It had been exactly three weeks since Derek had given Helen her mission.
In three weeks, so much had changed.
She'd finally recovered from the multiple wounds caused by her boss, she had the large bed all to herself since Dean categorically refused to lie next to her again, and she didn't have to wear handcuffs around the house anymore.
Though...she did kinda miss the warmth of Dean's body against hers.
Speaking of, the Cobra hadn't been able to stay at home all day long, unlike the week before, when Helen was his prisoner. Everyday, he woke up and went to his office, then back home in time for dinner, though she barely cooked him anything. They weren't a married couple, and he was a grown up man who could cook some eggs and fry some bacon. He could manage.
During the day, Helen studied Isaac's life and information - as much as she could get from the internet and Dean's files - trying to find a way to get to him and kill him. He wasn't an easy target. Catching him would be harder than it had been with Dean, since Isaac knew her face now, and knew who she technically worked for, although - as far as she knew - her real job as an assassin was still a secret, even to him. In his mind, she was just Dean's interpreter. And whore.
Helen was eating chicken noodles on the couch when the door flew open, and Dean stormed inside the house with his phone pressed between his ear and shoulder, angrily loosening his tie.
She lifted her eyes, sucking the noodles in her mouth. He was shouting at someone on the other line, "I don't give a fuck who they are and what they do! They owe me money, and I want it. Now. So fucking call them, or put a gun to their head, but I want their money in my goddamn bank account. Am I clear?" he barked. Whoever he was talking to must have said yes, because Dean concluded, "Good. Now go do your job." He ended the call, and muttered something around the lines of "Fucking incompetent son of a bitch."
He stormed to the bedroom, taking off his tie and ripping the white shirt open, tossing it carelessly on the bed. Everyone in his business was slowing down, making him earn less money than last month, and he was furious about it.
Soft steps approached the room, and he quickly turned around, seeing Helen leaning against the door frame with a bowl of whatever she'd cooked in her hands, ankles crossed and brows lifted. "T'apposto, zio? (You okay, dude?)" she asked in Italian. He wouldn't tell her, but he'd missed hearing her speak other languages, especially Italian.
But, he had no idea what she'd said. "What," he snarled at her, unfastening his belt. He slipped it out of the pants loops, and threw it on the mattress, next to the wrinkled shirt.
Helen let out an exaggeratedly loud breath, brining one hand on her heart, the other one holding the bowl still. "Damn, and here I was thinking you would threaten to spank me," she joked. Dean flashed her a warning glare, clenching his jaw. Helen rolled her eyes, trying to keep them away from his shifting muscles.
She probably wouldn't have stopped him if he'd started spanking her.
She cleared her throat. "Uhm... Chicken noodles?" she tried, giving him a small smile, that looked so stupid and childish, but also honest.
Dean frowned, facing her as he unzipped his pants. He kept a straight face, though he was about to start wheezing at her flushed cheeks and wandering eyes. She swore under her breath, but he ignored it. "You made me dinner?" he asked, keeping his voice low and steady. Ahh, he loved teasing her. He bit back a smirk.
She stratched the nape of her neck, looking down. "Nah, not really. But I can give you mine. I wasn't going to finish it anyway," she told him, shrugging.
By then, his pants were on the floor, and he was reaching for his sweatpants. But why should the fun end so soon?
He walked towards Helen and took the bowl from her tiny hands, purposely brushing his fingers against hers. "Careful, doll. You're starting to be kind," he winked, walking towards the kitchen to sit at the table.
Ass. He was an ass. And he had a wonderful ass. She folded her arms, looking at his behind. He was so going to regret teasing her.
Biting her lip, already savoring the victory, she quickly strode towards him, palm wide, ready to strike.
Slap!
Dean flinched forward, the bowl almost slipping from his hands and shattering on the ground. He set it on the table. With his eyes wide open, he turned around. Helen stared back at him with shiny eyes and a vile smirk. He looked at her, opening his mouth. "Did you just-" he started, and stopped when she nodded.
"Slap your ass? You bet," she winked, bursting out laughing at his shocked face. She poked out her tongue between her teeth, smiling. "Come on man, you put it in my face, I had to slap it," she justified herself, chuckling.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You should start running," he muttered under his breath, hiding a grin. "'Cause if I get too close to your ass, I'll make sure you won't be able to sit for a week straight."
He launched himself towards her, and she barely dodged him with a yelp, running into the bedroom.
"Come back here, you coward!" he shouted, though he was laughing. He stormed inside, and threw out his hand, when she jumped on the bed, dodging him again.
