Alaric doesn’t make any effort to resuscitate Harold. He doesn’t lean over to write anything in his notebook either.
Yes. One bastard down, a million more to go.
My gaze stays glued to Alaric as he walks over to an old metal storage cabinet and pulls out a tightly rolled tarp, spreading it beside the chair. From there, this efficient, sexy wall of a man releases Harold and places him on the tarp, leaving him there while he slips on a new pair of gloves. Next, he retrieves a pair of pliers and industrial-looking scissors from the table.
What for?
Oh.Oh. He’s rendering Harold unrecognizable. Gone are his teeth. His fingertips.
It’s impressive, but the most awe-inspiring part is how he strips Harold of his clothes, flipping him to search for what I believe are birthmarks or other identifiable features.
I’m proven right when he carves out a mole on Harold’s back.
Alaric places it on the towel beside him, where Harold’s teeth, fingertips, and toes are waiting, then rolls him into the tarp. When he stuffs him into the biggest duffel bag I’ve ever seen, I expect him to sling it over his shoulder and leave.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he strips out of his own clothes. Being turned on in this situation is highly inappropriate. So is the fluttering in my stomach when I realize he’s gone commando.
Naked except for the gloves on his hands, Alaric piles his clothes, socks, and sneakers in one arm before heading over to a corner of the room.
A barrel is tucked in there. With too many things to focus on, I never paid attention to it.
But now…
What’s in there?
My answer arrives as soon as Alaric throws everything in his grip inside and seals the lid with a metallicclick. He repeats the motion with Harold’s clothes and all thethingshe’s left on the towel.
Each time the seal lifts, the air changes. Harold’s light stench from peeing himself remains, but a sterile, biting edge cuts through it.
There and gone.
It must mean one thing. Alaric’s using a chemical to disintegrate the evidence.
I’m beyond impressed.
Far beyond, as in burning up. Everywhere.
I burn hotter when he bends over, wiping the floor, the chair, the ropes, and what’s left of Harold. His smooth skin stretches over taut muscles, and I have to bite back a moan.
I’ll never get tired of looking at him.
I’m still staring when he cleans any traces of blood he might have off his skin. Into the barrel go the gloves and wipes.
My tongue darts to wet my lips, wishing I could lick every inch of him instead.
Soon.
After putting on clean clothes and hiking the duffel up on both shoulders, Alaric sprays something across the storage unit from a large, white bottle once. Twice. Three times.
A fine mist settles over everything.
The smell of Harold dulls, recedes, as if shoved behind glass.
Genius.
I’m so proud of my man.