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Do I care? Fuck no.
I’ve screwed more girls than I could count and yet, it’s always felt as if something was missing. I’ve done it rough and demented. I’ve fucked them until they couldn’t move, but while that got me off, it wasn’t special. It doesn’t even compare to the demented pleasure I felt when I tore through Naomi’s hymen, breaking her figuratively and literally.
In a way, it feels as if I’ve been waiting for someone like her. For someone who enjoys the twisted shit as much as I do. Someone who screams, cries, and claws, even when, deep down, they love every second of it.
Someone who begs me to stop but doesn’t use the word that would end it all.
Someone who comes by being roughed up.
I stand in front of my dimly-lit doorway mirror as I zip up my hoodie. A shadow covers my features. I have a face that I get praised for more often than I prefer. I’m called hot, sculpted, a beautiful creation.
A modern Adonis.
But no one knows the type of monster hidden beneath the physical perfection.
No one except for my Tsundere.
The Weaver clan excels at being pretty but barbarous. Powerful but corrupted.
I guess I take after them more than I thought.
Usually, I dislike being put in the same box as my ancestors, but I couldn’t give a fuck about it right now.
&nb
sp; The only need pulsing in my veins is to pick up where I left off with Naomi and maybe take it to newer heights.
I look at my watch and it’s seven-fifteen. I’m late on purpose so that my pretty little toy stays on her toes.
After tying my shoelaces, I step out of my apartment. It’s located in one of the buildings owned by a friend of Grandpa’s. Because he and Grandma need to keep an eye on me at all times, even after I moved out of their house.
The elevator opens and I pause as my uncle steps out, carrying a takeout bag.
Nathaniel Weaver is another example of how well we hide behind the beautiful façade. His fancy suits and groomed looks gave him the title of ‘most sought-after lawyer’ in a magazine once.
They said, and I quote, because Grandma was proud and sent it over a thousand times, “Senator Brian Weaver’s son, Nathaniel Weaver, is the heartthrob of Brooklyn, the dream of every socialite, and the hardest fruit to reach. He has the looks of a Greek god, but he’s just as cold.”
And it’s true.
Nate might have tried to fill the gap the absence of my parents left behind, but he doesn’t play nice with outsiders—or his own parents—at all. He’s emotionless and aloof, calm and calculated.
And he has this foreign ability to read minds. Which is why meeting him right now is the worst-case scenario.
Can he see the nefarious lust shining in my eyes? Or perhaps he can decrypt my need to inflict pain over and over again?
His dark gaze measures me up and down. He does that a lot, intimidating his opponents with silent observation until they crack on their own.
“Where are you going, Rascal?”
I twist my neck and stretch my arm behind my back. “A jog.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. I run better after people have gone home.”
“You can also hide a crime better when no one is looking.”
I grin. “That, too.”
