Chapter 32
Him
I sit alone in the dark of my flat, replaying the memory of the bathroom stall. It fills me with a sharp sense of satisfaction, confirming my absolute ownership over her.
I recall the instant thrill when I touched her, my fingers brushing the inside of her thigh.
It ignited a rush in me, a clinical high from asserting dominance.
As her breathing hitched and quickened, I felt a detached pleasure in how easily her body yielded to my command, even as her mind lagged behind.
Her initial tension only amplified my sense of control, her thighs tightening briefly before softening under my pressure against her clit through her panties.
It was a validation of my superiority, her pulse racing frantically beneath my fingertips, fueling my unemotional certainty that she was mine to manipulate.
The wetness I discovered, soaked and hot before I even penetrated her, sent a wave of possessive triumph through me.
Her hips twitching forward involuntarily deepened my satisfaction, her body already submitting to my will, even as she whispered denials.
This betrayal of her own resistance was exquisite, a proof of my power over her essence.
As her walls fluttered around my first finger, clenching tightly on the second, I experienced a pure, adrenaline-fueled clarity.
Stretching her slowly, drawing out those broken moans she couldn't suppress, intensified my detached exhilaration.
Her body surrendering completely while her mind fought was the pinnacle of my control.
I felt invincible, the architect of her submission.
What gratifies me most is how she complied without question, despite her terror. Spreading her legs wider at my order, staying still when I demanded silence, climaxing on my fingers with tears in her eyes. It all reinforced my unyielding claim.
This wired submission under pressure confirms she is perfectly suited to me. Mine to dismantle, mine to possess, her body already imprinted with my authority, even if her mind clings to illusions of autonomy.
Shifting my thoughts to Justin, I analyzed him with the same logic I applied to all obstacles. He encroached on my property, touching what belongs solely to me. Grabbing her ass as if he had rights ignited a precise need for elimination, not rage, but a methodical imperative to excise the threat.
Seeing his smirk and lingering hand on her waist clarified the decision. His hand must go. Executing it brought a sense of orderly efficiency, not vengeance. Simply pruning an inferior element from my domain. He was weak, irrelevant.
I kept my eyes on him that night, waiting until he stumbled into the alley alone after peddling his filth. Striking him once with the hammer delivered a clean, satisfying impact, dragging his limp form to seclusion.
Binding him to the chair, I felt nothing but focused intent as he awoke and begged, his voice fracturing with pathetic fear. His breathing quickened. "Hey… hey, what is this? Who are you?"
I stepped into the faint spill of light. Recognition didn’t come. That made it sweeter.
"Please." He rasped, struggling harder. "If this is about money, I don’t have anything on me. You can check. Just take it and let me go."
I tilted my head. "Money?" I echoed calmly.
He swallowed, eyes darting. "I… I didn’t do anything. I swear. I don’t even know you."
"No." I said. "You don’t."
Confusion twisted his face. "Then why? Why are you doing this? Tell me what I did."
A pause. Then, quiet and deliberate. "You touched her."
He blinked, searching his memory frantically. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t…"
His expression shifted from confusion to dawning horror.
"She was just…" He stopped himself too late.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"Just what?" I asked.
His voice broke. "I didn’t know. I didn’t know she was with someone. I didn’t know she was yours. I swear to God, if I had known…"
"That’s the problem." I murmured. "You didn’t know. Yet…"
He started crying, real panic setting in. "Please. I won’t ever look at her again. I don’t even remember her face. I’ll leave the city. I’ll disappear. Just tell me what you want."
I crouched in front of him, meeting his eyes.
"I want you to understand something." I said quietly. “You don’t put your hands on what’s mine.”
His breathing turned ragged. "She doesn’t belong to you. She’s not property…"
The slap cut him off. His head lolled to the side. When he looked back at me, terror had replaced confusion completely.
"You’re insane." He whispered.
"No, you’re wrong." I corrected softly. "I’m devoted."
He shook his head frantically. "This is crazy. I didn’t do anything worth this. You’re doing this over some girl?"
