Even still, his predilection for violence would not remain at bay. His bear was restless then, bloodthirsty. Royal visited several prostitutes, choosing to indulge in violent sexual release. He’d learned, if one paid handsomely enough, some of the girls would allow almost anything. He honed his skills on these women, slapping and punching and breaking small bones, delighting in being the instrument of their defeat.
With Jinny, he was careful, adoring. Those early years were still the happiest of his life. He used to stare at her for hours as she slept, musing on the line of her nose and the fringe of her eyelashes, wondering how best to capture them. She intrigued him to no end.
But, little by little, Jinny changed. She didn’t look as him as if he was her defender anymore. She would flinch when he touched her. Her small rebuttals cut him to the core.
They incited his bear.
One night, he went to her and she refused him. Him, the man who told her every day how precious she was.
Angered, Royal hit her.
She fell to the floor and didn’t move for a moment or two. Finally, cradling her cheek, her hair a mess, she met his gaze. It was something she hadn’t done in a long time, and it pinned him to his spot. Her look was pure accusation. “I hate you.”
She hated him? How was it possible? He’d given her everything, his home, his money, his life.
Jinny’s words did more than haunt him. They whipped up a maelstrom inside him, its winds fueling the sorrow and hatred that had ruled his early years. He’d meant to spare her, to forgive her, but his bear fumed at the insult. She was his sister, his soulmate. His only friend.
How could she add another layer of pain to his existence?
“But you’re my mate.”
“Mates. You could never be my mate.” She’d pulled herself to standing position and headed for the door. She got that far, opening the front door, before he came to his senses.
“No, you can’t go.”
“I’m done, Royal. I’ve had enough. First Dad and then you. I won’t let you hurt me anymore.”
He put out a hand, simply meaning to persuade her of his love, and she recoiled.
“Hurt you? Jinny, I love you.”
“You don’t understand love.” She spat in his face. “You’re sick.”
Royal’s bear howled in indignation. He caught her by the hair, locked the door, and dragged her into the house. Standing over her prostrate form, he’d raised his hand, wanting to discipline her with a punch to the face.
But he couldn’t. Her face, her beautiful face, made him freeze. His arm remained poised in the air.
What am I doing?
“Do it,” Jinny had whispered, her eyes full of tears. “Please.”
The urge to kill was too strong, more powerful than his need to hold on to her. Besides, there was another way to keep her at his side.
Fueled by rage but wanting to preserve her angelic visage, he didn’t punch her. He’d shifted into his bear and slit her throat with his claws.
Bereft, Royal had brought his beloved sister’s body to his taxidermy shop. He embalmed her, taking great care to preserve her as best as possible, and mounted his Muse.
Now she was immortalized in his gallery. She was his for all time, silent and still. Her gaze no longer accused. Her lip no longer curled in derision. He’d arranged her features in a mask of tenderness, like the Jinny who used to huddle with him when they were children. Poised on a pedestal in the middle of the room, she was the focal point of his collection.
Although installing Jinny permanently in the gallery had broken his heart, it had given him such a rush to kill her. It was better than hunting bears and tigers. Better than tormenting ugly, old hookers.
Every so often, Royal grew lonely. His bear would growl with the need to dominate again. Still haunted by Jinny’s voice, he sometimes wished he could inject life into her waxy limbs.
He would soon hunt for other partners. However, he didn’t want just any woman. He needed a particular specimen, one that spoke to him. And they had to be pretty, tributes to his sister. Every couple of years, he stumbled upon women who looked somewhat like his Jinny. He would bring those other women home, those other nameless blondes who wore her face. He’d learn their names but call them Jinny in his head. All he wanted was to replicate those heady, early days with her. Was it such a crime?
Unfortunately, they weren’t good enough. They weren’t Jinny. Eventually he’d glimpse their imperfections. A couple of them had dyed blonde hair. Others just didn’t feel right in his arms. He’d tired of them all.
For that reason, Jinny soon had company in the gallery.
