Chapter 3
ASHER
When Dennis McCosky breathes his last breath, my pretty face—as he often referred to it—will be the last thing he sees. He’ll fear me as I once feared the sound of his boots down the hall.
Or the hot, whiskey-scented breath at the back of my neck as he whispered in my ear of all the ways he was going to make me feel good.
But that was a falsehood.
All I ever felt while he took his pleasure from the body I inhabit, was pure rage.
And tonight, I take back. The moment Caleb faded into unconsciousness, I slipped into his skin, as easy as slipping into my worn leather jacket.
I stretch out my fingers, clenching and unclenching my fists. Caleb is making it too easy to take over. He’s drowning, lost in his own weakness.
But me? I don’t wait.
Dennis lounges in a dimly lit booth at the back of the room, a neon sign flickering above his balding head. He lifts another shot glass to his lips, his cheeks flushed from the copious amounts of alcohol he’s already consumed.
A woman in a tight dress clings to him, giggling and batting her eyelashes like he’s not a disgusting rat who needs to be extinguished.
But I understand the truth, she’s only here because he’s paying her.
He certainly has the funds.
It was tragic, really, what happened at the orphanage all those years ago—a fire taking the lives of several employees.
Of course, the authorities had to shut the place down, and Dennis conveniently came into a large sum of money. Enough to keep his mouth shut about what transpired there, I suppose.
It seems prostitutes now fill his sexual appetite. Little boys must be harder to come across these days.
Would he even recognise me now?
I hope so.
He’s just as wretched as the first day I laid eyes on him. Ten years of indulgence have dulled him, his stomach spilling over his belt. His unhealthy state benefits me. He won’t run, not fast enough.
I make my way to the bar, and take a seat at the far end, angling my body behind the low-hanging lights.
Dennis is none-the-wiser.
The relentless thumping of the bass from the massive speakers matches the pulse in my temple. Sweat clings to the air, mingling with stale beer and cheap perfume of rented women.
My fingers twitch against the switchblade tucked securely inside the pocket of my jacket.
Soon.
One last drink. One last laugh. That’s all he gets.
“Haven’t seen you around here before?” The bartender’s voice scratches at my brain, as if she’s been sucking down cigarettes her entire life. She leans against the opposite edge of the bar, her bleached blonde—or should I say yellow—hair a towering nest on top of her head. “What’ll it be, honey?”
“Water. Thanks.” I return my gaze to Dennis, but I can sense her assessing me with curious eyes.
They always do.
But she’s not my type.
I drum my fingers against the sticky bar top, keeping in time with the beat of the music. After all, I’m just another face in this crowded shithole, seeking refuge in anonymity.
Another woman, one who smells of vanilla and familiarity, laughs, spitting her drink all over my hand. “Water?” She chokes on the word. “Looks like someone’s here for a big night.”
Jaw clenched, I shake my hand out, saliva and alcohol dripping onto the floor. I snatch a cocktail napkin from the bar, keeping my focus on the fat man at the back of the room, and clean myself up.
No distractions tonight.
I drop the napkin back onto the bar.
“Hey, I know you.” A moments pause, then the woman taps my shoulder. “Caleb.” I stiffen. “It’s me. Maeve Lockhart.”
So, she thinks I’m Caleb, does she?
I arch an eyebrow, shooting her a quick glance. My hands tighten into fists as though I’m not quite in control. I force them to unclench.
It is her—the journalist. Miss Maeve Lockhart. The one who came sniffing around Caleb yesterday. I’d heard her voice through the echoes of his mind, and now, here she is, clearly intoxicated . . . and vulnerable.
Maeve frowns as she squints at me. “You look . . . different, though. Plus, I never thought I’d see you in a place like this.” She snorts out a laugh, but there’s a stiffness to her posture.
She’s drunk, but not completely stupid.
How ironic that I’d find her in this state. Fate, it seems, has a sense of humour.
I, however, have more important things to attend to. And it’s not fucking this worthless human up against the wall outside the bar.
Perhaps another time.
Maeve mumbles incoherently to herself, and the bartender sets my glass of water down. It disappears, Maeve snatching it up, and bringing it to her lipstick-smudged lips. In a matter of seconds, the contents of the glass are gone.
She must have a death wish because what in the actual fuck is wrong with her? Besides the need to brush her hair and clean up her mascara-smeared face.
