Till Death Do Us Part

CHAPTER 1

Joshua’s POV:

The afternoon sun slanted through the half-drawn Venetian blinds of my corner office, slicing the room into warm, lazy stripes of amber and gold that bled across the deep burgundy Persian rug.

Dust motes floated in the beams, suspended in a dreamlike, heavy stillness.

I sat behind the heavy mahogany desk, its polished surface cool beneath my fingertips, while the faint scent of lemon wood polish mingled with the subtle, sickeningly sweet vanilla notes of the diffuser on the side table.

My leather chair creaked softly as I leaned forward, my pen poised over the crisp pages of my leather-bound notebook—a prop, really, for the theater of trust.

Across from me, Amanda Wilde perched on the edge of the overstuffed armchair.

Her cream blouse was slightly rumpled from anxious fidgeting, the fabric whispering against her skin with every desperate shift of her weight.

Her hazel eyes, wide and hollowed out by fear, darted between my face and the floor.

At thirty-eight, she possessed a fragile, porcelain-like beauty, but it was cracking.

Soft waves of brown hair framed a heart-shaped face, her lips trembling with unspoken pain, her slender frame speaking of nights spent curled in terror rather than rest. The faint scent of her lavender shampoo drifted toward me, delicate and feminine—a stark, pathetic contrast to the storm raging in her soul.

“Dr. Willis,” she whispered, her voice cracking like thin ice underfoot, “I keep replaying that night. The argument started over nothing—dinner being cold again. But it escalated so fast. His face… it twisted with rage. The silver platter from our wedding registry, heavy and gleaming under the kitchen lights. One swing from behind. Pain exploded at the back of my head like fireworks, then nothing but black. My sister’s screams echoing through the house.

If she hadn’t been staying over…” Amanda’s breath hitched, a ragged sob catching in her throat.

Tears welled, spilling over onto her cheeks, leaving glistening trails that caught the golden light.

I watched her with the practiced gaze of a man who had spent years perfecting the art of listening.

Joshua Willis, thirty years old, six-foot-eight of honed muscle from relentless, brutal gym sessions that sculpted my broad shoulders and powerful arms into an imposing, magnetic physique.

My blonde hair was tied back neatly in a ponytail, a few rebellious strands framing my chiseled jawline.

My deep blue eyes locked onto hers with a calculated, feigned compassion, drawing her in like a moth to a flame.

“Amanda,” I said, my voice low and resonant, smooth as aged whiskey, “that trauma lives in your body as much as your mind. The way your shoulders tense even now, the shallow, frantic rhythm of your breathing—it’s your nervous system still bracing for impact.

You’re safe here. Tell me everything. How did the love jar spell fit into all this? ”

She nodded, wiping her eyes with a trembling hand, the tissue crumpling softly in her tight grip.

“It was desperation, Dr. Willis. He was gone for months on deployment with the SEALs. I missed the man who used to hold me, whisper promises under the stars. I found this old book in a thrift shop—dried herbs, a jar, honey, his photo sealed inside with a red candle burning through the night. ‘Come home to me whole,’ I whispered as I cast it. When he returned and found it… everything shattered. He called me a manipulator, a witch trying to steal his free will. Then the abuse increased exponentially. Slaps at first, then fists. He believed he owned me. The last straw was that platter. My big sister called the police. They dragged him away in cuffs, charged him. He’s behind bars now, thank God.

But the damage…” Her voice broke again, raw emotion pouring out like blood from an unhealed wound.

Inside my chest, something darker stirred—a cold, thrilling undercurrent beneath the surface empathy.

I imagined her hanging from the ancient oak behind my secluded cabin, the rough hemp rope biting into the soft, pale skin of her neck, her feet twitching in the cool evening breeze as dead leaves rustled around her.

Or better yet, strapped to the stainless steel table in my soundproofed basement, that pretty, broken face carved methodically with my silver stencil knife, turning her features into a masterpiece of red ruin.

The knife rested even now in the inner pocket of my tailored jacket, its cold weight a comforting reminder against my ribs.

Mother’s gift. The one that had first tasted blood when I was just a boy.

The memory flooded me then, vivid and all-consuming, pulling me back through the years with a sensory precision that made my pulse quicken.

