letters.

A soulmark.

MELANIE