The bartender raises an eyebrow, a smirk on her thin lips. I’m glad one of us finds this amusing.
“Friend of yours?” she says, her tone laced with sarcasm.
“No.”
I don’t do friends. Other people are a distraction, their emotions ruling them.
Caleb, the snivelling coward, let this one inside his sanctuary, let her probe at the cracks of his broken mind. He’s always been too soft, too trusting. And now she’s here, like a moth drawn to the flame of Thornhaven’s horrors. She better be careful or she’ll get burned.
By me.
The bartender throws Maeve a stern look—not that she’s aware—and moves down the bar to attend to another drunk arsehole.
Maeve slams the empty water glass down, then falls face first onto the timber bar with an audible thud.
She turns her head, peering up at me through one eye. “You have a pretty face,” she says, reaching out a hand. “It’s . . . unnerving.”
So is you trying to touch me.
I rear back, my upper lip curling. Her hand falls short of my face and lands on my upper arm instead. She keeps it there, fingers twitching against my jacket.
“I’m assuming you’re unfamiliar with the concept of personal space,” I say, shoving her hand away.
She may very well regret doing such a thing if I don’t get my way tonight.
Again, I return my focus to Dennis and continue to drum a rhythm on the bar, the coolness of it soothing the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
The woman is now perched on his lap, his greasy fingers dragging over her skin like she’s a meal he’s already claimed.
He’ll be lucky if I let him keep those hands before I rip out his insides.
Maeve groans as if she’s in some sort of pain. Nothing is going to ruin my night, not even a drunk pain in my arse, who, upon further inspection, is exactly my type.
Dark hair, dishevelled and wild spills over her shoulder like ink. And the perfect neck to wrap my hands around.
I tilt my head and assess her.
Pale skin, too smooth, too breakable. Something about her draws me in. Perhaps I knew her in a previous life. Or perhaps my instincts aren’t as sharp as they once were.
Either way, it doesn’t matter. She’ll be dead soon enough. By my hands, or her own. Nothing good ever survives here.
I could kill her now, snuff out her light before she uncovers too much. That’s probably premature, though. I prefer to play with my food before I devour it.
“I’m not usually like this,” Maeve says, leaning in closer, her voice barely audible above the pounding music. “I found something out today that really upset me.” She pouts as she props her head up with a hand, elbow pressed into the sticky timber.
Of course she did. She’s been playing detective, digging where she doesn’t belong. She probably stumbled onto something too big for her pretty little head to comprehend.
“You are a journalist, are you not?”
She frowns. “Well . . . yes. But that’s not?—”
“You should learn to control your emotions,” I say, dismissing her words as nothing more than insignificant whining.
She snorts in response. “Easier said than done.”
Not really. It’s quite easy for me to feel nothing at all. Emotions are a weakness I refuse to succumb to.
Sure, I’ve felt pain before. I’m not immune. But sadness? Nope. Guilt? Nothing. All the things that make someone . . . human? Not a chance.
Caleb does enough feeling for the both of us, which leaves me free to do what needs to be done. I should thank him, but I’d never stoop so low as to thank that worthless piece of shit for anything. It’s him who should be thankful. He’s still alive because of my protection.
Maeve grabs my wrist, forcing me to acknowledge her desperation. “Do you know what it’s like to want something for so long, only to find out you’ll never get it?”
I glare at her, at her smudged makeup, the tear tracks running down her cheeks. She’s clearly unstable. If she’s looking for sympathy, she won’t find it here.
I shake her off. “You’ll get over it.”
That’s twice now she’s put her hands on me. She’s lucky I’m willing to let it slide.
Her expression falls, and she glances down at her trembling hands now resting in her lap. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s the problem. I don’t think I ever will.”
I open my mouth to respond, but a swarm of people move in front of me, obstructing my view. Dennis disappears behind them. This is not ideal.
I stand and step forward, but Maeve grabs my arm again, her sharp nails piercing my skin.
Third time now. She’s about to lose those hands.
Ever so slowly, I turn, my patience with her running on fumes.
Her dark eyes find mine, drawing me back in. “He’s dead now,” she says, a single tear slipping down her cheek. “Do you know what that means?”
“No, and I don’t care.”
Am I a mind reader? Am I supposed to know who she’s referring to?
What I do know is I’m about two seconds away from snapping the digits from her hand and giving her something else to cry about.
