1. Dane
1
DANE
H er slender fingers are far too elegant for steaming milk and pouring espresso. She keeps her shy, aquamarine gaze characteristically downcast, and dark lashes hide her striking eyes as she focuses on her work. A large, brown freckle marks her right cheekbone, half a centimeter from the corner of her eye. The imperfection should irritate me, but I find the imbalance on her otherwise symmetrical face fascinating.
I’m equally intrigued by the purple streak in her long, sable hair. It’s pulled back in a messy ponytail for her barista job, and the defiant dyed locks peek through thick waves at her nape. When her hair is down during private moments at home, the flash of amethyst falls over her left shoulder. Sometimes, she braids it into an elaborate but functional style that shows off the bold color.
As she reaches for a paper cup, the golden café lighting plays over a cerulean paint smudge that marks her delicate, porcelain wrist—a hint at her creative brilliance and her haphazard lifestyle.
A few blocks away, her tiny, one-bedroom apartment is a perpetual mess, the mundane chores neglected in favor of pursuing her art. She paints with feverish intensity every day, until the bright summer Charleston sunlight wanes, and her canvas is illuminated by her cheap standing lamps.
I know because I’ve watched her for hours. There’s a shadowy garden that’s overgrown in front of the house across the street from her derelict building.
I bought the house two months ago so that I could indulge in my obsession. This compulsion to know everything about her has become my favorite malady, and I’m far too selfish to seek out a cure.
I’ve known my own diagnosis long before I completed my medical degree: psychopath.
But my craving for this woman is the closest thing to human emotion I’ve ever experienced.
I want more.
I want her.
Body, heart, and soul.
Abigail Foster is already mine. She will accept the truth soon enough.