I look at her, meeting her gaze head-on. “Did.”
Her expression softens, the hardness in her eyes giving way, showing her sensitive side that I strangely like. She looks down, her voice quieter now. “What happened?”
The memories scraping their way up spine and I weigh my options—whether to open up just enough to pull her closer or shut her out entirely, keeping my edge intact.
“She’s dead.”
Kitten tilts her head slightly, studying me with those sharp, blue eyes of hers. She knows there’s more, and I can feel her thinking about my words, trying to make sense of them.
“She went missing,” I say finally, my voice cold and clipped. I drag the fork through the pasta again. “Poof.Never to be seen again.”
“Was this before…”
Her voice trails off as my eyes snap to hers, the intensity in my stare stops her mid-sentence and her lips press into a thin line. She looks down, her fork toying aimlessly with the pasta.
I force myself to relax, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders as I exhale a silent, defeated sigh. I don’t like talking about this, but the words seem to slip out anyway.
“Yeah, it was,” I mutter begrudgingly.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice softer now. “That must have been really hard for you.”
Her words sink in, hitting a place I don’t let people reach. I think about how hard it was—how I failed. How it fucking destroyed me. I was supposed to protect her, to be the big brother she could rely on. Instead, I let her slip through my fucking fingers. It broke something in me. Hell, it fucking made me. But it wasn’t the only reason for the way I am now. There were many.
I take a bite of pasta, forcing the memories back down. Across from me, she tips her beer back, chugging it like it’s water, trying to chase away her own discomfort.
I study her, every small movement pulling me in deeper. Her long orangey-red hair falls loose over her shoulders and chest, her lips parting slightly as she swallows the last of the drink. I wonder how many secrets lie beneath her pretty exterior.
I need to know more.
“Any boyfriends?” I ask, my tone laced with interest but also something darker—possessiveness.
She pauses for a moment, caught off guard, and then sets the empty bottle down without meeting my eyes, but I catch a faint smile that tugs at the corners of her lips.
“I’ve had a few… Not in a while though.”
Her casual response ignites something primal in me. The thought of anyone else touching her, tasting her, knowing her in ways I haven’t yet—it’s angering. The jealousy flares hot andfast and I regret even asking. I drop my fork into the pasta with a clang, snatching my beer instead and taking a long, irritated gulp, yet the bitter taste does little to dull the rage.
“You?” she queries. Of course, she’d throw the fucking question back at me.
I tilt my head forward slightly, the bottle cold against my fingers and her eyes are on me now, waiting. I hiss through my teeth and set the beer down with a thud.
“Tell me, beautiful girl. How many cocks have you had inside that tight ass? Has anyone actually satisfied you in the way you deserve?” I murmur darkly, my eyes blackening with desire as they sweep down her body with hunger.
Her lips twitch upward, a faint, almost teasing smile breaking through as she stares down at her pasta. She’s no longer eating, just stirring the sauce into lazy spirals as if the motion helps her piece together her thoughts. I can see it in her eyes—the wheels turning, the careful consideration of what to say next.
“Tell me, psycho boy. Have you ever fucked at all?” Her blue eyes meet mine, an amused intensity in them. “How about head? How badly does your virgin dick want to cum down my throat?”
Her answer doesn’t just make my jaw tighten with annoyance—it almost gets my dick hard.
Brave little bitch.
There she is, the real her, peeking out from beneath that carefully constructed façade. A little brazen, a little mouthy, and just the kind of slut I can’t resist. My lips curl into a dark smirk as I snicker, lowering my gaze back to my food and stabbing hard at the pasta with my fork.
Of course, she’d put two and two together, assuming I’m a virgin. It makes sense. And as much as I hate to admit it, she’snot wrong. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old fucking virgin—not by choice, though.
I’m sure many women would think that a man my age who’s never fucked before would be useless, but they couldn’t be more wrong. Being locked away from the world since I was a kid has done nothing but twist and corrupt my already fractured mind.
Years in isolation gave me nothing but time—time to fantasize, obsess, and spiral into depravity. The poor woman who ends up being the first to endure me won’t just be touched by my insanity; she’ll be consumed by it. And here she is, sitting right in fucking front of me.
