This is wrong. I understand that intellectually. A man lies dead three feet away, and I'm stroking myself while his blood dries on the face of the woman I love.
Gross. The word floats through my consciousness like a passing cloud. Acknowledged. Dismissed.
Every body that falls at my feet or by my hand triggers this same response. A surge of power over the absolute finality of things. Proof that I can end existence itself. It's not something I chose. Not something I can control.
Derek. Volkov. The tech billionaire. The boarding school headmistress. The missionary.
I came after every single one.
And I'm not going to stop.
Not for morality. Not for appearances. Not even for her, my perfect, filthy, dark, depraved Scarletta.
Because this is who I am. What I am. The monster she wrote forty-seven stories about without knowing she was describing someone real.
I pull my hand out of my pants, pop the button on my jeans, drag the zipper down, and release myself so she can watch properly.
"This is what it does to me," I say. My voice soft. Soothing. "Killing. It makes me hard. And looking at you right now… all I'm thinking about is…fucking you."
She looks down at herself. Really seeing it for the first time—the spray of blood across her body, the heavier splatter across her chest, the way it's soaked into the fabric of her shirt. Her hands tremble as they reach for the hem, and then she's ripping the shirt over her head in one jerky motion. Underneath, she's wearing a coral-colored sports bra, bright and incongruous against the carnage. Clean.
Then she's bending forward, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her workout leggings, peeling them down her thighs. The fabric clings to her legs as she works it lower, revealing pale flesh beneath. Unmarked. Untouched by Ryan's blood. She kicks the leggings away, and they land in a crumpled heap next to her discarded shirt.
She straightens, and immediately her arms come up to cross over her chest. Like she's trying to cover herself. To hide. Her shoulders curl inward, making herself smaller, and she stands there in just her bra and panties—looking at me with eyes that are too wide, too bright.
She looks terrified.
I nearly come just thinking that word.
Terrified.
Not of me, though. That's the beautiful part. Not of the man standing three feet away with his cock in his hand, hard from watching her kill. Not of what I might do to her, or what I've already done.
She's terrified of the consequences for whatshejust did.
The balancing ofherscales. The reckoning she thinks is coming.
I walk over to her slowly, deliberately, my hand still wrapped around my cock because I'm not hiding this from her anymore. When I reach her, I take her wrists—gently, carefully—and pull her arms out, away from her body, letting my cock bob, hard and erect, between us.
She resists for half a second, a tiny whimper catching in her throat, but then she lets me. Lets me hold her arms out to her sides so I can see all of her.
"You balanced him," I tell her. "You delivered justice. Real justice. For Posie. For dozens of others, Scarletta. All those girls whose names we'll never know. You saved dozens more who would've come after them if he'd lived another year, another five, another ten."
"I didn't even decide, Caleb. It just—. I just saw his eyes and I knew, ya know? I knew he was gonna?—"
"Shhh," I say, putting a finger against her lip. The blood is still wet. I drag my finger through it, smearing it. Painting her face with it.
She lets me. Not even a flinch. She stares into my eyes like I'm her God. I place my hand on her cheek, look lovingly down at her. I let my thumb trace along her jawline, feeling the tacky warmth of blood there. I can practically hear her heart beating.
"Is your pussy wet?" I ask, my voice dropping. "Please, Scarletta. I need to know. Did it make you wet?"
Her mouth falls open. She begins to say something. Stops. Just… stares at me.
I cup her whole face with my hands now. I press my cock into her stomach. My sickness poking in to her. "You can answer honestly. Even if it's no. You can tell me. And if it is no, then… then we'll clean up and I'll take you home. Don't worry about him. I'll take care of him too. You don't have to worry about anything."
I let out a breath. Blink. Swallow.
"But if it's yes, Scarletta. Then… then I would like to fuck you right now. Right here. With his blood all over you. With his destroyed body at our feet. Because this… this isn't mysickness. This is mydream."
