CHAPTER 7 - Deimos
I waited in the shadows, a silent specter, until Madeline and Lucy left. Mali kept glancing over her shoulder the entire way out. Searching. Looking for me. Looking for my presence in the crowd.
The corner of my mouth lifts beneath the mask even now at the memory. That moment we shared will stay with her. I know it will. Curiosity is already eating its way through her mind like a slow-acting poison.
She still doesn’t know exactly who I am. My real name. What my face actually looks like beneath the shadows. We will get there. Slowly.
The restraint I have to maintain is unbearable.
Patience has never been a problem for me.
It’s the foundation of everything I do. Every hunt.
Every kill. Every move planned meticulously before the blade even touches the skin.
But with her, the impossible is happening.
I am losing my grip on that cold, perfect logic.
From the moment I saw her standing under those sterile morgue lights, I knew she would be mine. And she will be. Very soon.
Because my cock twitches every single time she looks at me. Touching her tonight took every ounce of control I possess. The urge to throw her over my shoulder and disappear with her into the night was a physical ache. Fuck. She’s ruining me.
After I was sure Lucy and her got home safely, I headed straight to my car. Anticipation moves through my veins like a drug.
My car is parked a few blocks away from the hotel, hidden near the edge of a dark forest where streetlights don’t quite reach. Discreet.
I open the trunk. He’s still unconscious. Not that I expected anything else. I've stuffed his mouth with his own tie, bound his arms behind his back, tied his legs tight enough that even if he woke up, he wouldn’t be able to move. Efficiency is a habit.
His cheek is already swelling from the punch I threw to shut him up earlier. Let’s just say I wasn’t particularly gentle. What he doesn’t realize yet, it’s about to get so much worse.
I close the trunk and drive back to my apartment. It’s secure. Hidden. Untouchable. Inside, there’s room most people would mistake for something surgical. Cold lighting. Stainless steel surfaces. Soundproof walls. Not because I torture people. I usually don’t. Unless it’s necessary. Or requested.
Some clients of mine demand… specific things. Deformities. Messages left in flesh. Warnings carved into bone. They rarely explain their reasons. I rarely care. I deliver results.
But tonight, this room serves a different purpose.
I drag his body from the trunk and haul him inside, strapping him into the metal chair bolted into the center of the room.
My pulse sharpens the moment I slap his face. Once. Twice. Three times. His head lolls before his eyes finally snap open in a confused panic. Good.
That motherfucker has absolutely no idea what’s about to happen to him. And that’s exactly how I want it. I want him to feel it first. The fear. The suffocating realization that he’s trapped. Swallowed whole by the same darkness my sweet girl must have felt when she was with him.
And I don’t mean that just theoretically. I will do everything in my power to make it happen. Because I know what he did to her.
Not just the screaming. Not just the manipulation. He hit her. The thought alone makes my jaw tighten hard enough to crack bone.
It happened before I even met her. Before she became the center of my universe.
But that doesn’t matter. I’ll gladly punish anyone who has ever laid a hand on her.
Past. Present. Future. No, not present or future.
Because no one is touching her again. Not with me standing between her and the world.
I’m her shadow now. Her reflection. And shadows don’t disappear.
My gaze returns to the man strapped to the chair. He’s breathing fast now. Trying to process where he is. Who am I. What’s coming.
I lean closer, resting my hands against the cold metal armrests of his chair.
“You’re going to lose something tonight.” I say calmly.
His eyes widen.
“Not your life.”
Not yet.
“Your senses.”
Confusion flickers across his bruised face. I almost smile.
Vision. Hearing. Smell. Taste. Touch. Even balance. One by one.
I’ll strip them away until he’s left with nothing but the inside of his own head. And that’s where the real torture begins. Because when a human loses every connection to the outside world, their mind starts eating itself alive.
It doesn’t take long. Not weeks. Not days. Hours. Panic. Hallucinations. Begging for anything. Even death. And eventually, he will beg me to kill him. And when the right time sets in. I will.
After this, Jake's consciousness leaves him again. Pussy. I slap his face harder this time. His eyelids twitch first. A low groan escapes his throat behind the fabric stuffed in his mouth as consciousness crawls back to him.
For a few seconds he doesn’t understand where he is. His head hangs forward, chin touching his chest. Then he moves. The ropes tighten around his wrists as instinct kicks in.
