Chapter 11
Damien
It’s cute how my pet thinks she can keep me out.
I watch, my smirk deepening, as she shuts the windows, locks them, and does the same to the front door.
As if that can save her.
As if I’m not already hiding in her closet, with a spare key in my pocket. Who does she take me for?
Doesn’t she realize that if I wanted to kill her, she’d be dead already? She’s my girl, and she’ll be safe with me.
Safe, yes, but certainly not happy.
For the moment, though, I’m satisfied toying with her. I listen to the glass crashing to the floor with satisfaction, then hear her move around the house for a while. She doesn’t stay in the kitchen but goes straight to the bathroom, and a minute later the faucet turns on. She’s brushing her teeth.
I scowl, realizing that she’s not planning to eat dinner. This won’t do. I’ll have to figure out a way to make her eat. I have no desire to see her starve to death.
My hands clench into fists, because this is another proof of her disobedience. Of her betrayal. I’d force-fed her once, and then she’d learned her lesson. Eat half of all your meals. Or else.
She clearly hasn’t been eating half of anything. She’s clearly forgotten I own her.
I’ll make sure she never forgets again.
She stays in the bathroom for some time, and I close my eyes, trying to imagine her brushing her teeth, washing her face, getting undressed, her beautiful hair...
No. I rip anything tender from my mind and replace it with cold, merciless anger. Never again will I see her as a sweet, pretty thing.
She’s rotten to the core. Dark and twisted inside. Nearly as dark and twisted as me. And she’ll pay. I’m going to make her fucking pay.
Finally, she enters the bedroom. I don’t want to crack open the door to watch her. I don’t want her to see me. Not yet. I’m going to put the fear of God in her. Or rather, the fear of the Devil.
It’s tantalizing to sense her taking the three steps to her bed, hear the rustle of the sheets as she drags them back, and listen to the soft sound of her body against the mattress. To drink in the fragrance of her skin, made stronger by the humidity and the rain.
Now, her violet eyes are probably fluttering down, her long dark fringe of eyelashes sweeping her pale cheeks, and…
She’s crying.
Not discreet crying, either; great big heaving sobs that resonate loudly in the small bedroom. She’s not trying to hide it. Why should she? She believes she’s alone in the middle of nowhere.
My own reaction surprises me. It takes everything I have not to burst out of here, take her in my arms, crush her to my chest, console her.
Fuck.
She’s crying. That’s a good thing. I want her to suffer. I want her in pain. I want her to pay.
And yet, she’s crying, and I’m feeling close to crying myself.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I grit my teeth, willing this sign of weakness to stay buried deep down. I’m not supposed to be fucking weak. I’ve put bullets in my enemies. I’ve stabbed them. I’ve watched with a smile as Igor tortured them to death. I’ve taken a few bullets myself, and it’s nothing.
Nothing compared to what this girl has made me feel. Is making me feel.
Like I want to destroy the world. To burn it all down. To push the eyeballs of whoever is making her suffer, into the back of his skull, then rip out his heart through his chest, and crush it in my hands.
To jump from the tallest mountain in the Catskills, because I know I’m the one making her suffer.
No. She deserves it. She fucking deserves it.
She deserves death, but I won’t give it to her. Death would be too merciful for a fucking traitor like her.
I’m going to chain her to me for life. I’m going to fucking keep her.
Two hours tick on, and at last the sobs subside and she falls into an uneasy sleep. I hesitate, my hand on the door handle. I want to look at her, inhale her so bad my throat aches.
Inhale all of her. Open her legs and bury my face in her. Drink in her musky sweetness, lap my tongue across her folds. Bring her pleasure.
But only when she’s asleep. When she’s awake, she’ll know nothing but pain.
No, she’s too light a sleeper. She’ll wake up. And even if she didn’t, she’d find pleasure in her dreams.
No pleasure from me. Never again.
But I can’t take it. Creeping out of my hiding place, I reach her bedside in two steps.
I gaze at her, and try as I might to keep it, my anger melts, if only momentarily.
She’s more stunning even than I remember.
Her glossy black hair is tangled around her face, and her pale skin seems to shimmer in the soft glow of the moonlight.
Her dark eyelids tremble, and I wonder what she’s dreaming of.
She moans and turns her face toward me, and I can’t help but reach a hand out and drag my fingers over her tear-stained cheeks, wiping away the wetness.
