He comes in the night

A.N.: I hope you don't mind longer chapters. The remaining ones are all a lot longer than the first one. This is the longest.

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To every reader: Thank you for reading.

Part2

I remembered the first time I had met him: a weak and pathetic, barely walking skeleton wearing a stained, ripped sheet like a poncho, his hair grey with dirt, his eyes dull and lifeless.

I had been at the office later than normal and had hit the daily exodus from the city. By the time I arrived at my home it was dark. As I walked from the garage to the house I saw something lying in front of the door. When I was close enough to see more clearly I thought somebody had emptied a bin of bloody rags and bones on my porch. Then the pile moved and groaned in pain. A skeletal arm, bruised and bloody, reached towards the bench and missed. I grabbed it instead, gently because it looked so breakable.

With my help the bag of bones got up. He stood shakily on his legs but was still taller than me. In hindsight my next action was stupid, but as they say: hindsight is 20/20. I didn't know who he was. All I saw was a fellow human being in need.

"Come inside," I said. "We'll clean you up and do something about those wounds."

I led him inside and to the right into the small spare bedroom I have on the ground floor. I use it occasionally when I've been on an outing and I can't face the trek upstairs to my bedroom. It is sparsely furnished with just a bed, a nightstand and a chest of drawers; on the nightstand an alarm clock and a light. It also has a small shower room.

My unexpected guest sniffed as soon as we entered the room and turned towards the door to the little bathroom.

"Water," he said in a croaking whisper. "Shower? Bath?"

"It's a shower room," I replied.

He pulled the sheet and tore the rotted cloth from his body. He looked as if he'd come straight from a concentration camp, painfully thin, covered in sores, and with some serious wounds that were bleeding profusely.

"You need a doctor!"

"No! No doctor."

His whisper was as determined as a whisper can be.

"You need a doctor," I said. "A plaster won't be enough."

"No doctor," he said again.

"I can't take care of those wounds. You need a professional," I said, leaving him standing.

I didn't even reach the door. He pushed me against the wall and held me down forcefully.

"I said, no doctor!" he shouted.

How was he capable of mustering such strength? I started shaking with fear. Surely he was an escaped prisoner, wanted by the law. A violent criminal, judging by his actions. A murderer perhaps. I was ready to promise him anything.

"Okay, okay. No doctor," I mumbled.

He let go of me, walked into the shower room and closed the door. When he came out as naked as the day he was born he was a clean skeleton with hair that shone like freshly fallen snow and ice-blue eyes that were colder than a glacier lake. Some of his deeper wounds still bled a bit, the rest had stopped.

While he had been under the shower I had fetched my first aid kit. He sat down on the edge of the bed, not caring about his state of undress. I bandaged the deeper wounds and put plasters on the smaller ones. The first aid kit I left on the chest of drawers for future use.

"You should try to sleep," I said while gathering together bits of gauze and plaster to throw away. "It will help the healing process."

As I was about to go he grabbed my arm. The shower had obviously perked him up a lot because his voice was clear and coherent when he spoke.

"No doctor, no police," he said. "Don't tell anyone I am here. Promise me, on your honour."

I wasn't sure I could promise until he squeezed harder and my arm hurt.

"I promise, I promise. I won't tell anyone," I quickly said.

"On your honour," he insisted.

"Okay, if you wish. On my honour."

I left him then and when I looked into the room an hour later he seemed to be asleep. Before I went to bed I decided to take a glass of water to him, in case he became thirsty in the night. I was as quiet as a mouse gently putting the glass on the nightstand, but suddenly he sat up in bed.

"Who are you? What are you doing?" he demanded to know, again squeezing my arm painfully.

"I'm the owner of this house. I let you in and bandaged you. Don't you remember? I just brought a glass of water for you. Please let me go. You're hurting my arm."

Recognition dawned in his eyes and he let go of me. He didn't thank me. He just turned his back to me, dismissing me from his mind. I posed no threat.

