Chapter 3
VICTORIA
Ididn’t sleep at all.
Every time I was about to call it a night, the image of the Professor’s face pushed away the exhaustion burning behind my eyes.
Each article he published, that off-hand comment during a panel, the shift in posture while he speaks—I know it all.
His lectures are nothing short of a fascinating case study dissection. He doesn’t promote unproven theories that are nothing more than puked up ideas. On the contrary. He talks like he is well familiar with the subject, almost like he lives it himself.
Azrael talks about mind controlling, psychopathic behavior that could be adjusted, theories that could be applied to a deranged mind, and eventually, make it function normally. Or at least give it the illusion it’s feeling something, which is a good enough option for me.
He keeps on mentioning some sort of step that could lock—or unlock—the dead parts of the human brain, with such confidence that I can almost believe he’s done it before. And all I can hear is the impossible—a promise of a sensation I thought was gone forever. My way out of all this fucking mess.
It’s like his entire being was put on this planet just to fulfill my need, to break me and build me back up.
Is it unusual to want to be destroyed? Probably.
But after what happened last night, there is no question I need to fix something inside my brain before I have to do damage control on the consequences.
For over a decade now, I’d been numb. None of the emotions that make people feel alive ever reached me, and everything blurred into a long sequence of empty events.
The months turn into years, while the moments when I feel alive are so few and far between that I’m surprised I’m still functioning like a proper human being. Nothing, apart from the pleasure of wine and the thrill from the kill, can stir up any sort of entertainment in my life.
People’s presence is insufferable, interactions with them even more so.
I despise everything that involves someone else’s presence, jobs aside, and living among the others feels like a curse.
I’m drowning in this existence, and the thought of building a life alone in the middle of the woods is increasingly appealing.
In a few words, I’m a ghost trapped in my body, incapable of finding a way to come back to life. Until now.
Hour after hour, I continue doing my research on what the Professor’s life looks like, until Alex pulls me out of my train of thought with an impromptu call.
“What?” I answer, too eager to hang up and continue with my little project.
“I got his profile. Very pathetic, if you ask me, nothing special. Uni, two gap years after his PhD, and then became a professor. Pretty smart, but I wouldn’t put him above average.”
Something in his voice tells me he’s not actually believing it and there is something he’s holding back from me.
“Are you sure that’s it?” I demand skeptically.
“Yes, positive. If I were you, I would drop it. What do you even want from him?”
“Alex, darling.” A dangerous smile forms on my lips. “Since when do I have to explain myself to you? He’s just a tool for a small project that’s school-related.”
The words are a blurred truth, per se. After all, we don’t share personal information.
“Just send everything over,” I mention vaguely before I end the call.
Alex has never questioned me before, and this isn’t the first time I’ve asked him to look into a random person.
The guy who is cleaning my house every week?
Full profile of his drinking addiction and his AA meetings.
The woman who cooks my food and delivers it to the door?
Gabriela, my other team member, put a camera in her house just to make sure she’s not trying any funny business with what I’m eating.
But Alex is also known for minding my business a little too much sometimes, so this must be it.
I open the Professor’s picture once again.
If his brain is not appealing enough, his face would make it work.
Azrael’s face is a work of brutal art on its own.
Every feature is perfectly shaped—a chiseled jaw, a sharp nose, and cheekbones that belong on Greek gods’ sculptures.
He’s perfectly made, perfectly shaped, perfectly blank.
How calm he looks in every shot is what undoes me when I try to read him. Like nothing can shake him because he’s already imagined the moment and decided precisely how it would end.
His cold, unblinking eyes are the only indication that all that perfection promises nothing but ruin. His entire persona emanates danger, and under normal circumstances, a person should be slightly scared to approach him at high speed. But not me.
He doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve decided. He’s my new toy now.
Alex sent a lot of empty information, about the same as what I got, most of it school related. The only difference is the forum, which apparently is filled with nothing more than horny students drooling over their professors while wondering how big their cocks are.
Everything about his educational life is out there in the open.
And then there is silence. Nothing about his personal life, family, or anything remotely close to friends.
No intimate pictures, no “I caught this fish, like the picture” posts—although, to be honest, I’ll give up on the idea he is anything but a worthless tampon if I come across anything like this.
Not the casual quiet of privacy, but the absolute kind.
Why does it make me want him even more? God, I love a human who makes me question everything.
I can’t wait for him to shatter whatever fragile part of me can’t pull itself together.
And then, when he is done, I will make him my puppet until I’m over him and that beautiful mind of his. Then maybe I’ll kill him later.
The thought of him knowing I exist is enough to short-circuit the fragile scrap of sanity I have left.
I imagine his hand around my throat, depriving me of air, so close to death I can feel my soul leaving my body and going straight to hell just so he can pull me back up and revive me.
To whisper words of death in my ear as he gives me my life back.
Azrael Lennox will not save me. He’ll ruin me, leave fingerprints on my brain I would never scrub clean, and I will thank him for it.
The phone buzzes. The image of Alex with a hole in his brain from my bullet becomes more vivid with every interaction.
“He left the lecture early. Heading to the café on campus.”
“And you’re telling me this… why?” I answer, not giving in to the excitement I feel inside. “Is he our target now, or are you just telling me where my belongings are?”
But I’m low-key pleased with the new information.
“Not quite.” His voice is laced with subtle anger. “He’s not a target, but I also don’t particularly care. So go, have fun, and get over this. We have a job to do and not enough time for your hobbies.” And with that, he hangs up the phone.
Call it strange, but I couldn’t care less about what he wants or what needs to be done. It’s time to play.
