Twisted Possession

Beginning

Chapter One: Kade

Six days of nothing. Six days of walls closing in and silence pressing against my skull and her breathing in the dark and the hunger building beneath my skin like something living.

Something with teeth. I haven’t slept. Can’t.

Every time I close my eyes, I see it. The need.

The urge. The way my hands want to move.

The way my fingers itch for something warm and yielding and breakable. No.

Not her.

Never her.

But the thought is there anyway. Intrusive. Unwelcome. A whisper in the back of my mind that sounds like my own voice asking what if, what if, what if.

I pace the cabin’s main room. Four steps to the window. Turn. Six steps to the kitchen. Turn. Three steps to the hallway. Turn. Again. And again. And again.

The floorboards creak under my weight. The sound is too loud in the pre-dawn silence. But I can’t stop moving. Can’t sit still. Can’t do anything except walk this circuit and feel the walls shrink with every pass. The Raven said to wait. Wait for instructions. Wait for the plan.

Six days.

Six days of waiting.

Six days of nothing.

I stop at the bedroom doorway. Watch her sleep.

She’s on her side, facing away from me. The sheet tangled around her waist. Her hair spilled across the pillow in dark waves.

One arm tucked under her head. The other stretched out across the mattress where I should be lying.

Where I can’t lie. Because if I get in that bed, I don’t know what I’ll do.

The hunger isn’t the same as it was before.

Before her. Before the Raven gave me structure and targets and a reason to channel the need into something productive.

Before, it was my mother’s face. Every woman.

Every hunt. Every kill. Before, it was chaos.

Now it’s different. Now I have Amethyst. I have an outlet.

I have someone who understands the darkness and doesn’t flinch from it.

Someone who meets me in it. Someone who wants me in it.

But six days of isolation has stripped away the structure.

The purpose. The control. And what’s left is the hunger.

Raw. Unfocused. Volatile. I lean against the door frame.

My hands curl into fists. Uncurl. Curl again.

I’ve been doing that for hours. Watching the motion.

Watching my fingers flex and release. Flex and release.

Wondering what they’d feel like around something fragile.

Not her. Not her. But the thought is there.

I close my eyes. Breathe through my nose.

Count to ten. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

The graveyard hunt helped. For a while. Chasing her through the city.

Catching her against that headstone. Feeling her beneath me while the grounds keeper’s flashlight swept too close and the danger made everything sharper.

That helped. For days, it helped. Then the edge came back.

Sharper than before. Hungrier. Because that hunt wasn’t enough.

It was a game. A release. A way to burn off the excess energy.

But it wasn’t a real hunt. It wasn’t a kill.

And my body knows the difference. I open my eyes.

Focus on Amethyst again. She shifts in her sleep.

Rolls onto her back. The sheet slips lower.

Exposes the curve of her hip. The flat plane of her stomach.

The rise and fall of her chest. I watch her breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Steady. Rhythmic. Alive. So alive. My hands ache. I shove them into my pockets. Press my shoulders against the door frame. Force myself to stay here. In this spot. Not moving closer. Not touching. Because if I touch her right now, I don’t know if I can be gentle. Don’t know if I can stop.

The cabin is too small. One bedroom. One bathroom.

A main room that serves as kitchen and living space.

Maybe eight hundred square feet total. Eight hundred square feet.

Six days. No phone. No internet. No contact with the outside world.

Just her and me and the silence and the hunger.

I’ve tried to manage it. Tried to channel it into something productive.

I’ve chopped wood until my shoulders screamed.

Cleared brush from around the cabin until my hands bled.

Run the perimeter until my lungs burned and my legs gave out.

None of it worked. Because none of it was a hunt.

None of it was a kill. None of it satisfied the need.

Amethyst stirs again. Her eyes flutter but don’t open.

Her hand moves across the mattress. Searching.

For me. Always for me. Even in sleep, she reaches for me.

The thought should comfort me. Should ground me.

Instead, it makes the hunger worse. Because she trusts me.

Even now. Even when I’m standing in the doorway at four in the morning watching her sleep like some kind of predator studying prey.

She trusts me not to hurt her. And I don’t know if that trust is justified anymore.