Helen laughed so hard her stomach ached, but she kept running. "Come and get me, old man," she yelled back, brushing against him and striding into the kitchen.
He was right behind her, everytime getting close to gripping her. She jumped on the couch, then rolled behind it, so that she put it between them as an obstacle. The challenge in their eyes burned like fire.
"You can do better than this, Cobra," she mocked him, wiggling her brows.
He let out a low chuckle. "Damn right I can," he said, and threw a pillow at her. As he'd imagined, she dodged it, but meanwhile he jumped over the couch and lifted his hand in the air.
It was too late when she saw the palm flying down. She barely gasped before the thick sound filled the air betwern them. Slap!
She flinched and yelped, bringing a hand on her throbbing butt. "Ouch!" she shouted, flashing him an angry look.
He was proudly smiling, the guilty hand slightly red due to the impact. She didn't want to know what her ass looked like, then. "Now we're even," he said, lifting his brows and looking down at her.
She scowled, massaging the aching spot. "I didn't slap you this hard," she mumbled, crossing her arms.
He barked a laugh. "No, and that made my slap better than yours," he stated, leaning on the couch.
Helen scoffed, looking at him with daring eyes. "Seriously? My slap was phenomenal, you little shit," she said, bobbing her head. "You're just jealous because I can slap better than you," she teased him again, smirking.
His pupils thinned, giving her a feline gaze. "Come closer and I'll show just how well I can slap that gorgeous ass of yours."
She silently gulped. Helen lifted her chin and popped out a hip, her hand resting on its curve. "You think my ass is gorgeous?" she teased, but apparently he'd predicted her answer perfectly.
Dean stood up straight and took a step closer to her, forcing her to bend her neck to look him in the eye. "I think your ass would look even better with my dick buried in it," he said with a husky tone, giving her a sly grin. He saw her throat moving as she hardly swallowed.
Finding a drop of courage in the deep sea of lust into her, she said, "I wonder why you keep barking, but never bite."
He only smirked again, checking her out. "I wanna see how patient you can be." I wanna see you crawling to me and begging me to take you. Dean didn't take his eyes off her. Green irises filled with desire and pride.
Helen looked at him with air of superiority. "Then I guess you'll have to wait a long, long time. I can be very patient," she stated, taking a step back.
Dean licked his lips, smiling. "Oh yeah?"
Jesus Christ. Two words, and her armor was crumbling. Would she really be able to resist him? How long would she able to tell him to get lost? "Hm-mh," she affirmatively hummed.
He knew her well enough to see her slowly surrendering to him. Or maybe it was his own surrender he saw reflected in her. Whatever. He wouldn't yield. He was going to keep his head high and wait for her to be the one on her knees for the other. Yep. Either that, or nothing would happen between them. Yeah.
"Are you gonna eat those noodles?" she whispered then. He laughed, walking past her, back into the bedroom where he finally put on some pants.
Dean shook his head. "No. You can have them."
"Awesome," she exclaimed, picking up her bowl and finishing her dinner while he made his.
~~~
November 24th, 2019 - Lander, Wyoming.
There wasn't much noise outside the house. Every now and then a car passed by, but it was late at night, and everyone had gone to sleep by that time on a Sunday. It was almost midnight, and yet the two young lovers were still sitting at the dining table, laughing at some joke one of them told.
The girl had tears in her eyes after cackling so much, and her soon-to-be husband was just finishing cleaning the kitchen, the leftovers of his laughter still visible on his face.
Drying her eyes, the girl said, "Alright, I'll go take out the trash." She didn't go far. His arms were around her waist in a second, his chest gently pressed against her back.
"It can wait," he said, kissing her neck softly.
She hummed, leaning into his touch. "It can't. It'll take a minute," she told him, though her neck rolled as he placed kisses along her shoulder. "Ty..." she called him.
"Hmm, I love it when you call me that," he breathed on her neck, squeezing her waist.
She chuckled, but her breath hitched as his hand slid lower, brushing against the waistband of her pajamas bottoms. "Ty," she called again, and he let out a breathy laugh, snuggling his nose in the crook of her neck.
"Wait for me here. I'll take it out," he told her, slightly pinching her ass with two fingers.
She winced. "Hey!" she said, but laughed as he left the room with the trash bags in his hands. She sat at the table, waiting for him to come back and finish what he'd started.
She noticed he'd forgotten a bag, so she picked it up to give it to him. But how she wished she'd never gone out that night. Or let him go out in the first place.
