Fates Intertwined- on hold :( Sorry readers!!

Chapter 9

He deserved it.

The creep wouldn’t let go of me.

He wasn’t hurting me thou…

No, he definitely deserved it.

But the way he was looking at me….?

In short, Dea was experiencing a storm of emotions. Kneeing Mr. Egotistical in the balls and rushing away sure hadn’t felt as good as she thought it was going too. She hardly had time to think about that silly man now, as she raced to her contractors ‘cover’ work, but alas, it was all she could think of. Dea deliberated why he hadn’t simply let her go, and what the reason behind his starting at her the way he had been was. Deep down Dea recognised his expression as something close to adoration laced with the heady scent of lust, but she refused to allow herself to believe it, at least not on the surface. But what was really puzzling Dea was what the hell was wrong with herself?! She was queen of her emotions, they no longer ruled her. She had put an end to that years ago, and yet, this past day, after meeting that man, all her hard work had been undone. She felt every breath he had breathed as he’d held her. She had felt the warmth of his hands through the thin cotton of her shirt. She had felt EVERYTHING. She felt exited at his touch, she felt safe within his grasp, she wanted him to pull her close, craddle her head in the crook of his neck and whisper sweet nothings in her ear.

I’m gunna make myself sick. You’ve come too damn far for this Dea. She thought angrily at herself.

Don’t you remember Will? Do you want a repeat of that?

Will….

Her heart ached for the sweetness his touch had once given her. Will had been her boyfriend. Years ago now, actually, it had also been years since Dea had thought about him. She knew that she no longer loved Will, but that didn’t change the hurt she still felt at the thought of their last meeting. That kind of hurt left a scar, and some scars simply didn’t heal.

Dea slowed to a jog as the memories of their last night together assaulted her.

Dea had been sent to an orphanage at the age of 6. At the age of 8 she had been adopted by a man, she would later know only as her contractor. He offered her no love or affection, he assured her that he was in no way to be thought of as a father figure. Instead he offered her shelter, food and an education. Although she never came to love him, as were his wishes, she did however respect him as a mentor, a mentor who would teach her live her life as it was destined to be lived; hunting.

 From the age of 8 Dea was honed into a weapon of destruction. Her mentor had made her delve into her agonizing memories and relive the horrific death of her parents as fuel for the hunt. It worked. By the age of 10 Dea was taking down marks solo, one per week at first but eventually one or two a night, depending on urgency. Her small demure appearance made her the perfect prey for the living dead and as such, the perfect weapon to destroy them. Word quickly spread of this little hunter and Dea gained her hunt name Artemis. Goddess of the hunt. Unrivalled in age, unrivalled in kill streaks. She was a force to be reckoned with.

One morning Dea was awoken by the sound of a truck, it was close. She hadn’t heard a truck in her street before and her childish curiosity won out. She climbed groggily from her bed, still bleary eyed from the lack of sleep she was still growing accustomed too, and approached her window. She opened the window and peered out.

It was a moving truck. Two men were lifting furniture from the back of the truck and being directed inside by a pretty woman in a floral dress. She was mesmerised by the woman. She had looked so beautiful, so feminine. Dea remembered the pang of jealousy she felt for the woman who was free to wear what she wished, rather than all the plain black clothes she was forced to wear.  Hunt gear. The thin cotton wasn’t restricting and didn’t over heat her, her vest and weapon pack slipped easily over the top and the colour assisted camouflaging into the night. Practical, but by no means pretty.