Dove:It was cruel.
Dove:You’re cruel.
More cruel than she can possibly know.
Me:Yet you’re giving me a chance anyway. You must either think I’m cute and believe you have the power to change me or…you must suspect there’s more to me than cruelty. Which is it? Attraction, or faith?
Dove:Neither.
Me:Oh?
Dove:It’s my turn. I want to see how far you’ll go now that you’ve given me the power to be cruel back.
Another swear hits me, and I swallow—hard—cupping my free hand to my mouth as heat rises. Breaths uneven, I shiver for this woman, helpless and hopeless and enamored. If this is truly her goal, I pray with every cell in me that she doesn’t lose her nerve. Ineedher to unravel me, bruise me, make mebleed.
Make me hers.
Shakily, I respond:
Me:So this is a revenge romance?
Dove:Problem with that?
Me:Not at all.
Me:In fact, thank you.
Dove:What do you mean “thank you”?
Me:I’m shaking for you, Azalea. It’s hard to type. You’re everything perfect in this world. I love you dearly. Please annihilate me. Please make me suffer. Please let me be yours.
And to that she does not reply.
Chapter Five
?
The only fantasy I’m interested in involves Malcolm’s head. On a pike.
Azalea
I wake on what would be a lovely Saturday morning to three messages. Three whole messages between both phones. Two from Junction…and one from Malcolm.
Nose wrinkling, I stare at Malcolm’s message on my personal phone first.
Crow:Good morning, little dove. I love you.
It’s twisted. Sickening. I’m convinced it’s a new game without rules that he expects me to play until I’m losing and have no idea why. He’s always making up these horrid little games to amuse himself with. It’s just one of the many reasons I hate him so much. It’s hard not to let my loathing show, which is why—last night—I texted him the truth.
I do not believe myself capable of pretending to like him, so I won’t. I will approach this development as clinically as an assistant, and I will toy with him, and I will watch him die, and I will treat his death as coldly as I’ve treated his life. And no one will be able to say it’sout of character.
All that said, I will likely need to make his phone disappear when he does. I wouldn’t want my less-than-amicable messages misconstrued as a motive. As far as anyone needs to know, he has had an insane crush on me for reasons unfathomable, thusresulting in the stupid decision to get a tattoo, but I am what I have been my entire life: indifferent.
My gaze lifts to the message prior to this sickly sweet, normal morning greeting, and I skim the words.
Please make me suffer.
Mm. Yeah. When he dies, I’m running his phone through a wood chipper. Even though I can’t say I’m not looking forward to the potential of a change of pace. How marvelous might it be if I can make him suffer in the days leading up to what I hope might be a slow, agonizing death?
