SICK HEART by Huss, JA (non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

Hmm, Anya. Why indeed? He’s a mentally unstable professional killer who just won you in a fight, plopped you down on a crumbling rig in the middle of the ocean, and has a creepy game room tucked away filled with things only children can appreciate.

It should make sense. He felt sorry for me this morning. That led to a break in his schedule, which led to extra food, and fun times in a game room clearly meant for the younger kids in his training camp.

That’s all this is. It’s very clear. It all makes sense. Up until the point when he asked me why. Why don’t you talk, Anya?

I’ve been asked that question thousands of times. Hell, Bexxie alone has asked it a few hundred, at least. I’ve never answered any of them, so I’m sure as hell not going to answer Cort van Breda.

But it was a tell. A sign that he is playing me.

And he’s good, I’ll give him that. Because I would like nothing more than to melt my back into his chest and let him make me feel safe.

Instead, I just feel sad, all the good of this day wiped away from his deception. So I turn onto my stomach, breaking his tight hold on me, and just close my eyes to make it all go away.

I wait for a little before letting myself drift off. Wait to see if he will accept my rebuke, or fight it.

He doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t even seem to notice. Maybe he’s even asleep. But I doubt it. He’s a predator and they live in the night. They know how to use the darkness to their advantage.

But I have been hunted by predators far more dangerous than he is my entire life.

And I know how to be silent and slip away.

When I wake in the morning, Cort is over near one of the nests petting a super-sized chick. I don’t move. Don’t let him know I’m awake so I can watch.

He must’ve just woken up because his sleeping mat is in his other hand, like he was just about to take it downstairs to the training floor. He has a crooked smile on his face as one of the parents wanders up to him, extending its open beak towards Cort in what I might consider a threatening gesture. But Cort just gives the giant creature a scratch on the head, and the bird closes its eyes in grateful happiness.

I don’t understand this man. At all.

He feels very human. But I saw him. With my own eyes. I saw him drag that knife across Pavo’s neck, then down the length of his torso, then literally rip his heart out and throw it at Lazar before dragging Pavo across the helipad and throwing him off the ship.

And fine. I helped him with all of that. But my role in that night was circumstance. It wasn’t something I do for a living.

He looks over his shoulder at me, like he can feel my gaze. He nods his head at me, smiling, then beckons me with a crooked finger.

I get up, grab my mat, and follow him down the stairs. We drop our mats off, then he goes inside the kitchen. I follow, holding my breath to see if we will get breakfast. And we do. Not rice—he must not be in the mood to cook, because he hands me a strip of dried fish.

I look at it dubiously. Yesterday I would’ve gobbled this up, no questions asked. But I’m not that hungry today. Still, if I refuse, he might not feed me tonight. So I take it, smile, and begin gnawing on it like jerky.

Cort finishes his food quickly, letting the long strip hang out of his mouth as he pokes around in the clinic, and by the time he points to one of two chairs, directing me to sit, he’s done eating.

I sit on the chair and he maneuvers a rolling table between me and the other chair and orders me to put my hands on it. I do, and he sits and begins peeling off the old wrappings. Then he fills a bowl with hot water and salts, motions for me to place my hands inside, and gently rubs the dried blood away. When my knuckles are clean, he begins massaging my palms, the pads of his fingers and thumbs pushing into the muscles, kneading them and loosening them up.

This feels quite nice and I begin to question my conclusions about him. Maybe I was being overly cynical last night about his motives? Maybe he isn’t a monster?

It’s so hard to tell. It’s so hard to know if I should assign malice to the things he does. That game room, for instance. It could mean he cares about the kids he trains. And that’s probably everyone’s first impression.

But I’ve seen things like that before. I’ve seen how tricky predators can be with children. Think about it. What better way to lure a child into the demon’s den than to entice them with innocent, childish things? That game room could be the equivalent of a man in a white van asking a kid if they want some candy.

Nothing is what it seems. Not where I come from.

And I hate that. I really hate that. I wish I could just look back on yesterday and appreciate the puzzle and games as something innocent. I wish I could just enjoy the way he’s touching me right now. But instead I have all this suspicion.

When I glance up at him, he’s not looking at me, all his attention focused on my hand. He drops it back into the bowl of hot water and picks up the other one, repeating his slow massage. And I can’t help it. My shoulders drop and I begin to relax a little.

He glances up at me, noticing the change in my posture, and offers me a small smile.

I look away. I’m not going to fall for