The Merciless (h.s.)

Chapter Twelve

warning: this chapter contains triggering elements such as brief mentions of human and child trafficking, rape, and murder. be advised, please.

Harry

Black hair.

My mind is consumed with long silky midnight strands.

That is the only thing I can confidently concentrate on.

While my eyes were zoned in on the slim left lane of the freeway, speeding through every mile like a nascar race, all I could actually see was a lustrous black mane elegantly tickling a tiny waist.

When I pulled my S.U.V. into the club parking lot and scanned the few vehicles taking up space in the spacious lot on a Monday, the first thing I thought of while stepping out of my beauty was that the sleek black matches her fucking hair.

I thought I would be safe once I arrived at the arched red doors signaling the entrance of the strip club, but once my knuckles closed around the skinny black handle, I was instantly refreshed of irresistibly soft locks that practically beg my fingers to be coursed through.

I strolled through the stage floor already knowing that no woman, clothed or fucking butt naked, attending or dancing, would have hair like hers. Her thick, lengthy hair is unmatchable. One of a kind. It's not worth trying to find a duplicate. I know there isn't.

Even if there was, it wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't feel the same fisted in my palm. It wouldn't smell the same, brown sugar and jasmine. No other scent would compare.

Don't even get me started on her fucking body.

It doesn't matter how much I want to push the thought of such a perfect head of hair away from the forefronts of my mind, or a perfect little body. I see it everywhere. I see her everywhere. Even when nothing reminds me of her, when I'm in a bare room or doing something that she would have no business being interested in, I am still thinking about her. About that hair. About how I want to do more than just rip it out of her fucking scalp whenever she asks me way too many questions. I have to push the temptation away of twirling that beautiful fucking hair once, twice, three times around my fist just to pull her close to me. I feel like if it was laced around my skin long enough, it would heal the wounds permanently indented in the skin of my hands, like Rapunzel in that shitshow Disney cartoon my dear niece forces me to watch.

I stomped up the stairs, the heels of my boots scuffing the glass steps leading up the the second floor. I storm past every private room, ignoring the wretched sounds coming beyond every red door, not daring to picture the sinful images, and head straight for the set of black oak doors at the end of the hall. I have to shove the thought of silky black hair in the back of my mind as I push through Francesco's office.

Even though I immediately sense the presence of the two young women sitting on the office leather sofa, both of them only dressed in what can best be described as glittery string, I don't even regard them. My eyes settle straight on my boss, that term more evident now than it ever was.

"The man, the myth, the merciless! Styles! How are you, my good man?" Francesco stands from the leather chair behind his desk, holding his hands out at his sides at the sight of me.

"Never better," I respond in the most monotone pitch I can muster, but still giving him a fraudulent grin.

This is a business meeting, after all. While today might be just another day for Francesco Leone, my entire lifestyle is going to change the minute I walk out of this fucking door. All because of a fucking yappy bitchy selfish little-