I slip on my leather jacket before picking up my bag, and vanish into the gray chill of evening, melding into the crowds. The distant hum of traffic, the frenzy of people rushing aimlessly around—a million lives flowing around me. But only one that matters.
The café he chose is simply unremarkable. From my shadowed corner seat, I watch Azrael as he sits alone, absorbed in his phone, fingers forming messages I long to delete so nobody knows about his existence.
The subtle parting of his lips before the mug touches them, the tension in his jaw, the flex of muscles beneath his sleeves—each small motion ignites a fierce hunger inside me. The way he lifts the coffee cup, fingers curling like they’re gripping a weapon. Fingers meant for choking…
No, Victoria. You’re not allowed to fuck him, not until he fixes you at least.
But this will be so hard. This man is the pure dictionary definition of my fantasies, my own slow-motion porn. And man, objectifying him must be my very new favorite activity.
His eyes flicker up for a brief second, scanning the crowd coldly. Is he aware that he is being hunted? Not a chance. I know how to run surveillance better than anyone alive.
“More coffee?”
My, oh my, her death wish. The meaningless little server approaches him, nonchalant about the fact that I almost moved up her meeting with sweet Jesus.
Well, this is interesting. Possessiveness. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t even know him, but now, I feel justifiably entitled to be the only person he talks to.
He looks at her, giving her something that cannot be more than a one-syllable answer, and stands up abruptly while slipping his phone into his pocket. Why are you in a rush, my little Professor? Meeting? Something wrong? I’ll fix it, don’t worry.
His face switches back to the calm, detached expression a second later, but I catch it. Something changes in his demeanor. I allow myself a few more moments once he gets out of the café, allowing the prey to experience five extra delusional seconds of freedom before their fate is sealed.
I melt into the shadows behind him, matching his every move. The city around us fades into background noise as the cool, persistent drizzle, typical of Seattle in March, falls.
I stay close, not enough for him to detect me but close enough for me to mirror every one of his moves. Following had long become an art for me, the ability of being invisible while in the middle of the crowd.
His footsteps lead me through rain-drenched streets shadowed by the faint light of the sunset. The walk doesn’t take long, and he—we—arrive in front of a building I know too well already. His home.
My pulse thunders, but I force it to slow. Today’s hunt will have to end here. There is no reason for a reckless rush or useless frenzy. Our story will bleed slowly until the point I finally get what I want.
I linger a moment longer in the shadows, watching the door swallow him whole, then I slip away. One more plan needs to be put in motion tonight.
Fifteen minutes away from his apartment is the faculty building. The outside screams “modern,” while the interior is barely keeping it together. The sad, typical, “low funds but we try to show off” story of most universities in the States.
I circle to the side entrance, waiting for the moment when the guard is done with his rounds and goes for a smoke break, which should be…three minutes from now. Once I see the light in the hallway turn off, I enter.
The heavy metal door is rusted at the edges, with a keypad flickering on the side. I don’t actually have the access code to get in, but this university is barely providing the necessities, so there’s no way it could give me trouble.
Six seconds later, the faint click from the lock pricks my ears. I move toward the second floor, where I know his office is located, following the map my mind memorized last night.
It doesn’t take me long before I finally push the door open just enough to slip inside. A breathless moment, and I’m in his territory.
His scent hits me immediately. Azrael’s intoxicating scent curls through the office air. Sandalwood and cardamom, and a hint of cigarette smoke. Can a man smell any more delicious?
My footsteps fall silent against the thick carpet. I pause for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the soft glow of the desk lamp casting shadows across the walls.
My eyes catch the bookshelf made of dark wood, heavy from the weight of all the volumes resting on it. As I move closer to it, my fingers tremble as they touch the spines of his books, the same books he has probably touched thousands of times.
I pull one out, inhaling the scent of old paper, imagining the thoughts waged within those pages. What does he see when he reads them? What twisted thoughts are invading his brain when he looks at these pages?
The desk calls to me next, a mirror of the perfectly organized Azrael.
My finger drifts to a small silver pen resting in the crease of a book, his favorite, maybe.
I roll it between my fingers, feeling the cold metal, imagining his hand wrapping around it, the pressure on the tip of his fingers as he holds it—Stop fantasizing about him choking you!
I crouch low, pulling a small camera from the bag I prepared hours ago, long before Alex called me.
It finds its place beneath the desk, nestling into the corner, the lens capturing the entrance. Another camera goes on his bookshelf, tucked between two volumes. I adjust the angle carefully, knowing it will watch when I can’t.
The third camera will monitor the room from the window’s edge, ensuring it has visibility over the entire room.
Once the cameras are in place and their microphones are turned on, I quickly sync them all to my phone, watching the small screen flicker to life as I stream myself into the room.
I like this. Me, in his personal space. Him, unaware.
A soft creak of the floorboards in the hallway reminds me I shouldn’t be here, as I’m technically an intruder.
I’m about to turn and leave, but the urge claws at me. As much as I love a good haunting game, he needs to understand he’s being watched, and I have full access to him as I please.
Scanning the desk, I settle my gaze on a folder shoved beneath a pile of papers. I slide it toward me, tearing a corner from one of his reports, while grabbing his pen.
So now that I’ve grabbed your attention…
I place the folder and the pen back in their places, but leave the note on top of the papers. If he misses it, well, I tried. But I really hope he doesn’t.
The streets are quiet now, surrendered to the darkness of night. Somehow, the air itself knows that the center of gravity is shifting.
I pull out my phone, my fingers trembling despite my calm. The screen illuminates my face in harsh contrast as I type in the message to the only account he has online.
Victoria: Professor, we are gonna have so much fun together.