Chapter 19
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
LINCOLN
I am a rarity, an anomaly in the human mind.
I possess a profound comprehension of my identity and what defines me. It is a strange sensation, being aware of my reality, yet living a life devoid of emotions with a deep clarity of my purpose. I can envision what it’s like to be a machine programmed for a specific task without the agency to deviate from its intended purpose. I recognize when there is a flaw in the system that makes up my flawless mind.
I’m losing control.
Every second Summer is around us, Mikael grows stronger, more aware, and alert. Those tendrils are spinning. The whiplash-inducing shift from his psychotic hatred of Summer to an equally intense, blind love is deeply unsettling. It’s not surprising, considering Mikael created me the moment he saw her. Or at least, let me grow from the fragment I was before that. Part of me has always existed, but that was my first real memory as a separate entity.
He initially programmed me to protect her. But I grew stronger and took over his life and made it my own. His life got infinitely better, and I finished the requirements for my degree within record time. Dr. Garcia used her power to legally change my name. Which was easy since she kept him hidden in her basement for years, and Lucy homeschooled him. He had no friends, no acquaintances.
A life of zero substance.
Which is why I’m doing my best to keep my distance from Summer since she came into my office, even though she’s all I think about. I can’t protect her the way I need to when I’m around her. Earlier this week, I gave into temptation and answered her call. I helped her study, she took off her clothes and let me watch her as she did naughty things, and then she eventually fell asleep with her camera on.
Mikael, as chaotic as he is, is simple. His mind never progressed beyond the day I was formed. He didn’t need to, since I took over that role. He’s still an adolescent—an angry adolescent with zero control over his emotions. And now, whenever we’re in her presence, it feels like we’re united, almost indistinguishable.
Almost, but not quite.
There is something else festering in my mind, something more complex I can’t quite comprehend. I sensed it in the office when I watched Summer leave, and again when she took off her clothes for me a few days ago. It’s growing, deepening its roots, almost as if this emotion doesn’t belong to him, but to me.
It’s Saturday night, and I’m working at my desk as loud music pumps from upstairs. I take my contacts out, and for a moment my vision is blurred until I slip my glasses on and take a moment to admire the photos he snapped of her the weekend she moved in.
I can’t deny how badly I want her. My fascination with Summer Landry has unexpectedly morphed into something else.
She has zero fear, just primal lust for a masked man who’s already proved dangerous. Even if she has put the pieces together that it’s me.
Mikael flutters up my spine at the thought of her.
“Relax. She wasn’t reacting to you.”
He flutters again. “Yes, she was.”
Admittedly, he might be right. The nights we shared with Summer are blurred. A push and pull between him and I.
His love. His hate.
Love. Hate. Love. Hate.
He had a brief moment of sanity before his hatred completely consumed him. It was during this time he did the most selfless thing he could do.
He put himself in a box.
All I have are fleeting moments of satisfaction, frustration, and anger, which put me on a constant pursuit of pleasure and knowledge, which is a wonderful place to be.
I’ve yet to feel anything truly gratifying. The more I understood her connection to Mikael, the more I had a compulsion to understand her better. As I spent time with Summer’s father and learned what he was, I started asking questions. Like one of the ultimate debates in the field of psychology.
Nature vs. Nurture.
Was she born with it, or was she created like I was, through trauma?
I move my laptop to my desk, shut off the lights and, heading to the back of the basement, I pull open the trapdoor. I cough as the dust kicks up into my face. I wipe it off my designer sweater.
I’m sure Cali isn’t a big fan, either, but I couldn’t have Summer see or hear her, so I set a mattress down here and attempted to make it as comfortable as possible.
These tunnels, likely constructed during the Prohibition, have been quite useful over the years. This house is very old, almost ancient, and disturbingly evil. I shudder to think how many people have died here.
Dr. Garcia gifted Xander and me this house—the same house she lived in when she was a student. Now it’s our turn to kill and carry it forward.
When I open the door, I turn on the small light. Cali is lying down with dirt streaks smeared over her delicate face, even though I just washed her up yesterday. I had to bind her mouth today. Her sobbing got tiresome, and I’m sick of drugging her.
