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There's no man in monster. And yet, there could so easily be.
"The kind who doesn't get shot by overambitious little girls." I glance about, pretending to observe the corners of her room. "I bet there's no camera in here. It might pick up a few things you'd rather it didn't."
"There's a camera," she says in a weaker voice.
Lies, transparent like glass. Leo, Leo.
"I don't think you bring men here. Or women." Now I get to my feet—gradually, letting her absorb each movement. My heartbeat begins to stutter. "But you undress in here. Show off your body." I step closer; she doesn't move. "You touch yourself."
"There's something very wrong with you," she whimpers.
"You think?"
And then I lunge at her.
She knew it was coming but can't react fast enough, not with her arms locked in place to hold the gun. We fall sideways before she finds the nerve to pull the trigger, and I land atop her in the hall, my torso muffling her pained cry. Within seconds, we're both scrabbling along the floor for the gun; I almost crush her wrist in the process but she yelps defeat at the last moment, dropping the weapon and curling into herself. I leap up to stand over her, pointing the gun at her frightened face.
"Up," I tell her in a calm voice. "Walk back into the bedroom."
"W-why?"
"Up." I offer my free hand, pull her up with it. "Now walk into your room. I'll be right behind you."
She obeys, and what a beautiful thing it is. Head bowed, eyelashes shining with tears she refuses to weep over me. Glossy, pouty mouth drawn and tight. Breath pouring through her teeth in little snares. Perhaps I should be ashamed of the way this gets me hard, but then I'd have to be ashamed of so many things.
"Lie on the bed." I nudge the base of her spine through her shirt. "On your back. Look at me while you do it."
She goes rigid. "What happens if I don't?"
"I'll take what I want, regardless." I run my hand around her hipbone, breathe down over her cheek. "You still think you know what that entails?"
No answer. She fights a cry, but crawls forward on to the bed. Her skirt rides up, pulling tighter over her heart-shaped ass and revealing more of her thighs. Then she lies back and turns to look at me. I'd say there is hate in her eyes, but it's a cocktail of something different entirely, a Russian roulette each time she blinks.
"Hands by your sides," I instruct.
Again, she obeys.
I climb on to the bed beside her. Over her. Straddle her hips. The gun sits lazily in my right hand; the left, I use to stroke her hair behind her ears. Just the slightest of touches. The most tactile of rapes.
No little camera hidden there.
"Now. I think you and I need to set a few things straight." The collar of her shirt hangs half-open, and I run the barrel of the gun along the soft skin on display there. Watch how it makes her tremble. "Explain what you know about the incident with Miss Fordham."
"Because you've got no idea what I'm aware of." She fixes her gaze on me in the lamp light. "You don't know, and it's eating away at you."
"There are a hundred things I could do which would be far worse than blowing your brains out. Just to make that clear."
"I know," she spits.
"And your aim here is, what? You were going to hunt me down and punish me for my sins?"
"I didn't hunt you." She swallows. "You handed yourself to me on a silver platter."
"But you do want to punish me." I nudge her chin with the tip of the gun. "Don't you?"
Her eyes darken. "You deserve it. Not just Rachel. Your father, your mothe—"
I smack her across the mouth with the butt of the gun. "Fuck you, you little witch."
She recoils into the pillows, crooning to herself—I haven't made her bleed, but the blow is enough to shock her. Something flickers in her black button eyes; not pain, but the smothering rage of obsession. And where there is obsession, there is the devil on its shoulder: desire. The kind that haunts rather than teases; the kind that gets its teeth in, brings the dark things out on their hands and knees. I know it all too well.
I smooth a finger across her stinging lips. "Now tell me, sweetheart. Tell me what you know."
She shakes her head. A lone tear bursts from one eye and spurts down her hot cheek, taking grey echoes of eyeliner with it.
"Maybe we'll try a different tack, then. Hitch your skirt up. Spread your thighs for me." I climb to one side, leaving her the space to fulfil my request. "Do it."
Another tear. A watery, silent witness. Leo takes a deep breath before peeling the leather skirt up to bunch at her waist. I pry her thighs open with the gun, get them a good distance apart until I spy the silky black fabric of her panties.
"Now." I rest the gun against her bare knee, and reach to stroke the inside of her thigh. "If you know so much...tell me where I cut her."
There's something about those words that sucks the pair of us into a white hot bubble. Leo's nerves peak and grate against the surface; she visibly quivers, her gaze rolling down.
"There," she whimpers, defeated.
"Where?"
"There." She jerks her thigh beneath my fingers. "On the inside."
"Good girl." I rub my thumb against the tendons at the top of her inner thigh, draw it down along her flesh in little scratches. "Small cuts. Pretty patterns. God, she bled."
Old scarlet flashes over Leo's skin to taunt me. The ghost of an orgasm kicks and screams—the hardest I've ever had, and all sprayed over the bleeding insides of Rachel Fordham's thighs. It was like being sucked into a hurricane and spat out across a fire.
And then...there were the other things. Perhaps Rachel didn't talk about those. Either that, or Leo doesn't dare to tempt me.
I tear my gaze from Leo's goosepimpled flesh, and find her eyes. "She told you this."
Leo nods.
"When?"
"We...uh." She breathes deep; seems genuine enough. "We were in therapy together. A while ago."
Fuck.
Who the hell else has Fordham told? She—and her parents—were paid an absolute chunk to stay quiet. To refrain from mentioning names. She should be knee-deep in an unfulfilling marriage by now, reading self-help books and plastering feminist crap all over Twitter.
"You didn't think she'd talk," Leo states. Her accent expresses fear so poignantly; and here I thought stereotypical Brits were natural villains. They make exquisite victims, too. "You thought you'd got away with it, didn't you?"
"Who's holding the gun, sweetheart?"
The dim light hides many things, but not the fact that this bitch actually just rolled her eyes.
"Now who's finding it funny?" I ask.
"It's not funny. None of this is funny. But you're not safe, and you know it. Not until I'm..."
Dead. We don't say it. But the word hangs between us, strung up on a noose made of frayed thread. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was calling my bluff—yet she's clever enough to circumvent that. Doesn't she realise it will tempt me to other things?
If there's one thing more powerful than a bigger death...it's a little one.
My hand climbs up her thigh toward the black silk of her panties. "Are you going to be wet when I touch you?"
"Nice bruise you're sporting," she bites out. "What a big man you are."
I ease away the damp gusset of her panties. I can't see her pussy, but no matter—I'd rather watch her expression twist as I make contact with her swollen flesh. Because she is swollen. Her outer lips peel apart easily, hot and full and slick.
"I'm a big man with a gun," I tell her softly. "A big man who isn't afraid to pull a trigger. But then...you already know that." The firm rise of her clit meets my thumb. I pinch it; her teeth sail into her bottom lip. Gorgeous. I cross my index and middle finger, drop them to the gape of her pussy, and corkscrew into the channel that tension has kept tight.
Leo balls her fists. Arches her back. Bears down on me, surprisingly hard. I work my fingers into her with brief, hard thrusts until her pussy gives and lets me sink past the knuckle. All the while, I watch her; she gulps the air down but refuses to make a sound—which won't do at all, will it? My cock throbs at the feel of her. Further I go, pushing until I come up against the firm pucker of her cervix and she lets out a brief squeal. If I get any deeper inside her, she'll probably choke before she comes.
