“No. Don’t lie to me. I see it in your eyes—his eyes. The same cruelty. The same hunger. Every time you look at me, I see him.”
Tears stung, but I didn’t move. “I can be good, I promise …”
I could see the madness those pills—Father’s pills—had carved into her face, hollowing her into something less than human; a ghost wearing her skin. Her voice twisted, no longer tender, but hysterical.
“You’ll ruin me like he did. You’ll take and take until there’s nothing left. I should never have let you into my arms. I should have had an abortion and not kept this rapist’s seed growing inside me.”
My eyes burned from tears I couldn’t hold back, realizing the weight of her words.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, and I couldn’t tell if she was crying or laughing when she turned her back on me.
“Now get out.”
“Mommy …”
“Get the fuck out of my room!” she shrieked, her gray eyes blown wide, unearthly, like something else was staring through them. For a moment, she didn’t look human—she looked possessed, rabid.
She turned around and dropped to her knees so fast it was like her legs had given out. Her fingers had tangled in her hair, fists clenching tight against her scalp.
“He’s not my child,” she whispered, then again, louder, hoarser. “He’s not my child. He’s not—he’s not?—”
Her voice caught, and then the words spilled out in a shriek, rhythmic, almost musical in their madness. “He’s my bane, my bane, my bane, my bane …”
Each repeat grew sharper, more frantic, until she was rocking, forehead nearly touching the floor.
“My bane. My bane. My bane.”
The air felt too still. I took a step back.
“M-Mommy …?”
She snapped upright like a puppet yanked by its strings, eyes wide and glassy.
“Get out,” she hissed, her voice like a rattlesnake in the grass. “GET OUT!”
She lunged, crawling, fingers scrabbling on the floor, nails scratching wood. “Out! Out! OUT!”
Terror crawled up my spine. I didn’t dare breathe. I bolted, stumbling out of her room as if the very walls might collapse around me if I stayed a second longer.
Love …
What a pathetic illusion. A word for fools who need something to worship. If it ever truly existed, my mother, my father—someone—would have seen me. Loved me for what I am, not what they wanted me to be. Isn’t that the promise of love? Unconditional? Eternal?
What a fucking joke.
Love is a sickness. A parasite that crawls into your skull and tells sweet lies to decay you from the inside. It tells you you’re not alone, that someone could ever be enough. But when the haze clears, you realize the truth … love poisons you.
Love is not what I feel for Isabella. It’s something … twisted. Dark. She wanted to protect me. She cared for me enough to cross every line and bring me close to her, but what she really did was bind me to her forever.
From the first night, I was hers—obsessed, consumed. What I crave is more than her mercy. I need her devotion, her mind, her soul, every fractured piece of her wrapped around me, whether she offers it willingly or not.
I neededspace after what happened. The whole damn thing clawed open memories I’d shoved into the darkest corner of myself, memories I swore were dead and buried.
For a moment, I thought I heard her voice saying those words again. I thought I saw her deranged face, staring at meacross the room. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time after a long time.
For a while, the nightmares, the sweat-soaked sheets, the screaming that left my throat sore, had stopped. I’d almost let myself believe I’d outrun those ghosts. Apparently, now I see them even wide awake. Great.
I needed speed, but my beauty had to stay hidden—locked away—because I’m supposed to be rotting in the ground, feeding the worms. So I went to my dear boss and pretended to be a good boy. To my surprise, he let me out, and more than that, he gave me one of his fastest beasts to unleash. A gorgeous black Ducati Panigale, like a demon striding straight out of hell, mine to command.
