Rehab for SuperVillains (18+)-Chapter 17: You’re shitting me

Silence hit, heavy as the dead thug's stare, then Harris rasped, "You're shitting me."

"Nope." Kael's grin broke wider, splitting his lip fresh—pain a quick sting he ignored. "First customer's a real charmer."

Another pause, longer, the line crackling with disbelief. "You're a goddamn idiot," Harris finally said, voice flat, final, like a judge's gavel.

Kael chuckled, a low rasp that scraped his throat. "Work hard at it." His hazel eyes glinted, dark humor flickering as Rhea shot him a look—amber sharp, smirking through a mouthful of chicken.

"No, I mean it, Drayce." Harris's tone hardened, gravel grinding. "That zone's no ghost town—it's a sewer. Villains, dropouts, scum who don't want daylight—been a pit for years. And you plunk your little 'rehab' dream right in the middle? You're begging for a knife in your back."

Kael shrugged, a slow roll that tugged his bruised shoulder—pain flaring, ignored. "Knew the neighborhood when I signed the lease."

"You'll die there," Harris snapped, blunt as a brick.

"Then send a truck for my corpse," Kael deadpanned, voice dry as ash. "Make it quick—I'd hate to stink up the place."

Harris groaned, a sound dragged from deep in his gut, all exasperation and defeat. "You're a pain in my ass, Drayce. Fine—I'll get a crew out. But don't make this a damn routine."

"No promises," Kael shot back, grin twitching as he thumbed the call off—screen fading, phone clattering to the counter with a dull thud.

He exhaled slow, breath fogging in the chill, and let the ice pack drop—cold water pooling beside Dreck's blood, mingling in a sickly swirl. Harris wasn't wrong—The Haven sat in a viper's nest, a polished shell among rotting hulks, drawing eyes like Dreck's. Kael had known it, felt it in the walls when he'd claimed the place—danger baked into the bricks. He didn't care. Not then, not now. His hazel eyes flicked to Rhea, still eating, still feral, and a flicker of something—pride, maybe—lit his chest. She was proof it could work, even if it bled him dry.

Rhea licked sauce off her fingers, slow and deliberate, amber eyes pinning at her food. "What's the old man whining about?" she asked, voice rough, teasing, as she tossed the bone aside—clattering on the table, a small rebellion.

Kael snorted, wiping blood from his lip with his sleeve—red streaking black fabric. "Thinks I'm gonna get shanked running this dump." He jerked his chin at Dreck's body, sprawled like a broken doll. "Guess he's not wrong tonight."

She smirked, sharp and wicked, leaning back—t-shirt riding higher, scarred thighs flexing. "Told you this place is a shithole," she said, snagging a fry and popping it in her mouth, chewing loud. "You're just too stubborn to bail."

"Pot, kettle," he muttered, hazel eyes glinting as he pushed off the counter—boots scuffing, stepping over a shard of glass. "You're still here too."

Her laugh barked, raw and short, amber eyes flashing. "Yeah, 'cause you locked me in, genius." She waved a fry at him, sauce dripping. "Next time, let me out sooner—I'd have cooked that bastard faster."

Kael's grin twitched, dark and bruised, as he grabbed a rag from the counter—wiping blood and grease from his hands, the cloth staining quick. "Noted. But you're still collared—don't get cocky." He nodded at her neck, the power-suppressing band glinting dull in the light. "No flames, just fists. Worked out, though."

She bared her teeth, a feral grin, and flexed her scarred hands—knuckles cracked, blood flaking off. "Fists and teeth," she corrected, licking her lips, a smear of sauce mixing with Dreck's red. "Bit him good—should've seen his face." Her amber eyes danced, wild and bright, relishing the memory.

Kael chuckled, a low rasp, tossing the rag aside—landing wet beside the ice pack. "Yeah, heard him scream like a stuck pig." He glanced at the corpse, head cocked, hazel eyes tracing the bite mark torn into Dreck's wrist—flesh ragged, blood congealed. "You're a menace."

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"Takes one to know one," she shot back, snagging another drumstick—tearing into it, sauce glistening as she chewed, watching him with a predator's calm. The table creaked under her elbow, fries spilling, and the room settled—blood and food weaving a strange truce, their voices threading through the stink.

Kael sank into a chair across from her, wincing as his ribs protested—breath hitching, pain a dull thud. He swiped a fry from her pile, popping it in his mouth—salt sharp against the copper still lingering. "Cleanup's coming," he said, chewing slow, hazel eyes steady on hers. "Harris'll bitch, but he'll handle it."

She raised a brow, amber glinting, and licked her thumb clean. "Your old boss?" she asked, voice low, curious, as she leaned forward—t-shirt shifting, blood smears stark against white.

"Yeah," Kael said, snagging another fry—crunching loud, meeting her gaze. "Grumpy bastard, but he's got my back. Used to drag me out of worse than this."

Rhea's smirk softened, just a flicker, and she tossed a fry at him—bouncing off his chest, landing in his lap. "Sounds like he likes you," she said, voice teasing but edged, amber eyes searching his. "Why'd you ditch him?"

Kael caught the fry, popping it in—chewing slow, tasting salt and grease over blood. "Got tired," he said, voice rough, low, a crack in the armor. "Hero gig chewed me up—spit me out broken. Needed something mine, not theirs." His hazel eyes flicked to Dreck, then back to her—steady, unyielding. "This is it."

She held his gaze, amber burning soft, and nodded slow—understanding, not pity, in the tilt of her head. "Stupid as hell," she muttered, but her smirk returned, sharp and warm, as she tore into the chicken again—sauce dripping, a quiet pact in the air.

The kitchen sat still—blood pooling, debris glinting, their breaths syncing in the dim light. Dreck's corpse stared blank, a mute witness to The Haven's first kill, and Kael's chest tightened—not regret, but weight, a brick settling deep. Rhea ate on, feral and alive, her presence a spark he couldn't douse, and the night stretched—cleanup looming, danger circling, their bond forged in the wreckage, unshakeable.