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I’ve yet to feel anything truly gratifying. The more I understood her connection to Mikael, the more I had a compulsion to understand her better. As I spent time with Summer’s father and learned what he was, I started asking questions. Like one of the ultimate debates in the field of psychology.

Nature vs. Nurture.

Was she born with it, or was she created like I was, through trauma?

I move my laptop to my desk, shut off the lights and, heading to the back of the basement, I pull open the trapdoor. I cough as the dust kicks up into my face. I wipe it off my designer sweater.

I’m sure Cali isn’t a big fan, either, but I couldn’t have Summer see or hear her, so I set a mattress down here and attempted to make it as comfortable as possible.

These tunnels, likely constructed during the Prohibition, have been quite useful over the years. This house is very old, almost ancient, and disturbingly evil. I shudder to think how many people have died here.

Dr. Garcia gifted Xander and me this house—the same house she lived in when she was a student. Now it’s our turn to kill and carry it forward.

When I open the door, I turn on the small light. Cali is lying down with dirt streaks smeared over her delicate face, even though I just washed her up yesterday. I had to bind her mouth today. Her sobbing got tiresome, and I’m sick of drugging her.

She stares up at me as I crouch down next to her. “I’m going to take out your gag now so you can eat. Please don’t scream.”

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she stares at me, likely trying to figure out which version she is getting.

I pull the gag out and hand her the salad and a fork with a bottle of water.

She looks at me dead in the eye. “I hate you.”

I take a deep breath and run my knuckles softly down her face. The fear bleeding out of her eyes, the emotional response she has to me. “I’m not the one who did this to you, Cali,” I remind her, “but I am the reason you’re not dead yet. So hating me might not be wise.”

She doesn’t respond, though a single tear falls from her eye, and she digs into the gourmet salad she requested. She bristles, and eventually, her fear morphs into anger. She’s already cried, begged, screamed, and offered herself to me in hopes I would let her go.

Truth is, I’m not entirely sure he hasn’t hurt her. I don’t think he has, but he has blocked me out for short periods already, and she does look an awful lot like Summer.

Cali is aware there are two of us—it was blatantly obvious on day one.

Despite these non ideal circumstances, I have utilized the opportunity to work on my research and have been studying her diligently since I possessed her. I’ve observed her every night since he took her weeks ago. Fever, chills, her rapid heart rate, and vomiting. I’ve kept her comfortable—more or less—and have been nothing but kind and courteous. I even bought her a few books to read and have made multiple trips to the bookstore at her request.

I take a moment to admire her as she finishes her food and curls her knees up to her chest. A deep flare erupts inside me as I watch her.

That emotion again…that fragment in my soul pushing to the surface.

I lower myself to her and pull down the strap of her shirt over her shoulders. She flinches at my touch.

“Don’t worry, Cali,” I say softly, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to check your pulse.”

Her body slacks, and her face turns ashen.

Okay, maybe I’m trying to scare her a bit. But only because it’s so fascinating, and I can understand why Dr. Landry was obsessed with this emotion.

This girl’s breathing is rapid, causing her chest to rise and fall. I tilt my head for dramatic measure, and notice the throb in her throat, the slight change in her pupils, and her cheeks, which are completely devoid of color.

I place my two fingers on her chest and study the rhythm of her heart. Her goosebumps flesh when I touch her.

I just told this girl in all honesty, I wasn’t going to hurt her, yet her biochemical reaction is that of extreme fear and anxiety. Her eyes are fully glazed over.

I feel myself slowly, and ever so slightly, get turned on.

She visibly relaxes, but her eyes are bright, and they flick down to the bulge in my pants.

I lean down and whisper in her ear, “I’m not going to fuck you, either, Cali.”

It’s happening again. His emotions, his physical sensations, start to trickle in. For the time being I’m able to push them aside, but dark images of her eyes being gouged out consume my mind, and it’s not a pleasant sight.