I was worried about waking her, about having her see this weak, pitiful side of me, when all I want her to see in me from now on is danger and suffering.
But I was wrong to worry. My stroking fingers seem to bring her into a deeper, more peaceful sleep.
My throat clenches as I remember how my touch always used to soothe her.
But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough to make her stay. She ran from me. She thought she could escape.
Well, I’ll show her running. I’ll make her run for her fucking life.
I try as hard as I can to access my anger. It’s futile. I slip my fingers into my mouth and taste the saltiness of her sorrow. She’s mine, all of her. Her soft beauty, the voice she hasn’t used in all these months, this sadness that I can’t understand.
Yes, sadness. Not fear.
She should have been terrified of the devil carved into Bill Henson’s forehead.
She should have taken it as a sign of her damnation.
And I thought she had, when she closed all the windows.
Maybe she was sad, for a little while. But now, all fear has vanished, replaced by this strange, incomprehensible sadness.
It’s almost like she’s struggling under the weight of a broken heart. It can’t be because of me. She left me. Anger surges up as I realize this means she must have found someone else. Maybe she fell in love. I want to strangle her. I want to fucking strangle her.
I put a hand to her throat and squeeze it, just enough to feel the feeble lifeforce beat within. It’s intoxicating to realize that I could crush it with just my thumb. Stomp it out. She could stay in those dreams of hers permanently. She’d never even know.
It would be a merciful end for someone who deserves no mercy.
But then, that very same thumb is all it would take to protect her. To keep her.
She’s so small, so fragile.
I know she killed two men. She might have fooled the FBI, might have fooled a lot of people with the way she viciously stabbed her own father and the Feds guy.
But I know the real her.
Poor, scared, breakable little Seraphina.
Lying, cruel, traitorous little Seraphina.
Mine.
My anger at her dissolves again as she takes a deep breath, her heartbeat slowing against my thumb, as if my touch, no matter how tinged with darkness, is enough to lull her into the kind of sleep she clearly hasn’t gotten in months, given the dark circles under her eyes.
And then, the anger forms again, but this time, it’s directed at the object of her heartbreak.
Did someone else hurt her? If so, I’ll cut the fucker up into little pieces and throw them to the stray dogs I saw on my way up to this desolate town.
I begin once more to stroke her, tensing as she moves slightly, the thin blanket sliding away from her. I’ll have to remember to buy her a thicker one. She must be freezing in this cold night air.
Her perky breasts slip out from under her cover, and I graze a finger against her nipples. It’s all I can do not to sink my teeth into them, to punish them along with the rest of the girl who fucking betrayed me. Who pushed me down into the depths of hell.
But in the next second, my own traitorous hands lift the blanket up back over her, tucking her in.
She’s still deeply asleep, and I bring my hand to her hair, smoothing out her curls, threading the black coils through my fingers. Fucking hell. If only she hadn’t ruined everything. I could have made her so happy.
At last, I turn away, bitterness rankling in my heart.
I close the door quietly, creeping out into the foggy night, my heart heavier than it’s ever been.
What the fuck is wrong with me? How can I still be spiraling after all this time?
I’ve known for the past eight months she didn’t want me.
How the hell can she still affect me so much?
Why can’t I cast out that cruel girl from my heart?
She doesn’t deserve my love. Only my hatred. And yet, she owns them both.
Plunged deep in my dark thoughts, I enter my car, turn on the engine and drive away.
__
I sense it even before I’ve walked into the cheap motel room I’ve rented for the week. Someone’s here. The light is turned off, but I smell something. The vague fragrance of expensive cologne, mingling with the stench of mildew that pervades the place.
Taking my gun from my back pocket, I cock it while slowly turning the door handle.
Then I turn on the light switch, preparing to fire at the same time.
But I freeze when I see him. Logan.
Sleeping uncomfortably on the chair across from the bed, his head lolling down against his chest.
I grit my teeth, annoyed. It would have been so easy to shoot him before I knew who he was. Now, I’m faced with the impossible task of looking him in the eye when I kill him.
I’ve spent the past eight months finding one excuse after another to avoid ending his life. The main excuse I’ve given him—and myself—is that I’d kill him the moment I found her again. After all, he’s been helping me look, and he’s good at it. Nearly as good as Vincent.