She opened the door, looking forward, where Tyler - her Tyler - was standing. The bags were in his hands, and she was sucking in the air to shout his name, not caring that it was late. Then the shot came.
It was a neat sound, the bullet cutting the air perfectly as it met its target. Tyler went down with a loud thud, the bottles in the bags shattering against each other as they fell on the ground with his body.
It took her a moment to realize. Then tears like needles stung her eyes, a scream burned her throat, and an imaginary knife stabbed her heart. She shouted his name, loud and clear, running towards his bloodied body.
"Tyler!" she shouted, falling next to him on her knees, her kneecaps hurting as they hit the concrete, but she didn't care. Not when her Tyler was dying - no, already dead - before her. Before her eyes.
She fell into the pool of blood. His blood. She picked up his head, crying so hard her lungs felt like they were being torn apart. "Tyler, please," she sobbed, her vocal chords slicing at the weeping words she screamed.
She didn't remember if she'd called for help or if they'd just heard her screams.
She remembered she'd lifted her head from his chest, looking towards the other end of the street. The killer was still there and his gun was still high.
Helen lifted her eyes and saw the assassin. But she never registered the face. So all she saw was a blank face, smooth and free of features, staring back at her.
She didn't know what the killer's face looked like, but she swore - she vowed and made an oath - to find them, and to kill them.
Helen sat up so quickly she almost fell off the bed. She was panting and sweating after the nightmare. It had been a while since the last one.
She breathed deeply, closing her eyes as she tried to stop her heart from beating too fast. It's okay. It was just a dream, she told herself. Sighing, she got up and dragged her heavy body to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face.
The house was silent, the night still pitch black. She went towards the kitchen to take a glass of water, even though she needed something stronger. She didn't feel like going through all the drawers at two in the morning, though, so she settled for some water.
Trying not to wake up Dean, lying on the couch as he deeply slept, she approached him. For a moment she was even tempted to spill the water on his bare back, but then she decided it wasn't worth the trouble. Instead, she set down the now empty glass, and crouched before the couch.
He was facing the back, his hands tugged under the pillow. His covers had fallen on the ground, so she picked them up and gently rested them on him. A low pleased hum left his mouth, but he stayed asleep, slightly shifting to get more comfortable on the couch.
Helen briefly smiled and stepped away, sitting at the table. She wouldn't be able to sleep, so she might as well work on a plan to end Isaac. And so she worked. She worked until the sun came up and Dean's alarm went off at five thirty in the morning and he grunted.
When he looked up and their eyes met, he immediately picked out the gun from under his pillow and pointed it at her.
She raised her hands. "Woah, it's just me, Dean," she told him.
"Yeah, exactly," he answered with rough voice, though he soon lowered the weapon and rubbed his face. "Why are you awake?" he asked.
Helen shrugged, taking a sip of the coffee she'd made. "Couldn't sleep," she simply replied. "Why do you wake up so soon?" she asked, looking at him as he got up and stirred, his lean muscles straightening. Nice picture to see first thing in the morning.
He didn't even notice her hungry eyes when he grabbed some water and sat in front of her. While she looked stunning and glowing, he felt like a zombie. "Gym," he briefly said, chucking down the cold water.
She looked him up and down. "That would explain all of this," she said to herself, watching his built figure, admiring the art permanently printed on it. "Oh, hey-" she was about to start telling him something, smiling, but he stopped her.
"We're not friends, Helen," he said, getting up from his chair and walking towards the bathroom. "We're just working together," he bit.
Helen looked down. "I was just trying to chat a little," she muttered, pressing her lips together.
His jaw was clenched. "Well, don't. Unless it's something important, don't talk to me. Understood?" He was being an asshole, he knew it. But he'd trusted her twice - once and a half, let's put it like that - and she'd betrayed him each time. He didn't want to hear anything coming from her filthy mouth unless it was strictly necessary and business related.
Helen nodded, closing her fists. "Fine." She walked up to him before opening the front door, ready to leave for a walk after she'd gotten ready two hours ago. The initial plan was to go to the bakery and then come back, since they'd agreed that she could go out once a week for two hours. But the plan had just changed. "By the way," she said, turning to him, who was ready to shut her down again. "Happy birthday, asshole." She slammed the door, his shocked face the last thing he saw, and left, refusing to go get the birthday cake she wanted to buy him. Fuck him.
Dean was stone faced. It couldn't be... He reached for his phone and turned it on, looking at the date. Shit.
It was his birthday.
He'd forgotten. But she hadn't.
Shit.
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