WORST OF YOU » MATT MURDOCK

2. a pawn

2. a pawn

              
          ANGEL HAD CHIPPED AWAY AT her own soul. She'd taken a chisel to it every time she pulled a trigger or wielded a knife, and this time was no different. She didn't plan on cutting into the skin at Matt Murdock's throat, but she had to make sure.

She had to make sure she couldn't do it.

When she straddled the man, who happened to be quite the heavy sleeper, she slowly pressed the knife to his neck. She'd known he would wake up then. She wanted it. She wanted him to know her as she truly was because she didn't have the strength to just say it plainly.

Angel was a weak woman encased in the sturdy shell of a strong one who no longer knew her limits.

So because of this, she held the knife to his throat. All it would take was one quick swipe, and he would bleed. His blood would darken his white sheets and spill over onto his floor, permanently staining it. She wouldn't care who found him nor would she care that they would trace it back to her because, who was she? Who was she? The mysterious 'Angel' who Matt was last seen with didn't really exist. So who was she?

A murderer. An enigma. A coward.

A coward who knew more than a thousand ways to kill the man beneath her and who couldn't bring herself to exercise those skills anymore.

Not on him.

"You'd kill a blind man in his sleep?" Matt's voice came, deep with sleep and something else she didn't know him well enough to identify. Shock, maybe.

Angel slowly removed the weapon—which was merely a kitchen knife— from his pale but reddening skin. She'd left an ugly mark on him, and she was beginning to fear it would be the first of many. She was a ruinous in that way.

She watched his unseeing eyes and took in his confused expression and raised her hands in surrender, the knife still hanging loosely in her hand. 

For a moment neither of them moved. She sat with her knees on either side of his hips, her chest bare—not the smartest of moves— and her hair wild around her head.

She swallowed, and in a second, he disarmed her, pushing her down onto the bed and putting a forearm to her throat. He applied the slightest pressure, a warning. "I'm not going to hurt you," she forced out.

"Yeah? The knife on my floor says differently." His words passed through gritted teeth, stabbing her with their sharpness and burrowing into her chest with finality. "Who are you? What do you want?"

She deflected purely out of habit. "So I'm guessing you're not into knife play."

He scoffed, his eyes focused on some area near her cheek. His brown hair stood straight up in some places and flopped onto his forehead in others. She could see his face more clearly than she ever had like this. He had pale scars near his browbones and near his mouth and on the top of his cheek. They made him look all the more intriguing but Angel wondered how people reacted to them in his line of work. "I'm not into the women I've slept with trying to kill me in my sleep."

"I wouldn't judge you if you were," she said with a hum. She swallowed, her throat pressing into his arm. Angel should have probably been taking this more seriously. "Someone hired me to kill you—to kill Daredevil. I was told you were one in the same."

A million things passed across the lines of his face, but it tightened too quickly for her to decipher any of it. "Did they hire you to sleep with me too?"