Epilogue
“With further research comes new avenues of analysis,” I said, clicking the next slide of my presentation. “Our previous understanding of psychopaths has been wrong. Very wrong. I have thought psychopaths could be taught empathy and kindness. Now I see I was mistaken.”
There were gasps all around the auditorium as the psychiatry scholars clutched their notebooks. This would upend decades of research, but I had to be true to what I knew.
“Normal therapeutic treatment does not work on psychopaths. There is only one lever that will work, and that is finding a psychopath’s totem or trophy.
The one thing they care about. Sometimes it’s a feeling, or a sensation.
Sometimes it’s a goal. . .or even a person.
The one thing they will put the focus of their entire being into. . .”
I went on, clicking through the sides as the audience hung on my every word.
Of course I couldn’t delude myself into thinking my lecture had been the only reason people came today.
Part of it of course was my massive hockey superstar husband sitting in the front row in a salmon-colored polo shirt and khaki slacks with our 18-month-old daughter in his lap.
The oohs and aahs of the audience were always bubbling below the surface as Gabriel fed Isabella snacks and held up soft toys for her to play with.
You might even think he was a normal, well-adjusted man, instead of a violent, dangerous psychopath who was only gentle with his child.
After the presentation was over, we mingled with the other scholars for a cheese and wine reception, and then when Isabella got fussy we headed back to our home.
“So sorry to hear about that tragic fire,” one of my colleagues murmured. “I can’t believe Ashgrove Manor is just gone. And the loss of your father, Dr. Descoteaux? And even your uncle and butler? I am so sorry for your incalculable loss.”
“What loss?” Gabriel said. “I have my wife. And my daughter.”
The colleague stared at him, and he stared at the colleague, and I smiled to myself at the thought that never in a million years would they understand each other.
To Gabriel, the death of his father and uncle and the destruction of his family home meant nothing and to kill them did not pang his conscience at all.
He didn’t have one.
I was over mysterious dripping manors in the country, so Gabriel and I now lived in a sleek, multi-million dollar condo in the city, in perfect walking distance of the rink and training facilities, and all the libraries, coffee shop, and art studios I could ever want.
That night, after Isabella was asleep, Gabriel came up behind me as I grabbed a fruit smoothie from the fridge.
“It’s time.”
“Time for what?” I stalled.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and I felt every inch of his hard muscles as he surrounded my body, caging me against the counter.
“For another baby.”
“Wait—I don’t know if I’m ready yet,” I said, even though I felt a warm glow of excitement.
It turned out I loved being a mother, and of course with Gabriel’s money I could devote all the time I wanted to research and occasional lectures without needing a full-time job.
“Isabella’s just weaned last week. It’s time.”
“She’s not quite weaned yet,” I lied. “I still have milk left.”
My husband spun me around as I moved to go, pressing me up against the counter.
“I’ll fix that.”
“Gabriel, no!”
But he had already taken one strap of my silky nightie and was dragging it down my arm.
Those psychopath’s eyes were fixed on me, unblinking, steady, pupils blown with arousal as the callouses on the tips of his fingers scraped my skin, causing tiny rough rubs of sensation.
My nipples were already prickling, my breasts feeling heavy and swollen,
“Gabriel, stop!”
“Stop? When you know I claim free use of your whole body?”
He propped my hips up, pulling down my panties, then brought them to his face.
“These are wet as shit, Lark.”
I bit my lip.
It wasn’t fair, really, how every aspect of his biology had evolved to be so arousing, almost like a counter to the sensation that he couldn’t quite be human.
There was something in his face that wasn’t right, and it was drowned by the dark lashes, perfect jawline, and midnight black curls.
He gripped my hips with hard hands, always bruising, always dominating, and speared inside me.
I gasped, wiggling my hips to try to draw him in easier, spreading my thighs wide to adjust to his size.
He bent to my breasts, drawing one nipple into his mouth, then giving it a little bite as my milk let down into his mouth.
“I will suck you dry right now,” he growled, sucking with hard, even motions, his teeth digging into my swollen breasts with exquisite agony.
“And then I’ll put another baby in you. There was nothing prettier than the way you looked with that round belly.
I want to see it again. And again. Until we have a minivan full. I love you.”
It was always a shock, like a pure ice-cold shock, to hear him say that in his cold dead psychopath’s tone, and even more of a shock to know he meant it. That he did love me. And he’d do anything for me.
“I love you,” I gasped, as he dragged me to my peak, and I closed my arms around my brutal husband’s neck, my skin tingling with excitement at the thought of him impregnating me again.
THANK YOU FOR READING!