my spine, because I believe they are true. It’s not logical to feel the way I do about him. Him, a self-proclaimed killer and sadist.
A man who repeatedly tells me just how much he’s holding himself on a leash.
But no matter how illogical it is, if love is what he wanted… perhaps over time I would have given it to him. And that’s what I don’t understand.
Who doesn’t want to be loved?
People who believe they are unworthy—that’s who.
“You don’t think you’re worthy of my love?”
He laughs at that, as if I’ve just cracked a joke. “Uh, have you met me? Have you seen the size of my ego? Do you think there is anything in this world that I feel I am unworthy of? If I wanted your love, I would have it, of that I’m quite sure.”
“Then why don’t you want to be loved?”
“Love is fickle,” he snaps. “Love can leave you. It’s a hideous, grotesque thing that is more of a mask than the one I wear on my face. Fear… that is palpable. Fear is as clear as daylight. Fear is like an iron vice around the neck, and you wear it so beautifully.”
There is an undertone to his voice that denotes rage simmering just beneath the surface. It’s as if the surrounding atmosphere has shifted, and what started as an innocent bedtime talk between lovers has subtly moved to something more sinister.
His finger slides over my chin and down my neck, tracing a line to the place my breasts meet. The pressure increases the farther down he goes, and the action makes me feel on edge.
Now, more than ever, the bed feels like a cage.
And to think, I just invited him in.
I inch away from him, that instinct slowly returning. The instinct to run… to get out of his way. He feels it, because his finger slips from my chest and he doesn’t make an effort to reach any farther toward me.
“Oh, sweet girl, I think we are quite beyond that stage now, don’t you?”
I shake my head. It is dark in here, due to the curtains, but the fire is still lit and he will see the shadows well enough.
He reaches out and grabs my wrist, jerking it roughly toward him. I leave my wrist with him and drag the rest of my body as far away as possible.
“You know what this does to me, and yet you do it anyway,” he says. “One would think you want me to chase you.”
I can’t even tell if it’s a suggestion or anger I hear in his voice—but both are equally troubling. There is absolutely no way I’m ready to go back there with him. I’m still sore. Everywhere.
I’ll keep him talking.
I’ll try to keep him talking.
“If this is nothing, why did you save me? If you feel nothing, why would you kill those men?”
His grip on my wrist relaxes just a fraction. “Who said I feel nothing? You are obsessed with twisting my words. I said you will never feel anything real for me, that doesn’t necessarily need to work both ways.”
I swallow, trying to compose myself and slow my racing heart. “So what do you feel for me?”
“A complicated question,” he says.
“You are good with words,” I tell him.
He laughs cruelly. “When I saw them in your room… your face pressed up against his revolting cock… I felt as though I’d rather burn the whole damn building to the ground—with you, me, and everyone else in it—than let a single one of them put his hands on you.”
I’m silent for a moment.
We both are.
The events of the night circle around my brain, replaying again and again.
Then I realize. “You weren’t in the room when he was doing that.”
He misses a beat while the question hangs between us, then drops my wrist and slumps back down on the pillows.
Now I’m the one sitting up on my elbow. “I will have my answer,” I snipe, mocking the phrase he uses so often on me.
“You gave me a statement, silly girl, not a question.”
“How did you know?” My voice is ice cold when I ask him.
He sits up so quickly I flinch, the action causing me to lose the balance my elbow provided.
“I watch you,” he snaps. “I watch you all the time. Is that what you wanted so desperately to hear?”
Now it’s not just my voice that is ice cold, it’s the blood pumping around my body. I knew some nights he stayed. Some nights he watched