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…those who you fear losing the most…
My mother.
The realization knocks my feet out from underneath me and I hit the floor. Hand to chest, I drag in a fiery breath past my constricted lungs. I was such a fool to think I could outwit him—that I could engage him. There is one vital difference between this killer and the others: he sees me coming. There is no element of surprise. I never had the upper hand.
And the sadistic fuck is making me choose. A choice that—either way—will end with my suffering. This much I know; he’s a true sadist, resolute in reveling in my agony.
With what rational mind I possess, I throw my holster over one shoulder and grab my bag as I race through the living room. Despite knowing that this is the very thing the UNSUB wants of me, I’m spurred into motion. On a predestined path that starts with one choice.
The choices we make define us. They demand action; whether we are ready or not. And for however long we weather the storm, our choices never stop haunting us. Who will I be when I’ve finally answered for all the decisions that have led me here. Who will remain when the final fissure completes its destructive journey.
I don’t have the answer. But in this moment, where I now face an impossible choice, the outcome belongs to me.
Search for Colton, or protect my mother.
My phone vibrates with another message. Unknown: Run, Sadie. Run.
The UNSUB knows the choice I have to make. He’s counting on it.
Twist
UNSUB
Her muffled cry echoes throughout the room, bouncing off the stone and filling the chilly air with a beautiful sound. It’s haunting and exquisite, like a single violin breaking away from the orchestra. A solo just for me.
I decide to join in—I enjoy duets even more. It’s simply too tempting not to become a part of her debut. She’s irresistible; wrists bound, mouth gagged, slender body contorted, slim legs parted wide and already stained with my favorite color.
I slide the sharp metal up the creamy flesh of her thigh, releasing another bead of red, and she frees a shiver-inducing scream around the gag. I feel it in my bones, rattling me to the core. Stirring my blood. We’re like lovers caressing for the first time, anticipating each touch that sets the skin aflame.
Ah, can’t forget about the flame.
My pet wilts as I set my blade aside. Her body—strung so tightly with tension—visibly deflates with relief. It makes the striking of the match all the more enjoyable as fear lights her glistening eyes.
One solitary tear slips down her cheek, and I reach up with my gloved hand to wipe it away. I leave my hand resting against her face, run my thumb under her eye. I have a thing for eyes—the windows to which the soul peeks out. I need to look into them.
You can hear the terror in a scream. Glimpse the fright as the body quivers. But there is no mistaking fear when it comes from the eyes. That’s why I don’t mind the gag when it’s necessary—but I’ll never cover the eyes.
You will always see me.
As I lower the match to her flesh, her stomach muscles trembling as she struggles to back away from the flame, I pry her eyes open and stare into the depths of her. My wilting flower, so much pain. So much pain.
I don’t know if the Countess reveled in torture in the same way. I don’t know her reasons—the why, the foundation. I assume some of it was madness. Maybe a dash of inbreeding to boot. Coupled with a childhood where she suffered at the hands of someone she should’ve been able to trust, and you have the recipe for a dedicated psychopath.
My imagination runs away with me at times. Since the history books have been wiped as if the infamous lady never existed, I have to settle for my creation. I’m an artist, after all. And then there are Sadie’s theories, of course. I’ve spent the past year finding ways to apply her theories to my art—she’s as much a part of this as I am.
With my art and her skill, we’ll be an unstoppable team.
Since there’s no room for a third wheel in a magnificent duet, that means it’s nearly time for my accomplice to take a bow.
Permanently.
The match douses right as I’m getting to the good part, and I drop the burnt stick. My pet, soaking wet with sweat and tears, spasms against the bindings until she blacks out. Her body goes limp.
That won’t do. I grab the smelling salts from my work table and wave it under her nose. She jolts back to life. Like kick-starting an engine, my little pet revs up, unleashing a new wave of cries. It sends a thrill right to my cock, and I’m suddenly straining against my pants.
Again, my imagination takes flight. All the possibilities that lay ahead for my love. I’ll paint the scene, and she’ll be the star. When my blade draws blood, she’ll be my guiding hand. And when I throb, I’ll bury myself in her…until she breaks.
I release a groan, unable to deny myself any longer. The build up is always the best. The tension rising, rising—cresting to new heights. At the sound of my zipper dropping, my pet cries. She knows this is the best part, too. I can see it in her eyes.