Instead, I peel her fingers from my arm and stalk off into the crowd. By the time I find a gap, both Dennis and the woman he was with have vanished.
Fuck.
My chest tightens, my breathing laboured. I dart around the room, scanning every dark corner.
For the first time in a long time, unease sets up in my stomach. I’ve never let myself get distracted, and now my plan is fucked to high heaven.
Dennis is gone. And so is my restraint.
Now, I’ll have to reset, start again, come up with a more foolproof plan. One that doesn’t involve distractions.
I’ll have to get him alone.
Fists clenched at my sides, I take several deep breaths. No matter. This is fine, just a slight hitch in my plan.
Doesn’t mean my night needs to go to waste, though. I roll my shoulders and turn my attention back to the bar, scanning the space for her.
There she is, stumbling her way towards the exit, unaware of the predator stalking behind her.
Dennis can wait. Maeve Lockhart, the relentless journalist, is the bigger threat to me right now. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s already mine. And when I’m done with her, she won’t be asking any more questions.
Maybe she’ll even beg me to do it, to end her miserable life.
In a matter of seconds, I eat up the distance between us and come up beside her. “How about I drive you home?” I say, flashing her my trademark smile.
Or should I say, Caleb’s trademark smile.
One good thing about him is, he’s one good-looking sonofabitch, which benefits me. It doesn’t take much more than a flash of teeth, and a few whispered words to get what I want.
Maeve leans into me, a movement I’m not sure she’s entirely aware of. She’s perfect. Drunk and desperate. Humans are so predictable when they’re at their weakest.
Our eyes meet, and her expression changes, a flicker of panic flashing across her features. She loses her footing, and stumbles forward, arms flailing.
Jesus Christ.
“Easy now,” I say, catching her around the waist, steadying her back on her feet.
The warmth of her body beneath my hands is just what I need. Pity there’ll be no warmth left in her when I’m done. I can see it all play out in my mind now.
My hands wrapped around her throat.
Her desperate gasps for air silenced by the tightening of my grip.
Her eyes wide and pleading.
But I won’t stop. Not until her limbs go limp, her chest ceases to rise and fall, and her heart stops beating.
“How do you do that?” she says when she’s upright once again.
I tilt my head. “Do what?”
She frowns, a small pout on her plush lips. “Act like we’re friends after you threw me out of the clinic yesterday.”
Ah, yes. Caleb did do that.
She pokes me in the chest. “You’ve barely spoken to me all night.”
I shrug, attempting nonchalance. “Would you believe me if I said my fiancé just left me for another man and I’m stalking him to find out where he lives so I can torture him to death?”
She laughs, the sound rolling over my skin like warm honey. “So now you have jokes? I forgot you’re the funny guy.”
We have very different ideals of what is classed as funny, it seems.
A smirk tugs at the corners of my lips. “You don’t know the half of it.” I drop to her eye level, placing my hands on her shoulders. My offer of apology. “How about this, let me make it up to you by driving you home? It’s the least I can do after my rudeness yesterday. And tonight, I suppose. It seems my manners have escaped me.”
Maeve chews her bottom lip, studying me with those captivating eyes of hers. She really is familiar, the darkness inside me reaching for her, clutching at the space between us.
But it’s not just recognition, it’s something deeper, something old.
A flicker of something I can’t quite grasp.
A dark hallway. A whisper in the night. The scent of vanilla and blood. The sound of a girl crying.
Then it’s gone.
“You don’t even know where I live,” Maeve says finally.
I let out a chuckle. She’s making this too easy for me. “Do you?”
Hands on her full hips, she narrows her eyes. “Yes. I know where I live, thank you very much. I may be drunk, but I’m not stupid, Caleb. I’m also not about to tell you where I live. You could be a stalker . . . or worse.”
Oh, I’m definitely worse.
I rub at the dark stubble on my jaw. “So, how were you planning on getting home, then?” I say, giving her tight body a once over.
She really is a fucking stunner.
She lifts a shoulder. “An Uber.”
I step closer, grabbing the back of her neck and rubbing my thumb over her soft skin. “An Uber driver could be anyone,” I murmur, leaning in just enough for her to catch the scent of my cologne. “And you know me, Maeve. Wouldn’t you rather be safe?”
Her lips twitch, like she’s weighing the logic. The moment she decides, I know I have her. She’s a fucking piece of cake. Plant a tiny seed of doubt, make her question her reasoning. Done.