Next morning, after taking him his breakfast and having mine, I got ready to go into the city. I had to be there for my job and I intended to get some clothes for my unexpected guest. It was safer anyway to spread those purchases over different shops in the city, rather than buy everything at the one clothes shop in my local – small – town where they knew there was no man in my life. Gossips would have a field day if they found out.

Before I went I wanted to check if I could take the breakfast tray back to the kitchen. He was nowhere near as groggy as he had been the previous day. His cold eyes took in my coat and handbag.

"You do not need to go out," he said.

"Think again, buster. I need to show up for work today and arrange it so I can stay away for a couple of weeks. And you can't run around the place in nothing but your skin. That fetching poncho you were waring has been thrown out."

I sounded much more confident than I felt. The bruises on my arms where he had grabbed me still hurt.

"Remember, you promised on your honour. No police, no doctor, not anybody."

"Don't worry. I realise you're an escaped prisoner, a violent criminal no doubt. I have no intention of risking my neck."

"That is a wise decision."

He smiled and that was scarier than any amount of shouting and growling could have been. That smile promised dire consequences if I didn't do exactly as he said.

The drive into the city was as dreadful as usual. Too much traffic, not enough patience by anyone, including myself this time. It didn't take long for me to arrange a couple of weeks of 'working from home'. I had done it before and providing I delivered my work on time I could do as I pleased. Instead of going straight home I drove to a parking near the shopping district. Going to different shops meant it took me longer to get the things I wanted. I took the precaution of going to shops that did women's clothes as well. Once bagged nobody could see that I had bought only men's attire. It pays to be careful.

Before returning home I stopped at the supermarket to get enough supplies to fill my fridge and freezer in the kitchen as well as the spares in the garage. It wouldn't do to suddenly buy a lot more food than normal. The anonymity of the city has advantages sometimes.

By the time I was home it was well past midday. I quickly made a cold lunch and took some to him. When I opened the door and looked in he seemed to be asleep. Silently I took the tray inside to put it on the chest of drawers. Obviously I was not silent enough.

"You are late."

The sudden cold voice nearly made me drop the tray.

"Fucking hell! Could you stop doing that?"

"Where have you been?" he asked, ignoring what I had said.

"To work and to the shops, just as I told you. And if you dare say anything about me being late again I'll drop this tray in your lap. I'm hungry, I'm tired, and I hate driving in the city, so just shut up."

I put the tray on his lap and left before he could say another word. I wanted to be out of that room before I said or did something I might regret, especially in view of the sudden strength he had displayed already. After I had had my lunch I went to collect the tray and give him the pyjamas I had bought.

"I don't know if you usually wear pyjamas but I got these for you," I said, putting them on the bed next to him.

"Cotton, not silk," he said. "Not ideal but acceptable, and you chose the right colour."

"I'm so glad I got something right," I said, sarcasm dripping from every word.

The look he gave me was colder and more dangerous than I had ever seen, even from him. I wished I could just ignore him. I wished I had to courage to lock him in that room and leave him to die of hunger and thirst. Something told me that would be a bad idea. I was sure he would break down the door as soon as I had turned the key. I was sure that if I wanted to survive I would have to take care of him until he was well and able to leave. I hoped he wouldn't kill me before he went.

Over the next days I treated his wounds that healed clean and surprisingly fast. He was still very thin but at the rate he went through my supplies that wouldn't be for very long. As soon as he could he started to exercise. One day after breakfast he asked for some clothes and joined me for lunch in the kitchen. Afterwards he went out the kitchen door, ran across the yard, jumped the fence, and continued running. Soon he was out of sight, and I thought or at least hoped he would not show up again. He was back in time for dinner.

