Come Hell or High Water - Striker x Reader (18+)

84. Absolution

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Striker locked the door when Daisy left and let out a heavy sigh. He turned around, his gaze focusing on his lover lying unconscious in their shared bed. He approached the bed, leaning down to reach for her, but stopped himself when he caught a glimpse of his dirty hand. He drew back from her, and after a moment's consideration, he took the spare clothes he'd brought with him and headed to the bathroom.

Another tired sigh escaped him as he turned on the shower and slipped off his soiled clothes. Dried mud from the games cracked off of his jacket and fell to the floor in small dusty piles, and the blood of (Y/N)'s assailant stained his sleeves and pant legs a dark ebony. And it wasn't until Striker looked in the bathroom mirror that he realized the man's blood was spattered on his face. He frowned at the sight — though it was definitely not the first time he'd been covered in a victim's blood, it certainly didn't please him to feel the closeness of it on his skin.

When he'd removed all his clothing, Striker stepped into the shower and immediately began scrubbing his face under the hot water, roughly washing away the grime and filth of the last several hours. He closed his eyes as the running water warmed his skin and loosened his tense muscles, leaning his frame slightly on the shower wall. At some point while he cleaned himself, the pads of his fingers fell on the deep scar stretching from his collarbone across the width of his chest. He considered himself fortunate that his skin was remarkably fairer than that of other imps, making his scars much less obvious. It was why he would always dress so conservatively — any visible injury could be seen as a sign of weakness, after all.

His mind wandered to a time, many months ago, when he last stayed at the inn with (Y/N). He remembered the very first time she had seen his body and the scars that riddled it, how her eyes immediately migrated to them — and how uncomfortably vulnerable he felt under her gaze. He had tried to ignore it at first, but resorted to covering back up when the nagging feeling persisted.

"You're beautiful. And I'm not just bullshitting you."

A small smile briefly tugged at his lips, his fingertips grazing the exact spot (Y/N) had kissed when she said that to him. Striker didn't think it very dignifying for a man to be so accepting of that sort of compliment, much less of being called beautiful.

But damn, did she make his heart flutter when she said it. . .

Striker found it baffling just how willing she was to love him. Someone as cold and arrogant and fucked up as he was, after everything he'd done — and she was still so ready to love him.

Of course, he would've been lying if he said he didn't still feel an insurmountable guilt for what he did to her. And that guilt only grew more burdensome whenever he failed to protect her.

Just like tonight.

The frustration of failing her once again caused his chest to tighten. How wonderful she made him feel — and how much pain he only seemed to cause her.

It's all your fault.

Striker flinched at the sound of the voice echoing in his head, dread tying a knot in his stomach. He cut off the water and stepped out of the shower, grabbing the towel he'd set out and quickly drying himself off.

Don't forget what you are.

He scowled at the voice's words, his teeth clenching as he muttered under his breath, "I know what I am."

I don't need you to tell me.

Striker shook his head and began to pull on his clean pair of black boxer briefs. He glanced at himself in the mirror again, grateful that he had managed to wipe away the flecks of blood from his face. He turned to open the door, relaxing when the voice left him alone after a few minutes, and stepped out of the bathroom to find (Y/N), awake, lying on her side in the bed. Her eyes travelled to him when the door creaked open, and he immediately approached her and sat down on the edge of the bed.