I should know.
The rest of my sad and righteous thoughts fade out a moment later, when Alaric holds the syringe up to the light, tapping it lightly with his knuckle.
One, two, three, and then a bead of liquid forms at the tip. A satisfied hum rumbles through him.
He turns to the table and taps something on it. Ugh, I don’t know what. Whatever it is, it’s too flat for me to see from here.
Maybe he isn’t tapping a button or a tablet or anything like that. Maybe it’s just a ritual, like the ones some athletes have before a big game.
One day, I’ll find out.
“All set,” is the only thing he says when he turns back to Harold, who thrashes against his restraints.
Alaric doesn’t react to his captive’s tantrum. His expression is blank as he sinks the needle into Harold’s throat, pressing the plunger until it’s empty.
The precision and iciness of the action shouldn’t turn me on. I should be terrified of a man who wields cruelty without blinking an eye.
Thing is, this isn’t some stranger I’m spying on.
Alaric is no monster. He apologized back in the cafeteria. He aches for me whenever we’re together, but never neglects asking for my consent. He insisted on spending the night after my first time, then walked me home.
If anything, he’s a protector. One who deals with real monsters by not just kidnapping them, but killing them, since that’s what he’s done to Harold.
And Haroldisdead. I don’t need to be a doctor to know that.
The monitors he’s attached to flatlined a second ago. Harold’s head has fallen back, his body slumped in the chair.
His death doesn’t shake Alaric in the slightest. That, on its own, isn’t strange. What’s weird is that it’s been seconds since Harold died, and Alaric still watches over the dead body.
Why bother? He should just say good riddance and go home.
I know I should. I have to get out of here before he wraps up for the day and catches me running down the block from his window, if he happens to look out onto the street.
One last glance at my gorgeous vigilante, and I push away from the wall, about to grab the duct tape to cover the hole.
“Mmm!” The gasp, or scream, or whatever the hell it is sounds desperate.
What the fuck?
As quietly as I can, I hurry back to my spot by the peephole.
Oh my God.
The lines on the monitors have jumped back to life, climbing and dipping. Harold’s eyes are confused but otherwise open, blinking the world into focus.
My jaw drops. I have to clasp a hand over my mouth to silence a gasp.
And while I’m stunned, Alaric, once more, seems completely unfazed. It’s like he expected his murder attempt to fail.
So if this wasn’t a mistake, what is this?
“I’d say it’s good to have you back.” Alaric turns to write in his notebook again, his voice bored. “But there’s nothing good about it, even if I was the one to resuscitate you.”
“Mmm.” Harold thrusts his body left and right. The chair doesn’t budge, just scrapes the floor with a tiny, miserable sound. “Mmm.”
“I agree.” The next item Alaric grabs is a small Mason jar from the floor, a greenish liquid sloshing inside it. “I wish I could be somewhere else too. Away from you, obviously.”
His words throw me off, replacing my shock with amusement.