I wondered why he stayed. Mightn't the police eventually follow his trail to my front door? He didn't seem concerned about that possibility. Instead of hiding as much as possible, he started to do odd jobs around the place in broad daylight. He chopped wood, emptied the gutters, and fixed the roof on the garage. I realised that he did those chores to build up his strength and not for my benefit, but I had to admit that it was handy to have a man about the house.

Three months later there was nothing left of the filthy skeleton covered in wounds that I had found on my doorstep. Instead I shared my house with an extremely handsome, muscly man, and I had to remind myself constantly that he was not a desirable bachelor but a hardened criminal, probably wanted by the police. He had never told me why I had found him in such a terrible state, and I had never asked. I felt it was better if I knew as little as possible about him.

One evening after dinner he said, "I believe you will be going to the city tomorrow. I will come with you. I will tell you where I need to be."

It was not a request, and because he wanted to be away early we were stuck in the daily traffic jam. I hated it and I hoped my passenger would keep his mouth shut because I was inwardly cursing him for being in this situation.

"Left at the next lights," he said suddenly, stabbing through my dark thoughts.

"What?"

"Do not argue, woman. Turn left at the next lights."

I shrugged and did as he said. A few more turns took us into the Old Town District and on towards the least savoury part of the city. My hope that this was a quick route to Main Street was soon shattered.

"Park here. I will be back in an hour," he ordered.

"Park here for an hour? Are you nuts? I could be robbed, raped, and murdered in that time – several times over. You tell me the quickest way to get to Main Street and I will be back in an hour. I'll sort out my business at work while you do whatever you want to do in this part of town."

He looked at me with those cold eyes of his, and I thought he would just take the key out of the ignition and leave me stranded. Instead he nodded, told me how to get to my workplace, and walked towards a dilapidated building across the road. I was off in a shot.

His instructions were spot-on, and I reached work way earlier than I had anticipated. I left the translation I had finished and picked up the necessary papers for the next job, had a cup of coffee and a chat with my colleagues, and left in plenty of time to pick up my guest.

Going back was not as straightforward as I had hoped. A couple of one-way streets meant that I had to search a bit for my destination. I arrived about ten minutes after the promised hour. A man was standing by the side of the road, and it was only when I came closer that I recognised him by his white hair.

He no longer wore the faded jeans, white t-shirt, and cheap training shoes I had given him. Under an elaborately decorated, beautifully designed, and no doubt astronomically expensive silk coat he wore a vest of unusual design. It had the same colour as his trousers: a blue so dark it was nearly black. With it he wore tan leather boots. In his hand he held a sword in a black lacquered scabbard, oriental in style I thought. He looked like the prince in every fairy story I had read, the intrepid hero of romance novels, but he was real, and dangerous.

When I stopped next to him he looked down on me with cold indifference.

"You are late … again. Can you not read a clock? Or do you habitually ignore promises?"

"Sorry, got confused with the one-way streets," I mumbled, too aware of how gorgeous he was as he sat down next to me.

On the way back to my place we stopped at the supermarket to get some more supplies. He had an appetite like a wolf, and consumed large amounts of meat, more in one sitting than I ate in a week. I went in alone because he preferred to stay in the car. I zoomed round the shop as fast as possible. I would not give him a reason to nag about my tardiness again. To my surprise he didn't make any comment at all.

I'm afraid that once we were out of the city my mind was more on my passenger than on the road. Here I was sitting next to a man who seemed to have come straight out of a dream, but this Prince Charming was probably – probably? More like: without a doubt – a very dangerous criminal. Who else could go unarmed into a building in that part of town and come out looking like he did?

It was madness. I was thinking like an infatuated teen just because he was handsome and well-dressed. Then I had to acknowledge that his clothes had little to do with it. I realised that all those times I had been staring out the window while doing the dishes was not because I was pondering some tricky translation. I had been admiring the rippling of his muscles and the way the sun played on his flawless, alabaster skin.

The thought shocked me back to reality. I was relieved he couldn't know what I'd been thinking about. That knowing smile I caught from the corner of my eye could not have anything to do with what I had been feeling for days could it? Surely not.