She stares up at me as I crouch down next to her. “I’m going to take out your gag now so you can eat. Please don’t scream.”
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she stares at me, likely trying to figure out which version she is getting.
I pull the gag out and hand her the salad and a fork with a bottle of water.
She looks at me dead in the eye. “I hate you.”
I take a deep breath and run my knuckles softly down her face. The fear bleeding out of her eyes, the emotional response she has to me. “I’m not the one who did this to you, Cali,” I remind her, “but I am the reason you’re not dead yet. So hating me might not be wise.”
She doesn’t respond, though a single tear falls from her eye, and she digs into the gourmet salad she requested. She bristles, and eventually, her fear morphs into anger. She’s already cried, begged, screamed, and offered herself to me in hopes I would let her go.
Truth is, I’m not entirely sure he hasn’t hurt her. I don’t think he has, but he has blocked me out for short periods already, and she does look an awful lot like Summer.
Cali is aware there are two of us—it was blatantly obvious on day one.
Despite these non ideal circumstances, I have utilized the opportunity to work on my research and have been studying her diligently since I possessed her. I’ve observed her every night since he took her weeks ago. Fever, chills, her rapid heart rate, and vomiting. I’ve kept her comfortable—more or less—and have been nothing but kind and courteous. I even bought her a few books to read and have made multiple trips to the bookstore at her request.
I take a moment to admire her as she finishes her food and curls her knees up to her chest. A deep flare erupts inside me as I watch her.
That emotion again…that fragment in my soul pushing to the surface.
I lower myself to her and pull down the strap of her shirt over her shoulders. She flinches at my touch.
“Don’t worry, Cali,” I say softly, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to check your pulse.”
Her body slacks, and her face turns ashen.
Okay, maybe I’m trying to scare her a bit. But only because it’s so fascinating, and I can understand why Dr. Landry was obsessed with this emotion.
This girl’s breathing is rapid, causing her chest to rise and fall. I tilt my head for dramatic measure, and notice the throb in her throat, the slight change in her pupils, and her cheeks, which are completely devoid of color.
I place my two fingers on her chest and study the rhythm of her heart. Her goosebumps flesh when I touch her.
I just told this girl in all honesty, I wasn’t going to hurt her, yet her biochemical reaction is that of extreme fear and anxiety. Her eyes are fully glazed over.
I feel myself slowly, and ever so slightly, get turned on.
She visibly relaxes, but her eyes are bright, and they flick down to the bulge in my pants.
I lean down and whisper in her ear, “I’m not going to fuck you, either, Cali.”
It’s happening again. His emotions, his physical sensations, start to trickle in. For the time being I’m able to push them aside, but dark images of her eyes being gouged out consume my mind, and it’s not a pleasant sight.
Not urges , I remind myself. I don’t desire this woman.
These are his memories. Memories.
My skin burns, arousal thickens, and my chest expands.
He’s a killer.
He’s killed multiple women while Dr. Garcia had him in her clutches. She brought him prostitutes and transients, people who didn’t matter, to see what he would do with them when left to his own devices.
He was thirteen, and what was left of those women was carnage.
Before I can fully comprehend what I’m doing, I slide the razor blade over the flesh of her arm. I just want to see how much blood spills out.
She screams—luckily the music spilling from above mutes her—and I jolt back.
Fuck. What am I doing? Why is this so natural? So satisfying.
Using all my willpower to keep him at bay, I step away from her. A dark laugh fills the room and a small flicker hits my center.
That fucking flicker, flying around my head like a moth I can’t catch. The little angry split.
I take a deep breath, watching the blood trickle from her arm, and she passes out. I take off my sweater, but before I wrap her arm with it, I snap a photo of her. I can’t help myself because the blood is so beautiful.
Coming to my senses, I wrap the sweater around her arm to stop the bleeding. Once I’m done and satisfied she won’t die in the next hour, I leave the room as quickly as I can before we kill her. Mikael’s so embedded in me now, I’m unsure where the lines of our subconscious lie.
This girl will be the key to saving Summer’s life, so I need her to not end up looking like a scarecrow. And frankly, I do not want to deal with a corpse.