He jerks against the chair, his breathing growing louder through his nose. His eyes slowly open. White. That’s the first thing he sees. The room around him is almost blindingly pale. Sterile. Smooth walls. The cold shine of metal tools resting neatly on a stainless steel table beside him.
He freezes. I stay in the shadowed corner, watching. Waiting. It doesn’t take long. His gaze drifts around the room until it finally lands on me. His eyes narrow, trying to focus. Trying to understand. Fear arrives slowly. His entire body tenses.
“Good evening, officer.”
My voice is calm. Almost polite.
Recognition flickers in his eyes. I’m not wearing a mask anymore. I want him to remember this face. It's the last that will ever truly matter to him.
His breathing speeds up, the sound of his panic filling the sterile silence of the room. I walk around him slowly, studying the way he strains against the restraints. I treat him like an exhibit in a museum of failures.
“You’re probably wondering where you are.”
He shakes his head violently, trying to speak through the silk tie stuffed in his mouth. Only muffled, desperate sounds escape.
I stop in front of him and crouch slightly so our eyes meet. Up close I can see the ugly purple swelling where my fist connected earlier.
“Let me clarify something first,” I say quietly, my tone conversational.
“This isn’t about me.”
I tilt my head, watching the terror glaze over his eyes.
“It’s about her.”
The moment I mention Madeline, something fundamental changes in his expression.
Guilt? Or maybe just the raw, paralyzing fear that someone finally noticed what he was doing to her.
I reach forward and rip the tie from his mouth.
He gasps, sucking the cold, antiseptic air as if he's been underwater for a lifetime.
“What the hell is this?”
He rasps, his voice cracking.
“Do you know who I am? I’m a police officer—“
The laugh that leaves me is soft, almost melodic. It's the sound of a man who hasn't been afraid of a badge in a very long time.
“Yes. I know.”
I lean closer, resting my elbows casually on my knees as if we are just two friends having a normal conversation.
“You’ve heard about a certain case, haven’t you?”
I ask, my voice dropping an octave. His brows knit together, his brain desperately trying to connect the dots while his survival instincts scream at him to run.
“Bodies appearing where criminals used to breathe. Rich politicians, mafia bosses, and gang members simply… going missing. Evidence disappearing. Files going nowhere.”
I watch the realization crawl across his face like a physical stain. His skin turns a sickly shade of grey. Every officer in the city has heard the name, usually whispered in the locker rooms like a ghost story to keep them awake at night.
I whisper it for him anyway.
“The Arbiter.”
His pupils dilate until the color of his eyes is almost gone. He stops fighting the ropes. The bravado is dead, replaced by a hollow, soul-crushing silence.
“No…” he mutters, his voice trembling so hard it's barely audible.
I smile. Slowly.
“Oh yes.”
I stand up again, letting the silence stretch until it's loud enough to drown out his racing heart. I take my time. Relishing the way he watches me, his eyes following every move as if I'm a ghost that might vanish if he blinks.
“You see, officer… The interesting thing about justice is that sometimes the system fails.”
I gesture vaguely toward him, my hand sweeping through the cold air.
“Abusive boyfriends.”
Another step. The heavy thud of my boots on the concrete floor is the only rhythm left in his world.
“Men who think bruises can be hidden.”
Another step. I’m circling him now, a shark moving in for the final strike.
“Men who believe fear keeps women quiet.”
His breathing becomes uneven now, jagged, shallow gasps that whistle through his teeth. Good. I want him to struggle for every breath.
“You were very confident,” I continue calmly, my voice reflecting a deadly serenity.
“Very comfortable with the idea that nobody would ever come for you.”
I stop directly behind his chair. I lean down, my voice dropping to a whisper against the shell of his ear.
“But I did.”
His head snaps toward the sound of my voice behind him. Panic finally breaks through the surface, raw and visceral.
“You’re a fucking psychopath,” he spits, though his voice is trembling so hard the insult loses its teeth.
“You think you can just kidnap a cop and get away with it?”
I lean down, my mouth inches from his ear. My breath is slow, steady, and utterly devoid of the adrenaline currently poisoning my system.
“I already have, Jake.”
I let that sink in for a long, agonizing pause. He needs to understand that the world he once knew, the world of badges, laws, and protection, is gone.
“And the worst part?”
I rest my hand lightly, almost affectionately, on the back of his chair.
“Your own ex-girlfriend will examine your body after I’m done with you.”