I push off the door frame. Resume pacing.

Four steps to the window. The sky is starting to lighten.

Not dawn yet, but close. That gray pre-dawn light that makes everything look washed out and unreal.

I stare out at the trees. The woods stretch in every direction.

Dense. Dark. Endless. We’re miles from the nearest town.

Miles from anyone. Isolated. Safe. Trapped.

Turn. Six steps to the kitchen. There’s a knife block on the counter.

Five knives. Different sizes. Different purposes.

I’ve been avoiding looking at them. But now I can’t stop.

My hand moves before I can think about it.

Reaches for the largest knife. The chef’s knife.

Eight inches of carbon steel. I pull it free.

Feel the weight of it. The balance. Perfect.

My thumb runs along the spine. Not the edge.

I’m not that far gone. Not yet. But I can feel it.

The pull. The urge to test the sharpness.

To see how easily it would slice through something soft.

Not her.

Not her.

I wonder if I keep saying it like a mantra I’ll finally believe it.

I don’t want to hurt her. Don’t want to touch her.

Scared of hurting her. I set the knife down.

Step back. Press my palms against the counter and lean forward.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. My reflection stares back at me from the window above the sink.

Dark circles under my eyes. Jaw tight. Expression hollow.

I look like I did before. Before Amethyst. Before the structure the Raven implemented.

I look like the man who killed twenty women because he couldn’t stop seeing his mother’s face. I look dangerous. I am dangerous.

Turn. Three steps to the hallway. I stop at the bedroom doorway again.

Can’t help it. Can’t stay away. She’s still sleeping.

Still peaceful. Still trusting. Still mine.

The possessiveness is a living thing. It wraps around my chest and squeezes.

Makes it hard to breathe. She’s mine. No one else’s.

Mine to protect. Mine to keep. Mine to— I stop the thought.

Redirect. Mine to keep safe. Even from myself.

Especially from myself. But how do I do that when the threat is inside me?

When the hunger is part of who I am? When six days of isolation has stripped away every coping mechanism and left me raw and volatile and desperate?

I don’t know. I don’t have an answer. All I know is that I’m standing in this doorway watching her sleep and my hands are shaking and my pulse is too fast and the hunger is building and building and building and I don’t know how much longer I can hold it back.

The Viktor Molina kill didn’t help. The Raven’s sanctioned target.

The man who deserved to die. It felt hollow.

Empty. Because it wasn’t my hunt. It was hers.

I was just the weapon she pointed at a target.

And weapons don’t feel satisfaction. They just do what they’re designed to do.

The graveyard hunt was better. Chasing Amethyst through the city.

Catching her. Taking her. That felt real.

That felt like mine. But it wasn’t enough.

Because she’s not prey. She’s the predator who lets me catch her. And my body knows the difference.

Amethyst shifts again. This time her eyes open. Slowly. Sleepily. She sees me in the doorway. Doesn’t startle. Doesn’t tense. Just watches me with those dark eyes that see too much.

“Can’t sleep?" Her voice is rough with sleep. Soft.

I shake my head. Don’t trust my voice. She studies me for a long moment. Taking in the tension in my shoulders. The way I’m gripping the door frame. The hollow look in my eyes. She knows. Of course she knows. She always knows.

“Come here," she says quietly. I don’t move. Can’t. Because if I get close to her right now, I don’t know what I’ll do. “Kade." Her voice is firmer now. Not a request. A command. “Come here."

My body obeys before my mind can catch up.

Three steps across the room. Two more to the bed.

I stop at the edge. Look down at her. She sits up.

The sheet pools around her waist. She’s wearing one of my shirts.

Too big on her. The neckline slips off one shoulder.

She reaches for my hand. I let her take it.

Her fingers are warm. Steady. They curl around mine and squeeze gently.

“How long have you been awake?" she asks.

“All night."

“And the night before?"

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. She can see it in my face. In the dark circles under my eyes. In the way my hand trembles slightly in hers.

“You’re spiraling," she says. Not a question. An observation. I nod.

“How bad?"

I look away. Focus on the wall behind her. The window. Anywhere but her face.

“Kade." She tugs my hand. Forces me to look at her. “How bad?"