The gauze falls away into the sink.
The wound is a gruesome, terrifying sight. The jagged, ugly black sutures Sybil pulled through my flesh are still intact, but the surrounding tissue is swollen, angry, and painted a sickly shade of deep purple and necrotic yellow. A thick, dark mixture of blood and purulent fluid oozes sluggishly from the inflamed edges.
The fever isn't just exhaustion. It is sepsis.
I stare at the ruin of my own body, my expression completely flat, entirely devoid of panic. I have survived bullet wounds, knife fights, and the brutal, paranoid wrath of my own father. A microscopic infection is not going to put me in the ground.
I reach into the medical case and pull out a heavy bottle of industrial hydrogen peroxide, a fresh sterile syringe, and the remaining vial of broad-spectrum liquid antibiotics.
I uncap the peroxide and pour it directly over the open, seeping wound.
The chemical reaction is instantaneous. The liquid violently bubbles and foams against the infected flesh, a searing, white-hot chemical burn that completely entirely obliterates my nerve endings. I close my eyes, my entire body locking into a state of rigid, trembling tension. I do not make a sound. I breathe through my nose, a harsh, whistling intake of air, absorbing the absolute torture in complete, suffocating silence.
When the burning finally subsides to a dull, roaring throb, I grab a sterile towel and wipe the heavy foam away. The tissue looks raw, bleeding sluggishly, but the worst of the necrotic fluid is gone.
I prep the syringe, drawing a massive, reckless dose of the heavy antibiotics. I find a thick, unbruised vein in my right forearm, tie a rubber tourniquet around my bicep with my teeth, and push the needle into my flesh. I depress the plunger, forcing the thick, milky liquid directly into my bloodstream.
I discard the needle into the trash. I quickly wrap a fresh, tight layer of sterile pressure bandages around my chest and shoulder, entirely concealing the brutal reality of my physical decline.
I wash my face with freezing water, scrubbing the exhaustion from my skin. I pull a clean, dark charcoal t-shirt from the stack of clothes Miller left in the duffel bag and carefully ease it over my head.
By the time I walk out of the bathroom, the monster is fully reconstructed. Untouchable. Invincible.
Sybil is still asleep.
I leave the master suite, my bare feet carrying me through the vast, open-concept living area of the villa. The entire house is completely open to the ocean, the heavy glass walls slid backinto their pockets. The warm, humid Caribbean breeze sweeps through the house, carrying the scent of blooming hibiscus and heavy salt.
I walk into the massive, state-of-the-art kitchen. The stainless steel appliances gleam in the morning light. The refrigerator is fully stocked, a testament to the meticulous, paranoid planning I executed years ago.
I open the heavy metal door. I pull out a bowl of fresh, bright tropical fruit—mangoes, papaya, dragon fruit. I set it on the cold marble island.
I reach into the drawer and pull out a heavy, forged steel chef's knife.
The irony is not lost on me. Hands that have snapped necks, hands that have ordered the execution of families, now meticulously slicing a ripe mango simply because I want to watch the sweet juice coat my wife's lips. I am a sociopath domesticated by my own obsession.
I arrange the bright, vibrant fruit on a heavy wooden serving tray. I pour a tall glass of ice-cold, filtered water.
I carry the tray back through the sun-drenched villa, my limp heavily pronounced when she is not looking, but entirely suppressed by sheer willpower as I cross the threshold of the master bedroom.
Sybil is waking up.
She shifts on the mattress, a soft, sleepy groan escaping her lips. She rolls onto her back, the white sheets slipping down to completely expose her bare breasts. She reaches out, her hand blindly searching the empty space beside her.
Her heavy, dark lashes flutter open.
She blinks against the bright sunlight, completely disoriented for a fraction of a second. She looks at the massive, open wall exposing the endless turquoise ocean. Then, she turns her head.
Her midnight-blue eyes lock onto me standing at the edge of the bed.
The memory of last night crashes into her mind. I can see it happen. I can see the exact millisecond the horrific, blood-soaked truth of her mother’s death collides with the agonizing, violent pleasure of our consummation. Her breath hitches sharply, her pupils dilating, a profound, heavy conflict warring across her beautiful features.
She should scramble backward. She should pull the sheets up to her chin and look at me with absolute, paralyzing disgust.
But she doesn't.
She lies perfectly still, her bare chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow staccatos. She stares at the monster who ruined her, and a deep, flushed heat slowly begins to bloom across her collarbones, climbing up her throat.
She accepts it. She accepts me.
