Chapter 16 - Luca
Six hours since I first took her. Six hours of alternating between fucking and planning murder.
Now it’s three a.m. and Faith sleeps against my chest, her weight already familiar after only hours of having her here.
My cock is still half-hard from our last round, her pussy having gripped me so tight when she came that I saw stars.
The evidence of our coupling has dried on her thighs, marking her as mine in the most primal way.
I surprised myself by actually sleeping for a few hours.
Four hours straight, which is some kind of personal record.
My finger traces patterns on her bare skin, deliberate maps rather than random touches.
Here, along her spine, is where I'll make the first cut on Neumann.
Shallow, just enough to make him understand what's coming.
My finger moves to her shoulder blade: deeper here, where the nerve clusters will sing.
The thought of his screams makes my cock twitch against her hip.
She shifts in her sleep, pressing closer, and I note this new data point.
Her breath catches on every seventh exhale, a pattern I've been counting since she fell asleep.
Seven breaths normal, then that tiny hitch, like her body remembers violence even in dreams. Her nipples are still swollen from my mouth, marked with faint teeth impressions that make me want to add more.
My back stings from her nails, long furrows she carved into my skin when she came. The bite mark on my shoulder throbs. Good. I want scars from her. Want evidence that she fights back even while surrendering.
My Glock sits on her nightstand next to her reading glasses.
Violence and innocence side by side. The burner phone beside it buzzes again.
Marco. Fourth call I've ignored. The family needs their enforcer for the Detroit situation.
But their enforcer died somewhere between Faith's first orgasm and her teeth sinking into my neck hard enough to draw blood.
My free hand holds my phone, scrolling through surgical diagrams while my other continues mapping Neumann's future agony on her skin.
Each line I trace is another cut I'll make, another scream I'll extract.
The juxtaposition doesn't feel wrong. Planning systematic torture while my fingers brush against the bruises I sucked into her hip bones.
Tenderness and brutality have always been the same language in my mind. Love letters written in screams.
She clutches at me in her sleep, fingers digging into my ribs like she's afraid I'll vanish.
Through my cameras, I've watched her sleep alone for weeks.
She never reaches for anything, never seeks contact with empty air.
But now, with me here, she anchors herself against my body like I'm the only solid thing in her world.
Her leg hooks over mine, and I can feel the heat of her pussy against my thigh, still wet, still ready.
The realization hits suddenly: I want her more now than before I had her.
This is wrong. Not morally. I don't traffic in morality. But scientifically, psychologically wrong. Possession should diminish interest. The unknown becomes known. The hunt ends. The mystery dissolves into disappointing reality.
I've had twenty-three obsessions since the Rosetti-Moretti massacre. Each one studied, pursued, possessed, discarded. The pattern never varies. Want builds to having. Having leads to boredom. Boredom triggers disposal. Clean. Efficient. Predictable.
But looking at Faith now, tasting her cunt on my tongue still, feeling where she marked my chest with her nails, I need her again. Need to spread her legs and bury my face between them until she screams. Need to fuck her until neither of us can walk. The equation is backward, broken, impossible.
My cock hardens fully at the memory of how she looked riding me earlier, head thrown back, perfect tits bouncing as she used my body for her pleasure. The way her pussy clenched when I wrapped my hand around her throat, just tight enough to make her head fall back in desire.
My mind rifles through past obsessions like filing cards, trying to find the error in this pattern.
But none of them compare to this. To her.
I know exactly how tight her pussy is now, how she tastes, how she begs when she's close.
I should be satisfied. Should be planning my exit.
Instead, I'm calculating how many different ways I can make her come before dawn, how many times I can fill her with my cum until it's dripping down her thighs.
Something cracks in my chest. Recognition. The last time I felt anything close to this intensity was before. Before the massacre. Before I watched my father die and learned that feeling things only leads to agony.
Not yet an adult when everything inside me shut down. The same night I killed Mikhail during the chaos, watched the life leave his eyes as payment for what they'd done to us. A decade of numbness since then, ten years of performing emotions without feeling them.
Faith hasn't just broken my pattern. She's cracked open something I sealed shut that night.
My hand shakes as I trace another line on her skin, plotting Neumann's destruction while my cock throbs against her hip. The tremor disturbs me more than any violence ever has. This feeling, raw, unfiltered, impossible to classify, it's what I felt before trauma rewired my brain.
Faith stirs against me, eyes opening slowly in the darkness.
She sees me awake, watching her, and instead of fear or discomfort, she smiles.
Not her librarian smile or her good-girl mask.
This is the smile of someone who's tasted blood and liked it.
Someone who came on my cock while I told her about the men I've killed for her.
She shifts, rising up to straddle me, completely naked, her pussy already damp against my stomach.
Her hands find my wrists and press them into the mattress.
As if she could really hold me. As if her small hands have any power against my strength.
But I let her pin me, fascinated by this version of her.
Confident in her darkness, taking what she wants.
"Can't sleep?" she asks, rolling her hips, dragging her cunt along my abs, leaving a trail of arousal on my skin.
"I don't sleep," I remind her, but my voice cracks as she grinds down harder, her clit catching on the ridges of my muscles.
"Maybe I can tire you out." She leans down, her hair creating a curtain around us, and pins my wrists tighter. Her tits brush against my chest, nipples hard as diamonds.
"She's joking, but I'm not. I've never been tired out in my life.
"Try," I challenge, my voice a low growl.
She smiles wider, that new smile I've never seen before tonight, the one that makes my cock pulse with need.
Her hands slide from my wrists to my throat, fingers pressing experimentally at the sides.
Not enough to cut off blood flow, just enough to show intent.
To most men, this would be laughable—a woman her size thinking she could dominate someone like me.
