Morning light poked through the blinds and seared beneath lashes to go with the pounding of her head. Groaning she pushed herself up slowly and gingerly touched the side of her jaw, wincing at the dull pain.
‘Looks like it’s gonna be a long day,’ was the observation as large pots banged against one another and then onto a stove top.
Kit winced at the influx of so much noise, ‘Priss,’ her voice begged.
The woman in question turned from adding salt, pepper, and minced garlic into a large pan cheerfully browning sausages and chicken. She studied the young woman, her gnarled fingers brushing down her pristine apron before waving toward her face, ‘Mavris?’
‘No,’ Kit pushed herself up and leaned for a moment against the nearest wall, ‘No, this conversation’ she cupped her jaw gently, ‘was with Dak.’
Priss snorted and turned back to her pan, ‘same thing’
Kit nodded and reached for a towel wrapping it around her tiny waist, ‘Is Selma in today?’
Priss stood before the stove turning bits of meat frying in her pan,’she’s setting up the tables’.
Kit stood before the prep table and pulled some fresh okra from a bowl and began cleaning it. ‘Forget that,’ Priss admonished, moving Kit aside with her body, ‘Selma and I will handle it today you go on upstairs and put something on that bruise.’
Dak pressed the weights upwards straining about the heavy metal. Arms fully extended he held it there muscles screaming, until he felt the tell-tale stretch and then slowly lowered the bar back into its holder. Sitting up he allowed his arms to dangle before him, his hands resting on the lift seat as his mind replayed the look on Kit’s face right before he punched her. His hands curled into a fist at the memory as he jumped up and moved to the stack gym. His arms busily worked as his thoughts flooded with images; her slumped body, the bruise blooming on her jaw, the way her head dangled over his arm. He stopped, the weights dropping with a clang as the last image burned itself behind his eyes.
He’d never hit a woman before that night, still he refused to let one of the others do it, knowing they would not have pulled their punch as he had. Even so, the last image tore through him and left him raw with anger and desperation.
It was a problem beyond his scope of experience. He had seen much throughout his career as a mercenary, but nothing had prepared him for a, Mavris. A vampire, his head shook as the word rattled through his brain.
He stood his head bowed, a towel gripped within his fingers, there had to be a way he would find it; his fingers tightened around the towel – soon, it had to be soon – before he got the order to take Kit.
Photo: found @ windowweb.it/desktop_foto
Word Count: 493