~Chapter Five: Sociopathic Tendencies~

CHARLIE

I stumble backwards, and my momentum carries me several feet through the underbrush. I hit the ground on my side but am on my feet within a split-second, a knife in hand. Thanks to my carelessness at the bar where those bastards drugged me, I don't have my crossbow, or any sufficiently threatening weapon. All I have is this knife and my hands. Fighting back a groan, I shift my position and prepare to face the onslaught, knowing these next few minutes will be difficult. After all, although these men appear to be missing a few screws, they're also heavily armed.

I can't see Monroe anymore, but I'm sure he's waiting for an opportunity to kill the two men. Either that, or he's already long gone. Who can tell? Maybe this is his chance to get rid of me once and for all. Maybe this is all a set-up. Maybe –

But I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away. When did I allow Monroe's extreme paranoia to take hold of me? It's truly frightening to think that I didn't see this facet of his personality creep up on me.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," sings the smaller of the two men. I can hear him approaching from the other side of the tree I'm hiding behind. He's only a few footsteps away, and I'm aware that I have to act before he does or the outcome will most likely be his favor…which does not benefit me, obviously.

"She looked to be a sweet lil thing, did'n she?" he continues in that sickly sweet voice. "I wonder –"

And that's when I hit him from the side. I plow into him with as much force as I can muster, which is a considerable amount thanks to all the training I've been doing of late. He smacks against the hard earth with a loud "ooouff!" and I don't waste any time in pressing the knife to his throat while simultaneously kicking his axe out of reach. Before I can say anything, however, the one with the gun rips me up off the ground and proceeds to jab the butt of the gun against my cheek. Red flashes across my field of vision, and alarm bells begin clanging in my head.

Fuck you, Monroe, I think angrily, trying to keep the tears at bay. My cheek throbs along with my frantic heartbeat, and my vision is now entirely out-of-sorts. I whirl about, but the man with the gun is aiming at me with a malicious grin on his face and the small man on the ground is recovering himself, stretching out a meaty hand for his axe, and I know this isn't good, this isn't how it's supposed to go, I must've screwed up in some way, and why did he leave me here, alone, why did he –

Monroe? I think then, blinking, as a blurry form collides with the gunman, sending him flying. The gun is snatched away and turned on the threat faster than I can comprehend. Monroe shoots off three, four, ten bullets into the man's head and chest. The smaller man flies into view, swinging his axe manically, but Monroe easily side-steps his wild aim and takes him down with another round. Bloody and broken, he twitches on the ground, somehow still alive, and as he reaches desperately for his fallen weapon, Monroe deliberately steps on his hand. I can hear the crunch of each individual bone as it breaks. I feel so dizzy all of a sudden. Surely I'd been facing death not thirty seconds before? I mean, this can't be Monroe, Sebastian Monroe, standing before me, come back to save my sorry ass?

My unexpected savior steps toward me and rubs a gentle hand along the cheek that's still on fire. I continue to blink at him as I struggle to find my way back to myself. It's a slow process, but suddenly everything seems just a little bit clearer. Just as I come to grips with the chaos that's unfolded, Monroe slaps me hard across the face, sending me reeling. For the second time in less than five minutes, I hit the ground on my side, completely taken aback by his actions. Why would he do that, I think frantically, when he just went through all that trouble to save me?

"What the hell?" I gasp, delicately touching the side of my face. I'm going to have an enormous bruise there when I wake up tomorrow, I can tell you that.

But when I look up at his imposing figure, I wish I'd kept my mouth shut. Rage exudes from him in tsunami-sized waves. His lips tremble with barely suppressed violence. He still has the semi-automatic in hand, and I'm a little anxious about that. He's gripping it so tightly that his hand is turning an ugly shade of yellow-white. Even though I'm trying not to move my jaw too much, I can 't help it from dropping open. Monroe is furious…with me.

"What's wrong with you?" I ask, struggling to my feet. I figure the only sure way to combat Monroe is by putting up a front and throwing his anger right back at him. I just have to be careful not to overstep my boundaries. There've been ugly stories about Monroe and what happens when someone pushes him too far. I don't intend to be featured in one of those stories.

His jaw works soundlessly. "Charlie," he says softly, "why would you do that?"

Way to be mysteriously vague, I think, mentally rolling my eyes. "I have no idea what you're –"

"How the fuck could you do that, Charlie?!" he roars, and I rear back as he steps into my bubble of space. "What were you thinking?" His voice is so loud in the deadly silent clearing.