“Well,” she says, grabbing onto my arm when I hold it out to her, “I suppose you’re right. Promise you won’t murder me in some dark alleyway?”
“Promise.”
It won’t be in an alleyway. That’s too messy. Too unpredictable. But her bed, while I sink into her? Now that’s more my style.
Her smile flickers, something unreadable in her gaze. I don’t like it.
It’s Caleb, his pathetic empathy bleeding through. I could keep up that pretence. But, deep down, I know that’s a lie. It’s her. She stirs at memories I can’t quite reach. Faint, fragmented, like smoke slipping through my fingers.
I place a hand on the small of her back. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s circling closer to the truth with every step.
Closer to me. And that’s exactly where I want her.
* * *
I pull up into the driveway outside 1120 Nightshade Avenue.
It wasn’t hard to pry the details from her. She didn’t hesitate, the liquor in her system rendering her incapable of sensing danger.
The house looms in front of us, sagging under its own weight, ivy crawling up the walls. Empty windows glare back, vacant, but all seeing.
Thunder rumbles in the distance, lightning piercing the sky overhead, revealing what lingers in the shadows.
But the things hiding there? They don’t matter. They’re not me.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. The air’s wrong. Stale. Like rot. This place doesn’t want me here. Fine. It wasn’t my first choice, either.
My passenger is out cold, her breathing soft and even, her face angled towards me as though I’m to be trusted.
I brush a strand of dark, tangled hair away from her face, revealing a small scar above her left eyebrow. It’s much more visible in the quiet of my car, the moonlight filtering in through the windscreen highlighting her perfect face.
Without thinking, I trace my thumb over the raised skin. A mark. A flaw. A weakness.
Did someone give her that? Not that it’ll matter soon enough.
Her breath is even, peaceful, her chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. It really is a shame I must end the life of such a beautiful creature. Despite her delicate features and innocent appearance, she’s far from it. She got in my way, just like all the others who have crossed me.
I’m nothing, if not consistent.
Well . . . best I get started then.
I snatch her handbag from the floor beside her feet, and rummage through it until I find her wallet. I pull out her driver’s licence.
Maeve Lockhart. Born 23 October 1998. She’s an organ donor.
Ironic. By the time anyone discovers her body, her organs will be useless.
With a heavy sigh, I shove her licence back in her wallet and toss it back into her handbag. I climb from the car, the chill in the air biting at my skin as I survey our surroundings. It’s more secluded than I had initially thought.
Bittersweet, really. There’ll be no-one close enough to hear her beautiful screams. Well, no-one but me.
Gravel crunches under my boots, echoing through the stillness as I round the front of the car and open the passenger door. In one swift movement, I scoop my sleeping beauty into my arms, cradling her limp body against my chest, kicking the door closed. She moans, the sound vibrating through my muscles.
Holding someone’s life in my hands, there’s nothing more powerful. More final.
The porch groans beneath my feet, rotting planks threatening to give way under our combined weight. With one hand, I rummage through her mess of a handbag once again and locate the keys to her house.
Jesus Christ.
They’re labelled. It’s almost as if she wants me to take advantage of her. I shove the key into the lock, twisting it until the sound of the latch breaks the silence.
The door swings open, and the moment I cross the threshold, the air shifts, charged, as if holding its breath.
Pity Maeve is about to breathe her last.
I ease the door closed behind us and navigate the moonlit hallway. Maeve’s intoxicating scent grows stronger, clinging to the walls, thick and suffocating, the further I get into the house.
The hardwood floors creak, but Maeve remains still in my arms, completely unaware of who she’s allowed into her home.
Instinct guides me to the correct door—her bedroom—the first on the right.
Moonlight filters in through the large window along one wall, illuminating the chaos and disarray of the space. Items of clothing are scattered across the floor, so I kick them out of my way, and place Maeve down on the bed.
A foreign sensation prickles at the base of my spine.
Unwelcome.
I shake it off. I’m the nightmare who haunts the dark, not the one who cowers within it.
Closing my eyes, I press my nose to the top of Maeve’s head, breathing her in. My skin warms at the intimacy of this moment.
Maeve at my mercy, vulnerable.
I could take her life right now. Snap her slender neck without a trace of remorse. Then leave her to decompose all alone.
