She had no idea I was tracking her every move, watching her sleep, memorizing her routines like scripture. She wasn’t trained like me to watch out. To expect any possible modicum of chaos. She didn’t know. And why would she?
Suddenly, most tasks were meaningless.
What could matter to me more than knowing what goes on in that pretty little head, besides imagining what it would feel like to crush it between my hands? To destroy the thing that’s ruined me.
To snap her delicate neck in my hands.
And the longer it went on, the harder it was to separate the assignment from her.
I wanted her ass up and her haughty little fucking face smashed into her bed pillow. I wanted to smear my cum in her hair, or maybe just tie her to my bed and leave her there for however many days it takes for her to sign her soul over to me.
Watching her made me want to own her. Not just her body, everything. Her space. Her time. Her choices. I tried to dismantle her reality and rebuild it in my image.
I wanted her to second-guess herself at every turn. Every decision should be obsessed with pleasing me. Every instinct. I wanted her to look in the mirror and only see me.
The assignment? Irrelevant. The endless bullshit that came with the Huntington-Russells? Noise. I didn’t care that she was the baby sister of two of my fellow Bonesmen. I wanted to fuck her up.
I got off on the idea of ruining her—not just once, not for a fleeting moment, but for good. I used to imagine her brought low, eating from the palm of my hand, kneeling before me, starved for my attention, helpless in her devotion.
Some nights, I laid awake thinking about locking her in my house and stripping it down to nothing. No furniture, no clothes, no food, just her, wandering empty halls, naked and starving, with nowhere to go and nothing to cling to.
I used to wonder if that would truly push her to the same lengths as my devotion. If, after a week of isolation, she’d break. Would she fall to her knees and crawl to me with nothing left but instinct? If I stripped her down to feel what has plagued me since I first learned her name, would she choose me just the same?
Would she collapse into my arms like I wasn’t the one who destroyed her, just to spend her final breath close to me?
Now, the thought of her dying guts me.
She’s mine—my pet, my possession. I care for her as much as I control her, and I would raze the world if it meant keeping her alive. I once fantasized about ending her; now I know I wouldn’t survive without her.
And now she’s crying in my fucking stables.
I look out the window, and there she is, walking back across the lawn. Walking slowly with her shoulders dropped, guarded. Like she doesn’t know who she’ll find on the other side of the door, me or the monster.
And at this moment, I decide.
I don’t just want her fear. I want her fire too.
I meet her at the door before she can reach for the handle and open it. She just stops, still and silent, the wind catching in her hair. Her arms are crossed, tight to her chest, like armor.
We stand there staring at each other. She's waiting for me to move or say something. My insufferable need to controleverything is momentarily stunted. I swallow anyway and force myself to get over it.
Her eyes are soft and red and rimmed with tears.
“I will only ever give you what you need,” I try. Not sure where to start. I lean forward and tuck her hair behind her ear, looking into her beautiful eyes.
“I’m not your golden boy, and I’ll drag you through the fucking mud.” I try again, and her brow furrows. Fuck I have no idea what I’m doing.
I usher her to step fully into the warmth of the room, and she does so, looking at me with an odd expression. Like she doesn’t understand what I have to say, and honestly, I don’t either. I shut the door behind her. Her eyes are rimmed in red, and there are tears still in them. It’s so fucking beautiful to see her so torn apart.
I can't help but rub my thumb along the under of her eye, across the small freckle that rests there.
Her eyes lock onto mine with a confused, raw, look. Like she’s trying to figure out what I’m about to say, and I’m not even sure I know myself.
“I’ll never ask for permission to keep you. You need to understand that you will never know a life where I don’t control you.” I suck in a breath, needing to get the words out like vomit. “I can’t stand how much I need you, Martine. I could fucking kill you for it.”
She inches closer to me, a moth to my fucked up flame. She doesn’t speak; she simply wipes at her tears with the back of her hand like it’ll help.
And God, it’s fucking beautiful.