But there's nothing funny about the way my body responds, my hips bucking up involuntarily.
"You like that," she whispers, not a question but a statement of fact. Her fingers tighten incrementally on my throat, and I feel my pulse pound against her palm.
I could break her hold in less than a second. Could flip her onto her back and remind her who's in control. Instead, I let her have this moment, curious where she'll take it.
She slides backward, leaving a wet trail down my abs until she's positioned over my cock.
She releases one of my wrists to reach between us, wrapping her delicate fingers around my cock.
The contrast is obscene—her small hand barely circling my girth, pale skin against the angry red of my arousal.
I hiss through my teeth as she positions me at her entrance, teasing us both.
"I want to feel you again," she says, her voice husky with sleep and arousal. "I want to be so full of you I can't think."
I don't answer with words. My hands find her hips, fingers digging into the bruises I left earlier, and I lift her slightly, positioning her. She sinks down slowly, her pussy stretching around me, taking me inch by inch until she's fully seated.
"Fuck," she breathes, her head falling back, exposing the column of her throat marked with my teeth. Her hand drops from my neck as she braces herself on my chest. "You're so deep like this."
I watch her face as she starts to move, the way her lips part and her eyes flutter. The way she takes her pleasure from my body like it belongs to her. Like I belong to her. The thought should enrage me. Instead, it makes my cock throb inside her.
"That's it," I encourage, my voice rough with need. "Use me. Take what you want."
She rocks forward, changing the angle so my cock hits that spot inside her that makes her walls clench around me. Her nails dig into my chest, leaving crescent marks next to the ones she left hours ago.
"Luca," she moans my name like a prayer, riding me with increasing urgency. Her pussy grips me like a vice, her heat enveloping my cock as she rises and falls.
I grab her ass, helping her move, guiding her into a rhythm that has us both panting. She's exquisite like this—taking her pleasure, using my body. The way her tits bounce with each movement hypnotizes me. I reach up to cup them, pinching her nipples between my fingers until she cries out.
"You're never leaving me," I growl, thrusting up to meet her movements. "Say it."
She just gasps, her pussy clenching around me.
I flip us suddenly, pinning her beneath me without breaking our connection.
Her eyes widen with surprise, then darken with lust as I hook her legs over my shoulders, folding her nearly in half.
From this angle, I can drive deeper, hit places inside her that make her bite her lip to keep from screaming.
"Let me hear you," I command, punctuating each word with a thrust. "No one can hear us but me."
She obeys instantly, her cries filling the room as I pound into her relentlessly. Her pussy is soaked, making obscene sounds with each thrust. The headboard slams against the wall, keeping time with our fucking like a metronome of destruction.
"I'm close," she whimpers, her back arching off the bed. "Please, Luca, please…"
I slow my pace deliberately, making her feel every inch of my cock as I withdraw almost completely before sinking back in. "Please what?"
"Make me come," she begs, her hands clutching at my biceps, nails digging in deep enough to leave marks. "I need it. Need you."
The desperation in her voice feeds something primal in me. I reach between us, finding her clit with my thumb, circling it in time with my thrusts. Her pussy flutters around me, on the edge.
"Come for me," I order, pressing down on her clit. "Now."
Her orgasm crashes through her like a tidal wave. Her back bows, her pussy clamping down on my cock with enough force to trigger my own release. I bury myself to the hilt as I come, filling her with hot spurts of cum, marking her from the inside.
We stay locked together as the aftershocks ripple through us both. I lower her legs from my shoulders, but remain inside her, unwilling to break our connection just yet. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, satisfaction written across her features.
This is when interest should fade. When the chase ends and boredom begins. It's the pattern I've followed my entire adult life—want, take, discard. Clean. Efficient.
But as I look down at Faith, feeling her pussy still pulsing gently around my softening cock, I realize I want more.
The pattern is broken beyond repair. The equation has changed, variables shifted into an unfamiliar configuration. Possession should have diminished my interest. Instead, it's intensified it beyond recognition.
I look down at Faith beneath me, her body flushed and marked by my hands, my mouth, my cum leaking from between her thighs. The sight should satisfy me. Instead, it's kindling to a fire I thought had been extinguished years ago.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks, her voice hoarse from screaming my name.
I consider lying. Lying is efficient. But something about the way she's looking at me—like she can see the chaos churning beneath my skin—makes me tell a version of the truth.
"I'm thinking about how this isn't following the pattern."
Her fingers trace the contours of my face, lingering on the scar along my jaw. "What pattern?"
"Want. Take. Discard." I say each word deliberately, watching for her reaction. "That's how it always goes."
Fear flickers in her eyes, quickly replaced by something darker. Understanding. "And where are we in that pattern?"
"That's the problem," I admit, rolling to my side but keeping her close, one leg thrown over hers possessively. "We should be approaching the discard phase. I should be bored now that I've had you."
She goes still against me. "Are you? Bored?"
I laugh, the sound rusty from disuse. "Look at your body, Faith. Look at what I've done to you in the past six hours. Does that look like boredom to you?"
Her hands slide down to the fingerprint bruises on her hips, the bite marks on her breasts, the scratches down her thighs. A small, satisfied smile plays at her lips. "No. It looks like obsession."
"It is. But that's not the point." I reach for my phone, checking the time. Four a.m. Three hours until dawn. "The obsessions always follow the pattern. You're breaking it."
She shifts closer, her small hand splaying across my chest where my heart pounds a rhythm unfamiliar to me. "Maybe I'm different."
"Maybe." I don't tell her that's what terrifies me. That the equations governing my existence for the past decade are suddenly unstable, variables shifting beyond my control. That the wall I built between myself and feeling anything real has cracks I can't repair.