Badass in Disguise Chapter 249

Forcing my eyes open, I peered through the crack in the doorway. The little boy who'd been keeping watch jumped in surprise, spinning around to face a short, pudgy man who loomed over him. The man barked something in Amharic, his tone accusatory. Even through my feverish state, I could make out his words, demanding to know why the boy was lurking outside instead of going home.

I watched as the boy instinctively hid his chocolate behind his back, mumbling something about going inside soon.

"I heard you've been getting money lately," the man said, his eyes narrowing as he looked the boy up and down with contempt. "Thought maybe you sold your grandfather's apartment. Seems you've got some skills after all."

The boy shook his head vigorously, clutching the chocolate tighter behind his back.

"No money? Then what are you eating?" The man grabbed the boy's wrist, twisting it until the child winced in pain, forcing him to reveal the chocolate bar. "Where did you get this?"

"A kind person gave it to me," the boy replied, his voice barely audible, eyes fixed on the ground.

I slid my hand beneath the thin blanket, fingers wrapping around the knife Ethan had left for my protection. The cool metal against my palm felt reassuring, grounding me through the fog of fever.

"Since you can earn your own money now, this apartment should belong to me." The man shoved past the boy, pushing him roughly aside. "A little runt like you doesn't need such a big place. I can't even find a woman because my place is too small. No woman wants to live in that dump."

The boy darted under the man's arm with surprising agility, positioning himself between the door and his uncle. He spread his arms wide, a pathetic barrier against the adult's bulk, his thin frame trembling but determined. "This is my grandfather's apartment. He gave it to me."

"I'm your uncle," the man snarled, jabbing a finger at the boy's forehead. "I say this place is mine now. Move."

When the boy refused, the man shoved him hard. The chocolate fell forgotten to the dusty floor as the boy tumbled to the ground.

My grip tightened on the knife as the man pushed open the door and flipped on the light, the sudden brightness making me squint. His eyes widened when he saw me, and something unmistakably lecherous crossed his face. His gaze traveled slowly over my body, lingering in ways that made my skin crawl despite my fever. I calculated exactly how much force I'd need to slash his throat despite my injured shoulder.

The boy rushed in behind him. "She's sick! Please don't hurt her," he pleaded, pulling at the man's shirt. "Her husband will be back any minute!"

The man pushed the boy away again with a backhanded swipe and moved toward me. I stared coldly at him, my expression betraying nothing of the lethal intent behind my eyes. Under the covers, I adjusted my grip on the knife, preparing to strike.

Just as he reached the edge of the bed, the door burst open with a crash. Ethan appeared like a dark avenging angel, his movements fluid and lethal. One powerful kick sent the man flying across the room, his bulk crashing against the wall with a satisfying thud. Before the intruder could recover, Ethan had him pinned against the wall by his neck, applying precise pressure to cut off his air supply.

"Are you hurt?" Ethan's eyes found mine, urgent and concerned, even as he maintained his deadly grip on the man.

I shook my head slightly.

Ethan disposed of the man's body efficiently. One less person in the slums would hardly be noticed.

The boy cleaned up the blood stains from the floor, tears streaming down his face as he worked. I studied him curiously. Was he crying from fear or mourning for his uncle? Despite the man's cruelty, he was, after all, the boy's only remaining family.

When Ethan returned, the boy looked at him guiltily. "I'm sorry. I couldn't protect your wife."

"You were very brave," Ethan assured him as he placed a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder.

I turned to Ethan. "When we're safe, send someone to get this kid." The boy deserved better than this life. Ethan nodded.

Later, during our meager dinner, the boy crouched against the wall eating bread, watching Ethan tend to me with fascination. His eyes darted between us, curious and observant.

"When did you and your wife get married?" he asked suddenly, the question carrying the innocent bluntness only children can manage.

Ethan glanced at me before answering, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "We haven't yet."

"Is she having a baby?" the boy continued innocently, studying my bedridden state with concern.

Ethan looked at me again, this time meeting my less-than-merciful gaze. "No," he answered carefully, clearly aware of the dangerous territory he was navigating.

"When will you get married? When will you have babies? Will your daughter be as beautiful as your wife?" The questions tumbled out with childlike curiosity.

I fixed him with a flat stare. "You're very young to be concerned about marriage and children. Don't you have other aspirations?"

"Yes," he answered with disarming honesty. "I want to eat bread every day."

Ethan asked about the money he'd given him. The boy explained he was hiding it until he was older and stronger, to avoid having it stolen. "I can't fight them off yet. And later I want to buy new shoes."

"Why do you keep looking at me?" I asked directly, my tone making him jump.

The boy blushed, caught in the act. "Because you're beautiful," he admitted shyly. "And you speak Amharic very nicely."

"If you want to look, just look directly," I told him, finding his honesty oddly refreshing.

His embarrassment deepened, his face flushing dark red. He quickly finished his bread and scurried away, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

I needed water, but before I could ask, Ethan's voice cut through the silence, slightly bitter. "Miss Morgan is quite generous."

I looked at him. "Jealous?"

"Can I look directly too?"

"Do you want to lose an eye?" I threatened calmly.

He smiled resignedly. "No."

I gave him a pointed look. "Water."

He immediately brought me water, supporting my head as I drank. "Careful," he murmured, his fingers warm against my scalp, surprisingly gentle.

That evening, the boy returned, pacing nervously between Ethan and my bed. Finally, he approached and placed a chocolate on my bedside table, identical to the one he'd been eating earlier.

"I bought this for you," he said, then coughed several times.

I noticed the cough. "Where have you been sleeping?" I asked, suddenly curious about his living arrangements.

The boy pointed to the right. "In the garbage area. A house collapsed many years ago. No one goes there at night. I sleep there so no one sees me." He explained that although he had his grandfather's apartment, he avoided sleeping there to prevent neighbors from asking questions.

I didn't respond directly to the boy. Instead, I spoke to Ethan. "If he doesn't go home, the neighbors will get suspicious."

Ethan nodded, understanding my implication. "I'll make him a bed here tonight." He began arranging blankets in the corner of the room, creating a makeshift sleeping area.

When the boy knew this, his eyes widened with concern. "Do I have to give back the money you gave me?"

"No," Ethan assured him, his voice firm but kind.

The boy's face immediately brightened with joy.