His pleas stirred no pity, only mild amusement at his inferiority. "She is not 'some girl.' She is mine. You touched her. That hand is forfeit."
His immediate tears and snot only heightened my sense of detachment as I began the correction. Sawing through his wrist with the knife, skin yielding like damp tissue, muscles tearing wetly, tendons snapping sharply, bone grating under pressure, each sensation amplified my controlled adrenaline.
Blood pulsing in arcs with his heartbeat, his screams echoing, all of it a symphony of justified reclamation. He wailed louder: "Stop! Please, God, stop! I'll do anything!"
I proceeded. "This hand offended. It pays now."
Cutting it off fully, holding it up for his terrified stare, I felt a wave of owning triumph. I tied a tight band around his arm to stop the heavy bleeding, but first I poured salt into the raw wound, the sharp sting making him scream and twist wildly.
This kept him alive longer, stretching out my cold pleasure in the act. "It hurts! Oh God, it hurts! Just kill me, please!"
Shoving cocaine down his throat, seeing him gag and shake, made the thrill grow, not from the killing, but from wiping out a stain on what I own.
Foam bubbled from his mouth, eyes rolling back, his jerks showing my total power. “I suggest you learn the difference between what you can touch… and what will get you killed.” I said calmly. "This teaches you the difference."
The rush hits its high, buzzing and clear, not just violence but a high from guarding my prize. Every slice, yell, and blood drop was a claim on Iris, proving my strength and rule.
This was not mess. It was balance fixed in my world. She is mine, and I protect my things with care.
Setting up the body in the stall, leaving the iris as my mark, filled me with a deep sense of completion. The problem was gone. Order restored. His severed hand was tossed into a dumpster where it belonged.
Now, in the present, I watch from my car across from her office as she gets into another man's car. Her ease with him, relaxed shoulders, real smile that lights up her eyes, head tilting with laughter, sparks a careful anger in me, a cold bother at this short-term break-in.
I pick apart their every talk. His caring but not owning look, easy words from years of knowing each other, loose pose with hand waves. His comfort with her bugs me more than I thought, a small issue in my control that needs watching. She is mine, and no one else will step in without paying for it.
I look at the man with total focus, each detail adding to my cool judgment. Fit body, calm sureness, no weapons, seems safe at first.
But his closeness to her, the simple way she sits next to him, sends a sharp poke of anger through me. The idea of killing him hits fast, clean and pleasing. Follow them, wait till he's alone, take him to a quiet spot, get rid of the problem for good.
I feel a quick, buzzing thrill from that idea, the pure joy of fixing things. But acting on urge has no room here. Killing him now would be wasteful, messy, and could pull eyes to what belongs to me. I won't let anything mess up my hold on Iris.
I lock his face in my mind instead, every line, every part, like a mark. When he drops her off, I follow his car from just the right spot, near enough to see, far enough to stay hidden. Each turn, every road, every spot, I note with exact care. The wave of control I feel doing it is almost fun.
He drives to a big, locked-up home, tall gates, cameras all over, guards with guns. The name on the gate tells me what I guessed. His dad is big, linked to power, risky to hit now.
The danger math runs quick in my head. Getting rid of him would make trouble, checks, issues that could slow my goals for her. So I pick hold-back, and that pick feels like strength. I won't hit him yet.
I sit in the dark after his gates shut, car off, letting the anger turn into something keener. A held-back hate that another man can make her smile so freely, relax so fully, when only I should do that.
It's not jealousy. Jealousy is soft, feeling-based, normal. This is colder. It's knowing she relaxes with the wrong guy. That her true laugh is mine only. That only I can make her shake with fear and joy at once. Only I can split her wide and own each broken bit.
This man won't last. Just a quick side thing. I feel a calm, happy sureness that I'll beat him. I'll watch, wait, learn his every way, every weak point, till he turns into a risk worth cutting out. Then it'll be exact. Neat. Pleasing.
I drive off slow, the flavor of owning her soon already strong in my mouth. She'll see me again quick. And when she does, every easy smile she gave him tonight will wipe away. She'll recall just who she belongs to.
Only me. Always me.