Devil's Due [h.s.]

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Harry was fucking fast.

I wasn't sure if it was his long-ass legs or if he was intentionally sprinting to get away from me, but I found myself nearly running to catch up to him as he trekked his way to the parking lot.

"Can you hold on," I stammered, bracing my hands on my thighs and bending down to take a breath as we finally arrived in front of his car. "Jesus, you pace yourself like a maniac."

My legs felt heavy. My entire body felt heavy. Harry was looking at me strangely when I finally straightened back up. His expression morphed from confusion to anger in a matter of seconds.

"Christ," he leaned in, his nose scrunching in distaste. "What – are you fucking high? Did Morgan fucking get you high?"

I squinted at him, furrowing my brows. My hand suddenly materialized beside my head as I pinched my thumb and forefinger together.

"Little bit," I giggled, biting down hard on my lip. "I'm a little bit high."

That was a lie. The world felt... fuzzy. Things seemed vibrant. And I felt great. Even knowing I was standing in front of a mass murderer, I felt completely fine. What was the worst thing he could do? Kill me?

"What do you think happens after you die?" I blurted, gazing pensively up at the sky.

I was thrown off balance as Harry suddenly latched a hand around my arm. He tugged me forward, throwing the passenger side door of his car open.

"Get in," he said flatly.

"You know," I crossed my arms over my chest, planting my feet on the pavement, "I get that you kill people and all, but would it kill you to have some fucking manners?"

A muscle in Harry's jaw feathered. I could have sworn his eye twitched.

"I'm gonna fucking murder Morgan," he muttered, voice low. "Get in the car, River. I'm not in the mood for this."

"Fine," I threw my hands up in mock defence, sliding into his passenger seat. His fingers closed tightly around the handle as he slammed the door shut. I slumped back against the seat with an irritated sigh, muttering to myself, "He shouldn't be allowed to make murdering jokes when he's an actual murderer."

The leather on his seats was a lot more interesting tonight than it had ever been. It felt smooth. Soft to the touch. It was like butter. I wondered vaguely if that was possible. If there was actually a way to make leather from butter–

"What are you doing?"

I glanced over at Harry, who had somehow slipped in without me noticing. He was watching me. My hand paused from where it was stroking the seat of the car and I brought it to rest in my lap.

"Nothing," I shrugged. "What are you doing?"

"Taking you the fuck home."

Fair enough. I leaned my head back against the headrest, pursing my lips. It was hot in his car. Weirdly, uncomfortably hot. Harry was busy starting the engine as I leaned forward and extended my hand toward the dial for the AC.

"River," Harry's hand had closed around my wrist. "Enough. Don't touch anything." He dropped my hand back in my lap.

"It's hot," I whined, shifting a bit in my seat. "Do you not find it hot in here?"

Harry's nostrils flared as he angrily spun the dial, increasing the AC. "There," he grumbled, "Happy now? Not gonna go touching shit while I'm driving?"