I was nine again, small and scrawny, pressed against the cool glass of the passenger window in Mom’s old sedan.

The vinyl seat stuck to my sweaty legs, the air thick with the smell of worn leather and Mom’s heavy floral perfume.

My blonde hair fell into my eyes as I watched Martin and his friends pedaling their bikes down the dusty road after school, their laughter sharp and cruel on the wind.

Martin—the ginger-haired bully with freckles across his nose and a sneer that promised pain.

Just days earlier, in the dim, echoing boys’ bathroom at school, they had held me down on the cold, cracked tiles that smelled of bleach and urine.

Martin’s friends pinned my arms, their knees digging into my small ribs.

“Crazy poor kid,” they chanted. Martin unzipped his pants, his face twisted in a mocking grin, and the hot, acrid stream hit my face, soaking my shirt, stinging my eyes.

Their laughter bounced off the walls, humiliating, degrading.

I had told the principal, my voice shaking, only for the man to lean back in his chair with a dismissive chuckle.

“Joshua, Martin comes from a good family. You have quite the imagination, son. Go clean up—you smell awful.” The principal’s office had smelled of stale coffee and authority, and his eyes held no mercy for a poor boy like me.

Tears burned in my young eyes even in the memory. I ran home stinking of piss, my shirt clinging wetly to my skin. Mom—Fiona Willis, my fierce protector with her flowing blonde hair and eyes like blue fire—had met me at the door. Her hug enveloped me in warmth and the soft scent of her cardigan.

“Who did this to my baby?” she demanded, her voice trembling with a sudden, terrifying rage. When I told her everything, she went livid, her hands balling into fists. “Those people think they can treat us like dirt because we’re poor? No. Not my son.”

She tried the decent route first. A meeting with the principal, her voice steady but pleading. But he laughed her off too, calling Martin and his buddies into the office where they smirked and denied it all.

“Joshua has mental issues,” they said, snickering.

Brilliant little me—a quiet nerd who loved books and puzzles—reduced to “crazy.” No father to stand up for me; he had died before I was born. All I had was Mom. And when the system failed us, she took matters into her own hands.

The flashback deepened, epic and visceral.

The sedan speeding along the back roads, Mom’s ski mask pushed up on her forehead, her hands tight on the wheel.

Little me in the back, heart pounding like a drum, the chloroform-soaked handkerchief ready in my small fist. We grabbed Martin off his bike in a blur of motion—Mom darting out like a predator, strong and determined.

He struggled briefly before the cloth pressed over his mouth, his eyes rolling back as the chemical sweetness filled the air.

His friends scattered on their bikes, shouting, but we were gone in a cloud of dust.

At the river, the air was alive with the roar of rushing water, the earthy scent of mud and wet rocks, the cool mist kissing our faces.

Sunlight sparkled on the current like scattered jewels.

Mom carried Martin’s limp body to the edge, her muscles straining but unyielding.

She tied his hands with rough rope that bit into his wrists, then splashed icy river water on his face.

He woke with a gasp, terror flooding his features as he realized one slip would send him tumbling into the jagged depths below.

“Apologize,” Mom commanded, her voice cutting through the water’s roar like a blade. “To my son. For every humiliation. Every laugh.”

Martin blubbered, tears mixing with snot, piss staining his pants in a dark, shameful spread. The acrid smell mixed with the river’s fresh, sharp tang. “I’m sorry! Joshua, please! I won’t ever touch you again! I swear on my life!”

We laughed—Mom’s rich, triumphant chuckle blending with my small, tearful giggles. It was cathartic, bonding, the sweetest revenge. The humiliation of the bathroom washed away in that moment.

“You wanna take a piss on him, son?” Mom asked, her blue eyes sparkling with wicked delight, a strand of blonde hair escaping her mask and dancing in the breeze. “Or just push him over?”

I trembled, the world narrowing to the boy on the edge.

But Mom handed me the silver stencil knife, its handle warm from her grip, the blade catching the afternoon light with deadly promise.

“Now, baby. Wipe this across his throat. Make sure he never bullies anyone again. The first kill is always the hardest, son. After this, it gets easier. Make Mommy proud. Rid the earth of this scum.”