Just then we had reached the last stretch of road to my drive. Despite my repeated demands repairs on it kept being delayed. Meanwhile the potholes became deeper and deeper. I couldn't avoid them all no matter how much I tried to zigzag around them. The car danced across the road, and every time I hit a rut my passenger moaned.

Finally we turned into the drive and moments later I stopped the car in front of the house. He had his eyes closed. He didn't look well, and I saw that he held a hand against his side.

"You're injured," I cried out. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"It is nothing, just a scratch," the he-man hissed through his teeth.

"Yes, I can tell from the look on your face. Get inside and get undressed. I'll get the med kit," I ordered.

"You interfering woman. Leave me alone," he growled.

I did. I took the shopping inside and put everything in its appropriate place. He was still in the car when I had finished, so I went out with the first-aid kit.

"Let me see that wound," I said.

Reluctantly he opened his jacket and vest. The wound was nowhere near as bad as I had feared. I bandaged it and helped him out of the car. He brushed any further assistance away and walked to his room unaided. I thought it best to leave him. Let him sleep off his irritation for a bit. But first I took him a late lunch of bread and cheese. I had some myself and tried to work on the new translation I had brought home, but couldn't concentrate on it at all. Since I had acknowledged my attraction to him, I couldn't get him out of my mind. I kept imagining what would happen if that attraction were mutual.

Eventually I gave up on my futile attempts to do some work. I decided to make a nice dinner instead, hoping that it would calm my fevered brain, but first I went to check on him to see if he needed anything. I knocked at the door to the bedroom. When I didn't hear anything I opened it to see if he was okay or even still there.

It was like stepping into my daydream. He was lying on top of the bed on his side, not a stitch on him. I was frozen to the spot, drinking in the image. His skin had an unearthly glow cast by the afternoon sun filtered through the curtains. Although he was asleep and totally relaxed he didn't look vulnerable. I guessed by now that he slept like a wild animal. The power in his body could be unleashed in a millisecond. I was mesmerised. I didn't even realise I had closed the door and was walking towards him.

As I sat down on the bed I told myself that I only wanted to check the bandage. I touched it to make sure the dressing hadn't shifted. My hand didn't stop there. I followed the contour of his hips, felt the powerful muscles of his thigh.

He was not asleep. Before I knew what had happened I was on my back. He was half on top of me, holding my hands down above my head with one hand and caressing my body underneath my shirt with the other.

"Please, let me go," I asked.

He laughed. "For days your scent has told me that you want this. Your action confirmed it. Are you going to deny that you want me?"

"But I don't even know your name," I said illogically, as if names had anything to do with this.

"Vergil, my name is Vergil."

"V…Vergil, please, please don't," I stammered.

It was too late. The front of my blouse was torn open, my bra ripped to pieces. With perfect accuracy his mouth found the sensitive spots that aroused my desire.

And even if I was still stammering, "Don't, don't, don't;" every fibre of my body was crying out, "Yes, yes, finally."

When he kissed my mouth I stopped. The taste of him went to my head like pure alcohol. I let myself sink into the feelings he awoke within me. He had let go of my hands and they began their own exploration of his body.

The button and zip of my skirt were ripped to pieces, the cloth whipped from underneath me. My undies were torn and discarded, thrown on the rags that had been my clothes. His lips trailed kisses down my neck, played with my nipples until they were hard, found sensitive places that I didn't even knew existed, until he reached my most sensitive spot. My hands were entwined in his silky hair, stroking and pulling it in turn.

He had brought me to the edge and I was babbling, "Yes, Vergil, now, please now, take me, Vergil, take me."

He stopped suddenly and I wanted more, I wanted all of him. I needed all of him.

"You are mine now," he said. "You are my property and no one else can have you, not ever."

"Not ever," I repeated.

