ATONEMENT | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Unlit blunt perched on my bottom lip, I watched her from the comfortable leather armchair, Blaire. In the kitchen, half-dressed, an oversized hoodie, she pranced around barefoot, put a bowl of cornflakes on the stonework counter. Two heaped sugars dusted the cereal. Almond flavoured milk. On the wooden chopping board, peppered salami, sliced gorgonzola and arranged cream crackers. Meat cleaver in hand, she stabbed oven-baked ciabatta with the sharpest point, licked the taste of gourmandise from her lips and dusted counter crumbs to the tiled floor.

I put myself in Nate's shoes in order to commiserate his devoted fondness for the stray girl. I suppose I am partly to blame. Bajramovic wounded Blaire. Rather than leave her to rot, I helped her escape the monstrosities of captivity and gave her a room at the penthouse. In times' bygone, inscrutable compulsion forced my hand. I found a young, timorously helpless victim whose distressing circumstances resembled the woman I had lost. Blaire's emaciated body, sickly-looking appearance and dank, uninhabitable living conditions elicited vivid, agonising memories of when I discovered unspeakable photographs in Alexa's bedroom. Of course, Alexa had been much younger in those photos. Bajramovic introduced her to a dark, odious world that no child should ever witness nor experience; however, age difference aside, both girls, two victims of sexual slavery, suffered unspeakable trials and difficulties and for that reason alone, in the wake of Alexa's "death", in a moment of weakness and emotional distress, I made an illogical decision to welcome an enigmatic outsider. Oversentimentality precipitated present quandaries. Prior foolishness consolidated the relationship between Nate and Blaire. I should have sent the girl packing. Instead, blinded by grief and acute misery, I allowed one of the brothers to console her with affection, to vouch for immunity as her bondsman, which leaves me in quite the predicament. I do not care for the girl. I can live without the omnipresence of her pestiferous voice, but, despite the syndicate's disapprobation, I cannot harm one hair on her feebleminded head unless someone provides verifiable deception.

Blaire killed the kitchen light. Opaque darkness enshrouded the living quarters, including the man who lent an ear to her controlled movements. Leather grated as she sat on the corner sofa. Crooning nonsense, she masticated snacks and quaffed milk. And then, purposeful noiselessness.

With a low, wolfish smirk on my face, I flamed a match, lit the joint, took three tokes and permeated the air with haze. "Nyctophilia," I said hoarsely. "Immersion of caliginosity. The one who seeks easement in ungodly domains. Is it assuaging? Evocative? Does it act as a shield or provide an air of prominence?" I sensed the wickedness in her exultant smile. "Perhaps it feels like home."

Blaire tapped what sounded like a spoon against the bowl. "It's familiar."

"What are the positives and negatives regarding familiarity?" When she remained uncommunicative, I added, "Convenient comfortableness verses hindered progression. How can one overcome historical hardship if resolved to inadequate acceptance?"

"I am not a frightened girl anymore, Warren," she said curtly. "I have overcome far more than most. Being a lover of remote darkness does not determine one's sanity, nor does it mean I am caught between the past and the present. I can still progress in life without changing small, pleasurable needs. Why do I prefer to sit alone in the dark? It allows me to think clearly. Is it because I crave reminiscences of captivity? No."