Martin begged, his voice raw and broken. “No! Please! I have a mom! I promise I’ll be good!” His body shook, the rope creaking, the water lapping hungrily below.

“Don’t be scared, Joshua,” Mom whispered, brushing my hair tenderly. “This is justice. For every time they made you feel small.”

Wanting nothing more than her pride, I stepped up.

The blade slid across his throat with shocking ease, sharp as a whisper.

Blood erupted in a hot, pulsing geyser, spraying across my cheek and shirt in warm, metallic bursts.

Martin gurgled, eyes bulging in shock and pain, then toppled backward into the rushing river.

The current claimed him instantly, carrying his twitching form downstream, red swirling and fading into the foam.

“If that don’t kill him, the rocks surely will,” Mom said with a satisfied smile, pulling me into her arms. We stood there as the sun dipped, the river singing its indifferent song, mother and son forged in blood and love.

A week later, the news of the body washing up downstream filled our tiny kitchen with celebration—ice cream and hugs, no one the wiser. From that day, no one bullied me again. And killing… it did get easier.

***

Back in the office, the clock ticked softly on the wall, pulling me abruptly to the present.

Amanda was still pouring out her heart, her voice thick with regret.

“I miss the loving side of him sometimes. The flowers, the way he’d hold me after deployments.

But after the spell, he changed. I caused it, didn’t I? ”

I shook my head, my voice gentle yet laced with a hidden, lethal judgment.

Voodoo nonsense. Manipulation. “You didn’t cause his choices, Amanda.

But guilt is a heavy burden. We’ll unpack it.

” In truth, I had already decided. She needed to die for trying to subvert a man's mind, for the pathetic weakness that invited chaos into her life.

Only the deserving fell to my knife—bullies, manipulators, those who hid behind fragile facades.

The session drew to a close. I stood, towering over her, and took her trembling hand in mine.

My thumb brushed her knuckles deliberately, sending a spark through her.

Women rarely resisted my charm—the height, the build, the intense blue eyes, the model-like jaw.

“You’ve made tremendous progress, Amanda.

I’m proud of you. Sometimes healing needs fresh air.

There’s a beautiful, private spot by the lake I visit on Sundays.

A picnic, just us. Tell no one. This stays between you and me. ”

Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink, her hazel eyes widening with surprise and budding desire. “I… I’d like that, Joshua.”

We shook hands, but the touch lingered. She left with a smile stretching from ear to ear, her steps lighter, entirely oblivious.

The door clicked shut. Miss Watson, my efficient secretary, entered briefly with notes on the next clients. “Mr. Harrington is waiting, Dr. Willis. You okay? You seem deep in thought.”

“Thank you, Miss Watson,” I replied smoothly, flashing my charming, disarming grin. “Just reflecting on Amanda’s progress. Send him in.”

Alone again for a brief second, I sank into the chair, the leather cool against my back.

I withdrew the stencil knife from my inner pocket, its silver surface gleaming under the desk lamp.

Mother’s final legacy. She had passed last year from cardiac arrest, sudden and cruel, leaving a void no one could fill.

But her lessons echoed daily: be covert, choose carefully, use the sessions as a vetting ground.

I twirled the knife, feeling its perfect, familiar balance, visualizing Amanda’s final moments.

I would seduce her completely. Make her scream my name in ecstasy first, then in terror as the blade sang against her skin.

My thoughts drifted for a moment to Ciara Long—the twenty-five-year-old community babysitter everyone adored.

Vibrant, well-loved, with rich dark skin that glowed like polished mahogany, curves that swayed with natural grace, and a laugh that lit up parks full of children.

I had watched her from afar, chasing toddlers, offering comfort with heartfelt warmth.

Something about her stirred not just a hunger, but a deeper, intoxicating pull—sweet, arousing potential amid my shadows.

A romance? Perhaps. But Amanda came first.

The other sessions blurred into routine—nodding, noting, pretending—while inside my mind, dark fantasies played out in vivid color.

By day’s end, as the sun set in hues of crimson and bruised purple, painting the office in dramatic, bloody light, I stepped out into the cooling air.

The city hummed around me, but my mind was already at the lake, planning the perfect trap.