Her throaty groan as she strives to hold in her tears rolls through me like liquid ecstasy. It is heaven to my ears, the equivalent of an afternoon swim on a scorching hot day.
I stop relishing her nearly choked response when the DA shouts, “Objection, your Honor! The accused is well aware of whom the victim is. It has been stated multiple times during preliminary hearings and is documented in the evidence we handed to him weeks ago.”
He stands from his chair, hoping a bit of height will bolster his appeal. He should sit the fuck down, because height isn’t his only disadvantage. His failure to recognize my brilliance is another downfall. He is an amateur dabbling in a world where he doesn’t belong. I am the master; he is a mere pawn.
I return my focus to the judge, who is glaring at me over his half-rimmed spectacles. “The opinions of a jury often change during cross-examination due to doubt being cast on the witness. I am not saying Ms. Garcia lied during her earlier testimony, but perhaps if her answers aren’t coerced by the DA, she will freely express herself.”
“What are you saying, Mr. Elias?” the judge asks while pushing his glasses back up his blackhead-covered nose. “Do you believe the witness has been coached to give false testimony?”
The worry in his voice hums through me. “Yes, your Honor, that is precisely what I am implying. But Ms. Garcia hasn’t just been coached; she’s been brainwashed.”
The jury gasps in sync, but it is barely heard over Cleo’s loud gulp. She knows what is coming. She is aware I am freeing her from his trap.
“Do you have any proof of this?”
Nodding at the judge’s question, I make my way to the desk I’ve been sitting behind grinding my teeth the past three weeks. I flip through numerous pages of text until I come to the evidence the DA failed to lodge.
“Deprivation of liberty. Harassment. Cyberstalking. Credible threat to cause harm. Rape.” For each sentence I deliver, I hand proof of the crimes associated with them to the bailiff. “Hehacked her computer.Heharassed her at her place of employment.Hecyberstalked her for months, beforeheraped her under the guise of an exchange in power.”
The judge’s bushy brows shoot up his face when his eyes scan the evidence presented before him. The images are horrid, ones I’m certain Cleo would never like publicized. I don’t want to hurt her, but to free her from his madness, I need to exposehimas the monster he is.
“As you can see, your Honor, I am not the man in any of those photos. I am not a monster who hides his face to ensure his crimes remain unprosecuted. I was merely a byproduct of his madness. An innocent caught up in a world run by violent, heinous men.”
I add an affluent edge to my voice, the type I generally use when surrounded by my father’s associates. He taught me well. I play the game so perfectly, the judge is soon eating out of my hand.
“I did not hurt the complainant, your honor. I was merely trying to save her from that—from him. If that makes me a terrible man, so be it. I’d rather rot in jail as an honorable man than be a spineless one.”
I refuse to look at him, but I know I’ve secured his utmost attention. I can feel his black-as-death eyes burning a hole in the back of my head. I can smell his aversion thickening the air. How? The putrid scent leeching from his pores is as repulsive as mine. His hate is just as strong, his world just as violent. He just hides his evilness with a fancy name—referring to it as his “lifestyle.” That is why he is a coward, and I am a god. I don’t require a contract to exert my power. I don’t even need a safeword. I give an order; you follow it. The rules don’t get any simpler than that.
When the judge requests the bailiff hand my evidence to Cleo, her hand clamps over her mouth. I take a few moments to relish the stream of moisture gliding down her cheeks before I dart from my chair to block her view ofhim.
He brainwashed her for months; it is time for me to even the playing field. My girl is strong—but my pull is even stronger than that. She cannot resist me.
For every step I take toward Cleo, the fire in her eyes grows. The temptress I feed off like a vampire drinks blood is striving to break free. She wants me to save her. She wants to come home.
“I didn’t kill your baby, did I, Cleo?”
Her earthy brown hair falls from her shoulders when she shakes her head. Her strength is cock-thickening. I can see the spell lifting as the woman behind the mask resurrects from the tombheplaced her in.
I suck in a lung-filling gulp of air like the devil did as he claimed the throne in heaven when Cleo confirms, “You didn’t kill my baby, Dexter.”
The jury member’s stunned gasps are loud but are nothing compared to the painful groanheemits.Heknows he is losing.Heknows he has lost. He shouldn’t be surprised. No one can compete with me.
I take a step back when Cleo faintly murmurs, “You killed our baby. The baby I created with Marcus. The baby I plan one day to still have with him.”
Her words are barely whispers, but one bombards me with an immense amount of violence. His name. . . his name. . . his name resurrects the devil I struggle to contain. He is the sadistic one, the one who maims without regret, the one who smiles while sliding a knife into a pregnant woman’s womb. He is the villain my father loves, and my mother hated. He is the runaway, the misfit, Marcus Everett’s worst nightmare. He is the true me. He is Dexter Elias.
“No!” I shake my head the way I did when the doctors ran off their long list of diagnoses to my mother ten years ago. “I didn’t kill your baby! I killedhisbaby! I fixedhismistake! I took back what is mine!”
“I’m not yours. I’m Marcus’s!” Cleo doesn’t whisper this confirmation. She shouts it for the world to hear.
When I step closer to her, wanting her to swallow her lies, the bailiff places himself between us, making my jaw tick with fury. It also causes something inside me to snap. For years, I watched her from afar, holding my place until the time was right. Not anymore. I’m tired of following the rules.
But even more than that, I’m sick to death of ungrateful women who don’t know their place. Years ago, my father taught my mother a lesson, and now I must do the same to Cleo.
The bailiff’s shoulders are double the width of mine; the difference in our heights is also highly notable, but it doesn’t stop him hitting the ground like a bag of shit when I throw him to the side. I’m up in Cleo’s face faster than I can snap my fingers. The painful pounding of batons on my back and the violent roar of the man who believes he owns her don’t deter me in the slightest. Everything blurs. It is just me and her. The woman who isn’t close to paying her father’s atonement.
Cleo’s father took away my one true love. For that alone, I should have slaughtered his entire family. But the longer I watched Cleo, the brighter a new plan became. I didn’t need immediate revenge. I needed entertainment.
