Chapter 4 You Touched What’s Mine
You Touched What’s Mine
Eli's Search History: Thomas Moore Psychologist marital status
Eli
For a psychologist, you’d think her date would be better at reading people.
What was he thinking bringing her to a place like this?
My angel hates it here.
She’s shifting in her seat, uncomfortable.
He doesn’t even notice. He doesn’t care about her. Not like I do.
This man only knows the put together Emily he sees at work.
He doesn’t know my Emily. My Emily would want to go somewhere that doesn’t require her to dress up, somewhere she doesn’t feel like she has to fake a polished smile.
She wants to eat more than the tiny portions this place is serving up.
When he ordered for her, I almost snapped his neck then and there.
Finally, the dinner ends and they stand. He offers his arm, which she takes, and I vow for that to be the first thing I remove from his body.
I follow them on the short walk back to her flat, keeping hidden in the shadows.
She doesn’t invite him in. Good girl.
I’m almost sad I won’t get to punish her.
Thomas Moore has a disappointed glint in his eyes as he leaves her doorstep, walking into the night without a care in the world.
As soon as I got home from my therapy session, I did my homework on him. He’s married. Bet she doesn’t know that.
Naughty Tom.
I’m doing everyone a favour really.
I hop in my car, getting to his house before he does.
His wife is out of town, and the kids are away at university.
It’s just me and him now.
While I wait for the lights to go out, I pull open my surveillance app.
There she is.
My Emily.
She's already tucked up in bed; her breath even and slow. Good. She's safe.
The house darkens, and I force myself to close the app, leaving it just a little longer to ensure he's really asleep before exiting the car.
My mask is in place.
Smooth, featureless, matte white.
I designed it to resemble a mannequin’s face—expressionless, inhuman, and unnervingly still.
No mouth, no nose, just shallow contours where features should be.
A blank canvas. Breathable, fitted to the shape of my skull.
The eye sockets are hollowed just enough for me to see out, but to anyone else, they’re nothing but dark voids.
You could stare right at me and still have no idea who I am. No soul. No intent.
Just absence.
It’s perfect.
When I wear it, I don’t exist.
Only the watching does.
I move stealthily, picking the backdoor lock with ease and slipping inside.
Silence greets me. There’s nothing but the sound of my own breathing and my heart thudding in my chest.
The house is modern, a typical family home. But it’s also a mess. There are dirty dishes scattered over the sides and piling high in the sink. Clearly, he’s taking advantage of his wife being gone.
Up the stairs I go, praying with each slight creek that Thomas doesn’t wake before I get to him.
Inside his bedroom his loud snores greet me. He’s sprawled out, wearing plaid pyjamas like a weirdo. Who wants to sleep with something covering them? Naked is the only correct way to be. Preferable with a nude woman pressed up against you.
Damn it.
Now I’m thinking about Emily’s luscious tits and those dark nipples I want to lavish with my tongue and teeth.
I was already hard, just thinking about spilling the man's blood, but now I’m too aroused to concentrate. My cock throbs with need. I reach down, squeezing it tightly, trying to force back the intoxicating thoughts running through me.
Pulling out the syringe from my bag I jab it into his waiting neck. He doesn’t even stir.
Now is the harder part.
I grab his floppy limbs, lifting him onto my shoulders like he’s a sack of potatoes, then I carefully carry him down the stairs.
I drop him down in the hall, not bothering to make the landing smooth.
Outside I reverse my car into the drive, so my boot is as close to his door as possible. None of his neighbours have CCTV which makes this easier.
Dashing back inside I drag his body up into the boot, closing it quietly, then pulling his front door closed with my gloved hand.
Back in the car I start the drive back home, humming under my breath with excitement at the night to come.
Parking in my garage, I wait until the door is firmly shut before hauling him onto my back again. Taking my steps down to the basement level I press my handprint to the scanner, waiting for the doors to open into my favourite room.
Charcoal-polished concrete floors mask the stains of blood and ash.
Steel panels line the firebrick walls, catching the light and throwing it back in fractured reflections—pain-addled faces staring at themselves.
The room is toasty, warm, wrapping around me like a comfort blanket.
The faint scent of smoke and metal settles in my lungs and makes me feel at home.
Once Thomas is secured in the chair, limbs bound and head slumped forward, I finally tend to the ache pulsing in my groin.
I unzip myself, cock already hard in my hand, and stroke with purpose.
Emily’s naked form floods my mind—the image of her sprawled out, vulnerable and unguarded, still seared into my brain. Christ.
I close my eyes.
She’s on her back, lips parted, breathless with want. Her nipples are tight, begging for my mouth. I imagine biting down, dragging a cry from her throat as my hands roam her soft, warm flesh.
Her curves are mine to trace, to claim.
My pace quickens, breath catching in my chest. The muscles in my abdomen tighten.
One, two—
I come hard, release spilling across Tom’s slack face, thick ropes streaking his cheeks, his lips. I groan, dizzy with pleasure and power.
My smile twists, wide and wicked.
Now... time to wake him up.
Crossing the room, I grab the small vial of smelling salts from my table and return, wafting the ammonia under his nose. His body jolts. A low, strangled noise crawls out of his throat.
He stirs.
Still half-lost in confusion, he blinks up at me—until his tongue inadvertently brushes across the mess on his lips.
That’s when panic hits.
I dip two fingers into the cooling cum smeared on his skin and push them between his teeth, forcing him to taste what he was too late to avoid.
Now he’s fully awake.
And we can really begin.
He gags on my fingers, vomiting the moment I pull them free.
I step back just in time to avoid the splash.
Fucking disgusting.
Tom sobs, his pleas falling on deaf ears as I watch him through the hollow gaze of my mask.
“What do you want?” he yells, panic rising in his throat as silence stretches between us.
“You touched what’s mine,” I say, my voice calm, deliberate. No need to hide it—he’s not leaving here alive. “Now you pay the price.”
“What are you talking about?” he whimpers, snot trailing from his nose as he breaks apart in front of me.
I don’t answer. Instead, I walk—slow, purposeful—towards my table of tools. He watches, weak and wide-eyed, as I run my fingers over the gleaming metal.
I choose the serrated knife. His gaze locks on it.
I grin.
Then I laugh, sharp and cold, remembering he can’t see the thrill on my face beneath the mask.
Silent as a shadow, I return to him.
“You touched her with this arm,” I murmur, unclasping the restraint around his right wrist. He swings at me—desperate, sloppy. Useless.
I’m too far gone now.
“I’ll start here.”
The first shallow cut beads red. My cock stirs, straining against my jeans once more.
His screams are beautiful—each one an aria, rising with every drag of the blade. When I reach bone, he passes out.
Pathetic.
I grab the smelling salts again, wafting them beneath his nose until he jerks awake, sobbing, raw.
Then I continue.
Slowly, methodically.
A machete would be faster. But I have time. And I want to savour this.