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I’m always in fucking control.
My fingers curl around another handful of popcorn and I shove it into my mouth.
I know my anger is misplaced. I told her to relax. Told her I wouldn’t hurt her. She’s done nothing wrong. Except trust me.
She should absolutely not trust me.
Her body finally gives up the fight, and her head lulls to the side. Her lips nearly brushing the backs of my fingers. Her breath a warm caress on my skin.
For too long I watch her.
Stare at her.
Observe her.
Her lashes flutter in her sleep, dreams affecting her although her body remains unmoving.
She’s a temptation; even with her body hidden under the blanket, I can tell I’ll like the rest of her. The softness of her cheeks surely continues down her frame.
The women I’m often seen with, the ones I’m expected to be with, don’t look like her. Don’t look innocent. Or sweet.Or fed. They usually look exactly like the vipers they are. That they need to be. Because my world isn’t a place for sweet innocence. My world is the dark pit that sucks all the light and goodness out of everything it touches.
A small sound crawls out of her dream. One that’s too close to distress. Before I can stop myself, I’m reaching out.
The pad of my thumb ghosts over her bottom lip. The flesh feeling as delicate as it looks.
Get a fucking grip.
Snatching my hand away, I stand. My movements silent.
I need to leave.
I should’ve left the second the cop cars drove past.
Popcorn bowl in hand, I walk to the small kitchen.
The counters are clean. Everything is in its rightful place, just like the living room.
Setting the bowl down, I unplug her phone and pick it up. Tapping on the screen, it scans my face, before displaying a number pad.
Figures she keepsthislocked.
“Who are you, Sweet Girl?”
I trail the fingers of my free hand across the fronts of her cupboards. I know better than to leave fingerprints, but can’t fight the compulsion to leave a mark. To leave some sort of trace behind. Even if she can’t see it.
Then my eyes snag on a small stack of mail tucked between an unplugged toaster and the wall.
“Got you.”
I pick the envelopes up, reading the name and address on the unopened ones.
Hello, Payton Vawdrey.
Pretty name, for a pretty girl.
Carrying on with my inspection, I step up to a tiny table hosting an ancient laptop, and—I reach out and touch the leaves—a fake plant.
I grit my teeth.
