Page 17 of Misted

Mist

I’ve been starving for your touch, but I’d rather starve than pay the price in blood.

Present,

Decades in The Pit should prevent me from being followed.

Either I'm losing my touch or whoever trailing is on a whole different level.

I sip my chamomile tea and scan my surroundings over the cup’s hem. The small coffee shop at the outskirts of London has vintage wallpapers and old, dark wooden tables. Its location at an ally gives the place an isolated, discreet location. With all the newer, high buildings surrounding the area, it’s hard to find this shop unless you know where it is.

Only a few elderly couples scatter about, sipping their tea and discussing their grandchildren.

I picked a non-crowded place on purpose, but those damn eyes won’t leave me alone.

A throbbing lodges at my temples as a reminder of why I feel watched the entire time. When I was heavy on Omega, none of the stalkings registred. It's weird considering that I was hyper-aware of my surroundings when Omega pumped in my veins. Maybe I knew I was being trailed but all of it was erased. One of Omega's side effects on Ghost and I is that it wipes our memories clean.

My fingers surround the teacup as I stare at the amber liquid, my shoulders hunching. I don’t even remember my victims' names or faces. I shouldn’t get that privilege. I shouldn’t forget what it’s like to be a monster.

But again, is it so wrong to forget?

Every nerve in my body itches to take a full shot just so I can erase it all.

It's been a week since Ghost left for his holiday.

A whole week of seeing Hawk's broody, silent presence around and wishing I could erase him.

It doesn't matter that he barely says a word. His mere presence pushes me into irrevocable chaos. One look into his emotionless turquoise eyes and I start running.

Not knowing his agenda puts me on the edge of my seat. I barely understood him years ago, but now, he’s as foggy as the smoke coming from his cigarette.

A black book.

A closed-off enigma.

Not that I have the right to reach him anymore.

I lost that privilege long ago even if it still pulses under my skin with every breath I take.

My only concern is my mission and keeping the girls in Le Salon safe.

Hard metal digs into my side before fake accent drifts in the air. “Keep yo hands where I can see ‘em.”

I place the cup on the table and smile up at Molly. “Stop playing around.”

“You should be more careful, Mist. Someone else would’ve killed you.”

“Someone else wouldn’t have gotten this close.”

“Touché.” She laughs, the sound loud and carefree, as she flings her backpack on the table.

Molly throws her weight on the chair opposite me and tries to subdue her wild mane of fluorescent pink hair. She’s wearing jean overalls with fishnet stockings and basketball trainers. Her bright brown eyes are outlined by darker shadows. A piercing rests in the corner of her violet-painted lips and another at the tip of her nose.

“What did I say about drawing attention?" I motion at her. “Assassins should always remain in the shadows and keep a low profile.”

“Pfftt. That’s narrow and old-fashioned, Misty.” She grins. “Actual predators hide in plain sight.”

I shake my head. She’s probably the only one who thinks that way in The Pit.