But that would be such a waste. Maeve deserves for me to cherish every second with her, not go off half-cocked for a quick fix.
Instead, I’ll take my time. I’ve got another hour before I need to be home, like the good little boy, I am. After all, I can’t work in this body if I run it into the ground. Caleb needs his beauty sleep.
I step back from the side of the bed, shaking my head.
This just won’t do. A clean room, and a made bed paves the way to a clear mind. If you can’t control your space, you can’t control yourself.
I’ve heard that phrase a hundred times. A thousand. Drummed into Caleb’s subconscious during our stint at the orphanage. Too bad it was me who took the punishment when Caleb failed to listen.
I move about the room, picking up stray items of clothing and dumping them in the laundry hamper in her adjoining bathroom. A pair of black cotton briefs catch my attention. I snatch them up, pressing them to my nose, and inhaling the musky scent of her pussy still lingering on the fabric. My cock stirs, straining against the zipper of my dark jeans.
I groan and pull it out, stroking myself. Maeve remains unconscious on the bed. I glance down at the appendage in my hand. I could choke her with it, force it so far down her throat she won’t be able to breathe. I’d love nothing more than to spill my hot cum down her oesophagus and continue to fuck her until her body goes cold and rigid.
Heat unravels low in my stomach with each stroke, each ragged breath. Fuck. The need to claim her thrums beneath my skin.
Maeve stirs, so I release my cock and shove it back into my jeans.
Thornhaven Orphanage taught me the value of patience. The value of planning. They turned me into a creature of precision, not impulse. It’s time to do what I came here to do.
With her underwear still wrapped around my fist, I creep to the side of the bed. A single strand of hair clings to her lips, fluttering slightly with each soft exhale. She looks so . . . peaceful. Innocent.
But I know better. Questions like hers don’t come without consequences.
She’s the perfect victim.
With a tilt of my head, I run the back of my knuckles down her soft, tear-stained cheek. Such a pretty thing, even as pathetic as she is.
Killing her will be easy. Just as it was gutting sweet, old Dr. Hendry. The news of his death circulated around town faster than I expected. The way I strung his body up from a ceiling fan, his insides hanging on the outside . . . it really was a work of art.
It just so happened that I took too long, and Caleb stirred, hence the lack of clean up.
Doesn’t matter, though. It got his attention. He can’t alert authorities without pointing the finger at himself. And I’d never be stupid enough to allow him—myself—to get caught.
Maeve lets out a small whimper in her sleep, her eyes darting from side to side under her eyelids. What is she dreaming about? Monsters? About me?
A smirk creeps onto my lips, my mouth watering. What would her tears taste like?
I’ll find out soon enough. This is just too easy.
The room is quiet, Maeve’s soft breathing mingling with the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and the slow drip of a tap somewhere down the hall.
Each sound sharpens, distinct, and I let them settle into the edges of my mind.
Noise is never a distraction.
Caleb, on the other hand? He’s nothing but noise. Static. A flickering light that never knows when to burn out. He’s slipping, weakening. Thinks he’s going crazy. And when the time comes, there won’t be anything left of him to stop me.
Then there’s her. Maeve. She doesn’t even realise she’s circling the edge of the abyss, and she’s about to tumble over it.
I adjust myself above her on the bed, straddling her waist. She doesn’t flinch, the alcohol pumping through her system rendering her immobile.
Should I wake her? Make her fight for her pathetic life?
No. Perhaps, tonight, I keep the upper hand. Surprise her.
I wrap my hands around her throat, my heart thumping rapidly against my ribcage.
This is it. I can taste her death already, my muscles humming to the beat of my pulse.
Instead of squeezing, my grip loosens. How bizarre. My hands won’t respond. I shake them out and try again.
Maybe it’s the way Caleb’s voice echoes in my head, louder than ever.
“Don’t do it, you bastard.”
He’s stronger than I give him credit for, and for once, I can’t push him aside.
My jaw tightens as I hover over her, my hands still gently wrapped around her delicate throat. I’m as limp as my dick is right now, and just as pathetic as the other personality I share this body with.
I shake my head, and sniff, squaring my shoulders and stretching out my fingers once more. On the count of three.
One.
She’s nothing special .
Two.
Just fucking do it .
Thr—
The pattering of small footsteps sound in the hallway. Then the bedroom door swings open, and a panting ball of white fluff comes racing up to the side of the bed. It jumps up, its small front legs struggling to lift its own weight.
