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Now, the thought is laughable.
Because what I am iswhoI am. Who knows: maybe I should thank her for playing her part in the events that led to that dream being destroyed along with my hand, clearing my vision of any blinders or distractions. In a sense, she helped me see with utter clarity that it’s the violence and the darkness thatiswho and what I truly am.
My fingers dance over the keys again. I’m still good. Very, very good. But I’ll never be great. Even after a dozen surgeries, physical therapy from the best of the best, and the laser focus only someone like me is born with. Which is a shame. For more than just making my grandmother smile with pride, piano was my outlet to help me deal with the storm inside of me. The rage. The pain and the abuse.
And she took that from me that night I saw who and what she really was.
The night I killed.
My jaw sets as I pull my hands back and close the lid over the keys.
What are you doing.
I mean really—whatamI doing? My hatred for Dahlia Roy is one thing, and I think I could make a pretty decent case to any jury as to why it exists like a cancer in my heart. But if it was just blind hate, this would all be easier.
I’d have simply destroyed her. Her, and everyone around her that she loves. I’d have either allowed her stepfather to pluck her mother’s fortune and her future from their hands, or even helped him do it.
But no, I pushed it further. I went and involved myself. I bought those companies, funds, and trusts that he was trying to steal. Which, I have to say, was an extremely impressive feat.
Twenty-two shell companies. Several bribed board members. A couple of CEOs with one too many skeletons in the closet. They were more than happy to sell majority shares in their companies to keep those hidden.
I imagine it would have taken a financial titan like Carl Icahn or Warren Buffett six months to orchestrate a corporate assassination of this beauty and perfection.
I managed it in two weeks.
Why? Because Icannotseem to let her go. I’ve never let any fixation of mine go, mind you, so I’m not sure why I ever thought I could do it with her. Especially when I clearly never let go at all six years ago.
Stalking, spying on, meddling with, and keeping other men away from Dahlia Roy for six years isnotindicative of “letting go”.
And that’s both the problem and the source of this all. I’m forever trapped in this light and dark battle with her. Wanting to have her. To consume her. To sully and mark and claim her in every possible way.
And also to destroy her, for what she did.
I’m not sure what I thought bringing Dahlia back into my immediate orbit would achieve. Revenge? Taking by force what was denied me before? If that’s the case, whyhaven’tI fucked her yet? Why haven’t I taken every warm hole she has until I’ve had my fill, only to drop her like a bad habit and cement that revenge?
I don’t know. If only I could lie to myself, I’m sure I could conjure a pretty tale of “dragging it out” or “making her squirm”. But I can’t lie to myself, and despite turning it over and over in my head, I honestly don’t know what the true reason is.
Just as I don’t know why it is that since Ididbring her back into my orbit—or rather, since I walked into my grandmother’s garden those weeks ago and found Dahlia alreadyinmy orbit—my usual appetite for debauchery and depravity of the carnal type has gone…
Well, it’s justgone. Away. On vacation. Leave a message after the beep and I’ll call you back.
There’s never been a shortage of women ready to drop to their knees, open their mouths, and spread their legs with just a snap of my fingers. Whether it’s because of my genetics, my money, my family, the criminal thing…or at times, the fact that I’m every scary nightmare fantasy every one of them has ever had.
You don’t have to have slept with me to guess that I play darkly. Roughly. Bordering on…feral. Primal.
But sex has always simply been a tool for me to achieve a necessary release that’s emotional as much as physical. I dull myself with drugs and alcohol andfuckto purge that thing inside of me that was put there too young.
I fuck for the same reason I consume food to sustain myself, or sleep so I don’t fall apart. It’s a part of living I need to engage in to survive.
But with Dahlia, I…crave it.
Desire it.
Truly and actively want it, in a way I’ve never wanted it before.
I’ve been dreaming of the ways I’ll fuckingruinher, too. While trying not to think about…well, what I saw that night. What that motherfucker burned into my brain before I burned his house.
I rip myself from my thoughts and glance at my watch.
