Harry Styles, a secret service agent working for British intelligence is tasked with finding the killer after a series of brutal but calculated murders across Europe. His mind is sharp, he's smart, arrogant and works with a precision that leaves no...
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Winter
The silence that followed after hearing a gunshot echo through Harry's flat felt like it lasted forever. I heard no shouting, no moving about, no follow-up gunshot. It was then I began to wonder whether or not I had actually heard a gunshot, or if it was just another loud crash that sounded similar. There was not one valid reason I could think of for anyone besides me to have the desire to shoot Harry.
"Harry?" I tried to listen to see if he would respond, which he did not. "For fuck sake." I huffed, resting my cheek on the arm that was still hanging by the bedpost. "If he dies and I'm still in these fucking handcuffs."
After another thirty seconds of silence in the flat, I heard the sound of footsteps, the same sound as I'd heard when Harry was walking up to the room when I first woken up.
"Harry what the fuck just happened?" I questioned when I heard his footsteps get to the door. The handle of the door twisted and began to open.
And it was in fact not Harry that opened up the door.
In the doorway stood a man, dressed in full black tactical gear with a gun in his hand, confirming that I had heard a gun earlier, despite me trying to convince myself I hadn't. The only part of him that wasn't covered by thick, black, padded gear was his face, and his thinning grey hair that sat sparsely around his head, but not on the top. He was older, definitely older than Harry by a good twenty years or so, and the creepy and disgusting look on his face told me that he wasn't invited over for some early afternoon tea, and did have other significantly worse intentions. When he smiled, I got a glimpse of his teeth that looked like they'd never been brushed. I wondered if Harry was dead. That would solve a lot of my problems, although I would be kinda sad that I wouldn't have anybody to annoy the absolute shit out of anymore.
"Well, well, well... " he clicked his tongue, taking some steps into the room, after shutting the door tight behind him, closing the two of us in here. Big mistake for him. An entertained grin was plastered across his expression when he approached the end of the bed. "What do we have here?"
A small noise of fear escaped me, and I pulled myself up the bed, dragging my legs away from him, curling up onto myself. I had one hand free, the other still chained up. I was chained to a bed, wearing next to nothing with last night's makeup definitely smudged all across my face. I could see all the thoughts going through his mind when he stared at me, mostly at my very on-show body.
While he was staring at my body, I reached to the bedside table and grabbed a ballpoint pen that happened to be sitting there.
"Styles got himself a little slut?" his head coked to the side, and he made a point to lick his lips exaggeratedly. "Is that what you are? Are you his pretty little slave?"
"Wh—what's going on?" I stuttered in my terrified and vulnerable state, such a scared, helpless little girl. Exactly what he wanted me to be.
He pouted out his lip, making his way up the edge of the bed towards the pillows where I was still cowering like a scared little deer. This old creep only seemed to enjoy the performance I was putting on for him. "Aw you sweet little thing."
