I stare at the door. Images of Brandon’s face with a hole in his forehead trickling blood jump in my mind, and a sob clogsmy throat. Then Butterfly Man’s face, naked but featureless, lies pale and bloody on my bedroom carpet freezes on display.
“I’m fine.” I try to force every ounce of composure I have into my voice. “Just trying to sleep…Brandon.” My shoulders slump in defeat as I swallow the tears threatening to give me away and feign irritation. “Do I need permission for some privacy in my own bedroom?”
The doorknob stills. “Oh, I… Sorry. Of course not. I’m so sorry to wake you, ma’am. Have a good night.”
“That’s my good girl.” Butterfly Man plants a kiss on my neck and carries me back to bed. He lies next to me and folds an arm around my waist like an invited lover, not a sick man forcing me into submission with a gun. “I knew you’d make the right choice.”
When his hand slides under my gown and between my thighs, I don’t fight. With a mix of dread and exhilaration, with a twisted sense of freedom, I realize I can’t resist the pull of him leaning into the abyss, surrendering to the inevitable.
Later, I’d tell myself I did it to save a young man from dying, but deep down, my stalker and I would know I did it to save him.
Because I want him to kill for me. And because I want him.
CHAPTER 2
Butterfly Man
Touching her is the most beautiful and most terrifying thing I’ve ever done.
I marvel at her softness, the warmth that spreads from her flesh through my body, igniting something primal and desperate. I’ve lived so long in the cold, convincing myself I was beyond warmth. Only she sets my soul ablaze. A lifetime of longing, doubt and carefully constructed walls melts away as my fingers trail along her skin, slow, tentative, as if I might shatter her with the slightest pressure. But it’s me coming apart, unraveling at the seams.
Fingers trembling, I reach out to the forbidden, hovering just above. I’ve wanted this—fuck, I’ve needed this—yet now that she’s within reach, her pussy glistening in the dark, spilling secrets on the delicate skin of her inner thighs, the fear gnaws at me, a beast with no compassion tearing at the edges of my resolve.
Reagan consumes me, a gravity that pulls at the darkest parts of my soul. I can’t stop the thoughts, the images that attack me without warning—what I could do to her, to her body, if I let go.
My heartbeat, a wild thing hammering against my ribs, threatens to burst through and lay every fucked-up fantasy and urge she ignites bare. They writhe, whispering that I’ll only corrupt her, taint her light with my shadows until there’s nothing left but the dark. I don’t want her to see them, to see me like this, fractured and jagged. It makes me sick, makes me want to pull away, but I can’t. I don’t deserve her, but I just can’t stop.
I’m poison, and she’s the antidote. Still, I’m tethered to her, caught in the web we’ve spun with no escape.
The distance between us is agony, like the last breath before the plunge. My hand moves before I can think. I part her lips and trail my middle finger along her slit.
She’s so wet. God, she’s so fucking wet, and it’s from fantasizing about me.MY REAGAN IS WET FOR ME.
The world crumbles around me. There’s nothing but her heat seeping through to my fingertip. I should say something, anything, but the words choke in my throat. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The only thing I see and hear and smell and feel is Reagan. I want to immerse myself in her, drown in her, and forget everything else. Do I dare hope it’s possible? Do I dare believe it’s real?
No, it must be one of my fantasies. In reality, she wouldn’t accept me, let aloneneedme.
I pull back, withdrawing my hand, and inhale her scent off my finger. My eyes roll behind my mask in bliss. It’s not a fantasy. I am here with her, the sweet familiar scent of her arousal I know by heart filling my nostrils. It’s real. As real as the living, breathing monster in me, hungry and relentless, that will destroy us both if I let it.
But how? If this were only my imagination, she wouldn’t be opening herself to me. She wouldn’t be dripping wet under my touch. So I look into her eyes, searching for revulsion, waiting for her to recoil, for the moment she realizes her mistake. Instead, I find a reflection of my own longing, my own fear.
“Why did you stop?” she whispers.
Making sure you’re not a dream.But it’s too cheesy to say. “Sorry, my queen.” I spread her lips open again and dip one finger inside her.
With a hiss, she leans into my touch, just slightly, but it’s enough to undo me. Something inside me snaps, a thread wound too tight for too long.
In one brief, vivid flash in my head, I pull her closer, until she can’t breathe, until her soft hiss is smothered against my chest. Then I tighten my hand around her wrists, the playful touch morphing into dark possession. My fingers, once trembling with restraint, now dig into her skin, a need to leave red, angry, unforgettable marks on her flesh that scream, MINE.
The panic in her gaze as she begs me to stop, as I don’t let go, the moment when her trust I’ve barely gained shatters into a thousand pieces tears at me and excites me at the same time. My breath, hot against her neck, my lips biting her ear, I whisper things that should never be spoken. Cruel words meant to wound, to break her spirit, and she flinches, tears welling up in those eyes that once looked at me with something like love.
The sound of her tears springs my cock to life as she struggles, her fear palpable, trying to get away, and I don’t let her. I watch her flutter her wings, a little butterfly caged in a jar, trapped beneath me, powerless, just like I’ve always felt.
Her face contorts in pain as my grip moves from her wrists to her throat. Her sexy rasps in that voice that brings me to my knees plead. I still don’t stop. I can’t. I’ve been drowning alone for so long. Time to pull her with me, let her drown, too.
The bruises bloom on her skin, a grotesque testament to the monster I can’t contain. Her mouth is wide open, desperate forbreath, but what I do is fill it with my cock. I only pull it out to spill my cum and watch it drip on her lips.
And then, the final image attacks, sudden and visceral—Reagan lying still, silent, eyes empty, because I’ve gone too far. Life drains from her, a cold, broken thing left in my wake. Horror twists my stomach, but the vision doesn’t fade. It lingers, taunting me, showing me exactly what I could do if I ever gave in to these urges.