My mouth opens and closes twice like a hungry fish before I remind myself that I'm supposed to be acting the part of the Equally Furious Woman here. However, I really don't think that particular strategy is working out; he's kinda oblivious to my efforts. Ironically, Monroe is actually making me truly angry, unlike before when I'd merely been pretending.

"Well, excuse me," I retort, scoffing, "but I wasn't going to stand by while those men beat or raped or killed that innocent woman." Speaking of the elderly victim, I've almost completely forgotten about her. Guiltily, I scan the clearing, my eyes passing over the smoldering wreckage that once was a house, before landing on her still form. She appears unharmed but paralyzed – either by shock or fear, it's hard to tell.

"It's none of our fucking business," he growls. "That's what you don't understand, Charlie. It doesn't matter what you see or hear; our first priority is self-preservation." He wraps his hand around my wrist before I can move away. "You never think before you act, and that's what's going to get you killed." His blue eyes shine brighter than I've ever seen them, and there's a cold glint only just hidden in them that scares me.

"I didn't have to think. The woman was in trouble, and you obviously weren't going to do anything about it. I'm not the kind of person who just stands by." My breathing is stilted, and I hate that my fear is so transparent.

"As I well know," he says through gritted teeth, clearly trying to reduce his anger. I think the fact that I'm nervous by his behavior has registered, although I'm puzzled as to why he's making an effort on my part to calm down. "But endangering the both of us for one measly woman is beyond thoughtless. Can't you see that?"

"No," I spit, bypassing all attempts at cautiousness, "because I'm not you."

Monroe stops moving, and my breath catches in my throat. Oh, my God, how could I have been so stupid. He's literally going to kill me. My fear returns with a vengeance. His hold on my wrist tightens until it's unbearable. I make a little noise in the back of my throat, and surprisingly, Monroe releases me at once. Circulation returns to my hand, and I rub it gently, keeping both eyes on the former general. His eyes drill holes into me, pinning me to the spot.

Shaking, I shuffle back, anticipating his inevitable outburst. He follows me with his eyes, and when he reaches out, I cringe so violently I'm afraid my vision will become helplessly distorted again. Monroe doesn't seem perturbed by my reaction, however; he grips my hips and pushes me back against a thick tree trunk. I open my mouth to protest, but this time he doesn't seem to have any problem with hurting me. He puts his hand over my mouth, fingers digging into my burning cheek.

"So," he says softly, his mouth right next to my ear. "Being like me is one of the worst things imaginable, in your eyes, is it?"

I know he expects a response, so I force myself to nod, although there are far worse imaginable crimes that beat being just like Sebastian Monroe. I can't exactly voice my thoughts aloud, though.

"Hmm," he ponders, eyes searching mine. He releases his grip on my waist…only to dig his own hips against me. My face immediately floods with bright pink at the contact, but I keep my gaze locked on his, unwilling to submit. He lays his palm flat on my chest. The warmth that exudes from his skin is intoxicating, and I find that I kinda…like it. In response to this line of thought, I feel myself grow stiff with horror; what's going on?!

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Monroe continues, unaware of my reaction to him. Thank goodness. "However, you may be right in thinking that I'm…horrifying." He then unexpectedly plants a light kiss near my ear and moves away, breaking all contact between us. I take in a big gulp of air as I watch him walk towards one of the fresh corpses. He picks up the gun, which he'd tossed aside in his anger.

My brow furrows as I see him approach the woman. He touches her shoulder, and she hesitantly looks up at him. Her eyes rove over his figure. For some reason, her hands fall away from her ears as if something's pulled them off. Monroe says something to her in a low voice, the words indistinguishable from where I stand on the far side of the clearing. The elderly woman's lips twitch up in an approximation of a smile, and Monroe nods encouragingly.

Just when it looks like she's going to regain what's left of her sanity, the general slides the gun into position, takes aim, and pulls the trigger. The shots echo like a pair of thunderous canon booms. Two gaping holes appear in the center of the woman's forehead. There isn't a single trace of blood. Her mouth opens soundlessly and she falls heavily on her back.

Monroe turns and locks his unflinching gaze with mine. Without any explanation, he says, "Grab any weapons you can find. I'll be inside." Striding towards what once was a house, he doesn't bother to glance back. If he had, he would've seen the silent tears streaming down my face, my mouth open in horrified exclamation.