"Say it. Promise you are mine; say that you are my property."

His hand was playing with me, making clear thought impossible.

"I'm yours, your property," I agreed.

"You will never be with another man again. Say it!"

"I will never be with another man again," I repeated.

Still he was toying with me, getting me closer to the climax. He was a wizard taking me to heights I didn't know could be reached without exploding.

I was panting, "V…v…Ver…Vergil, P..p…please. I'm…I'm yours, I'm yours."

Suddenly I was tossed into a wild torrent, a confusion of desire and satisfaction how could there even be another man after this. He needn't have said it. He needn't have asked me to confirm it. I was his, no matter what he did with me, I was his forever.

Afterwards I wanted to cuddle up to him, to feel his arm around me. He didn't. Instead he pulled away from me.

"Please leave. We both had what we wanted, and it was more than satisfactory. I will be happy to repeat this but not now."

There was no warmth in his eyes, just cool indifference. I got up, picked the remnants of my clothes off the ground and left. I'd fallen from seventh heaven into reality with a smack.

I made a quick dinner rather than the elaborate one I had planned. He came into the kitchen just as the food was ready. Not a bad move on his part as I had just decided I wasn't going to take him any. We ate in silence, then I cleared the table and started on the dishes, totally ignoring him.

It was a futile gesture. My lack of interest didn't bother him, while I could still feel his touch all over my body. I could have screamed in frustration. Now that I had had a taste of his lovemaking I just wanted more.

The washing-up finished I returned to the living room and picked up the translation work, hoping that this time it would distract me. Vain hope. The letters danced in front of my eyes, rearranging themselves into his features.

Suddenly he was standing next to me.

"Foolish woman. Do you think you can hide your feelings from me? Did I not tell you that you were mine?"

"I'm trying to work, Vergil," I said.

"I believe you are failing to work," he remarked.

He was caressing my brow, brushing my hair out of my face, trailing a finger down my neck and along the top of my blouse.

"Please, Vergil," I whispered.

"Come, and I will please you."

He pulled me up, out of the chair, and I didn't really struggle. I followed him to the rug in front of the open fire. This time he didn't tear my clothes to pieces. He told me to keep still. Then he started to undress me as if I were a doll, touching more of my skin than necessary. He stroked my back as he pushed down my blouse, caressed my breasts while undoing my bra, and my belly and legs tingled by the time he ordered me to step out of my skirt.

He lay me down on the tick carpet and – starting with my face - he kissed every inch of my body. By the time he was pulling my undies down I was shivering with desire. He did things with his hands, his lips, and his tongue that made me moan. My body bucked, pushing into him of its own accord. Just like the first time he somehow managed to intensify my desire to an unbelievable height before fulfilling the need that drove me to obey him.

Afterwards instead of getting up with an insult in my direction he pulled me close to him. I lay on his shoulder with his arm around me, my free arm across his body, and our legs intertwined. I could hardly believe his tenderness. From the moment he had arrived in my life he had been cold, insulting, and domineering. For a moment I wondered when Prince Charming would turn back into the Beast. Best not to think of that and enjoy what I had when I had it.

In the morning I woke up in my bed with no recollection of how I got there. I presumed he had carried me upstairs and tucked me in. I must have been sleeping like a hibernating bear, and just as long judging by the angle of the sun shining through the window. I was amazed he hadn't knocked on my door yet, slinging a jibe about timekeeping my way.

I jumped out of bed and quickly got ready. On my way down I saw that the door to the spare bedroom was open. The sheets had been taken off the bed, the blanket neatly folded. I wondered if perhaps his wound had opened in the night. I found the sheets in a basket in the washroom, not a trace of blood on them.

He wasn't in the kitchen or outside. For the first time in months I had breakfast on my own, lunch on my own, dinner on my own. When I climbed up the stairs late at night I finally accepted that he had gone out of my life as unexpected and sudden as he had entered it.

ooOOoo