Great. Another distraction.
Only this one is . . . quite adorable.
I scoff. Adorable? That is definitely Caleb’s influence.
That word doesn’t exist in the vocabulary for someone of my nature.
“Get lost,” I mutter, flicking a hand at it as I climb off Maeve, my high from moments ago now extinguished.
The damn thing doesn’t cower. Doesn’t even flinch. It should. It should know what I am.
Instead, it remains panting, tongue hanging out, tail wagging. It doesn’t sense the predator before it. Such a trusting animal. Just like its owner.
How the hell does Caleb deal with such a creature? Just one minute with this little shit, and I’m ready to launch it out the window.
Let’s see you smile then, you tiny waste of space.
I glare down at it. “Run back into the hole you crawled out of and leave me alone so I can murder your mother in peace.”
It doesn’t listen, just licks the bare skin on my ankle where my jeans have ridden up. I jerk back, losing my balance, and hitting a wall with a loud thud.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Maeve stirs again, and I pause like a child caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
It’s as if this animal knows exactly how to push my buttons and make me look foolish.
Exactly like Maeve did tonight.
She shifts onto her side, her cheek now pressed against her pillow, while the dog continues to observe my every move, its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth.
A low growl rumbles deep within my chest. I hang my head and scrub my hands over my face.
Being in Maeve’s house, in her room, surrounded by her unique scent, stirs something inside me. Something I’ve only ever felt once before.
I move to the window and crack it open. A cool breeze wafts in, bringing with it the smell of rain and decay. But Maeve’s scent still lingers, still claws at my memories.
A stark white room.
Blood pooling on white tiles.
A girl.
My gaze snaps to the woman behind me.
No . . . it’s not possible.
I eat up the distance between us. “Little Shadow?” I whisper, dropping to my knees beside the bed. “Is that you? Have you come back for me this time?”
Still, I’m unsure. My memories aren’t what they used to be. They’re faded. Dulled. But I remember enough. The last time I held her, it’ll be burned into my brain for eternity.
Sighing, I run a thumb over her full bottom lip, pulling it down to reveal her teeth. A front tooth on her bottom jaw sits slightly crooked.
Interesting.
I lift the sleeve of my shirt. A scar—in the shape of a bite mark—mars my skin like a taunt. But it shows me exactly what I suspected. Perfect alignment, except for a small deviation, right in the centre of the smaller scar.
Clenching my jaw, I drop my sleeve.
You shouldn’t have come back here, Little Shadow. It’s not safe for you.
But now . . .
I exhale sharply. Now, I can’t kill her.
What I can do, is leave her with a warning. I’ll remind her who’s in control by taking the thing she loves most.
With a little perk in my step, I stride for the door and into her kitchen, carefully opening drawers as I search for what I need. On the top shelf of the pantry, I find what I’m looking for—a small bag of treats for her loyal companion.
How touching.
It’s almost too easy.
I whistle softly as I scrawl on a notepad sitting beside an old vase on the kitchen bench. The words come easily, each letter a warning carved into her future.
I rip the note from the notepad and make my way back into Maeve’s bedroom. She’s still in the same position, so I stalk over and crouch beside her, brushing my knuckles down her cheek.
She doesn’t move as I lean in and skim my lips over the shell of her ear. “I found you once. I’ll find you again.”
She shifts slightly, frowning. Does some part of her hear me? Recognise me?
A smile creeps onto my lips.
Good. I want her to remember.
Straightening, I place the note onto her nightstand, adjusting it to the right angle. She’ll find it first thing in the morning, along with the body of her precious pet.
I reach into my pocket, curling my fingers around the small vial I keep for emergencies. Simple. A few drops, and the mutt will be a writhing, convulsing heap before sunrise.
The dog pants, tail wagging. Idiot. Does it not sense danger? What use is it then if he can’t protect her when she needs it most?
I roll the vial between my fingers, the liquid swirling. This isn’t hesitation. This is discipline. The difference between the strong and the weak.
I decide how much suffering to leave behind.
Kneeling, I open the vial and add a few drops to the treat balanced on my palm. And yet, the furry little beast doesn’t run. It’s waiting, thinks it’s going to be rewarded.
Maeve will wake soon. And when she does, she’ll know exactly what I’m capable of.
I hold out the treat.
It doesn’t hesitate.
Neither do I.