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I return my focus to where it needs to be. These perimeter alarms, they make no sense. They cannot possibly have been tripped by accident. I set up the alarm system myself, and I check it regularly, even more so since I’ve been getting the text messages. This shouldn’t be possible, and yet it is.
I check each alarm, scanning the area. There’s nobody there, and no indication as to what set them off.
Feeling unsettled, I drive through the woods, heading for the house. How Tamara would love it out here—the breeze, the sunshine.
A flare of impatience burns through me. I dredge the cruel side of me up from the depths of my filthy soul. Too fucking bad that she’ll never experience the outdoors again. She’s mine. She should want nothing but me.
I pull up in front of the house. It’s nothing to look at it, on the outside; dun-colored concrete that blends into the surroundings. The woods hem it in on all sides; I designed it that way, for maximum privacy.
As I climb off the ATV, my mind races. A long, dark cloud is hovering over me. The text messages that I’m getting. The business deal that, impossibly, seems to be falling through. These alarms going off. I’m definitely starting to feel as if they’re all connected.
Am I just being paranoid? Of course I’m fucking paranoid. I’m a psychopathic serial killer. But my instincts are always spot on. As they say, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.
When I get inside the house, Elizabeth is sprawled on the floor by the front door. I can see that she’s got blood on her face and two goose-egg bumps starting to rise on her forehead. She looks dazed, half-conscious. She’s mouthing, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Anger rises inside me. I promised her she’d be safe.
I barrel through the house to my office. The door is shut. It opens outward, so it can’t be blocked from the inside. I yank it open.
Tamara is standing behind the desk, frantically punching buttons my phone, which is blinking red and sending off shrill, beeping alarms.
She tried to make a phone call. She attacked Elizabeth and tried to call for help.
Oh, fuck no.
She scrambles away from me as I stalk toward her, backing up until she bumps into the wall. Her eyes are huge with fright and rage, her chest heaving. She’s shrinking in on herself, instinctively trying to make a smaller target. This is familiar. We’ve just run through the forest, and I’ve reduced her to the role of cornered prey.
I walk toward her, and she jabs at me with a letter opener. I bat it away easily with a laugh. She shouldn’t provoke a man like me. Adrenaline is screaming down my veins, and unholy glee sings in my heart.
This—the final act of defiance—this is what I’ve been waiting for.
I grin at her. “Really, Tamara?”
She scuttles to the side and tries to dart away. I catch her, pin her in my arms, squeezing hard enough to crush. Her body convulses in terror. I’m rock hard, ready to explode from the thrill of it.
“This is going to hurt.”
Her legs thrash, and she flings her head around, her legs kicking wildly as I lift her off the ground. “Just fucking kill me, then!” she screeches.
“Oh no. That would be merciful. You should know me better by now, sweetheart. There’s not an ounce of mercy in me.” I bite her shoulder hard enough to make her scream.
I carry her out of my office and down the hallway, and she’s kicking and clawing at my arms the whole way. Elizabeth watches, and she doesn’t dare smile, but there’s a sullen gleam of triumph in her eyes.
Elizabeth’s clothes are hanging off her, which means she’ll be getting a beating as well. I told her to eat more; she disobeyed me. I rarely have to punish Elizabeth, and it never turns me on. It’s just a boring necessity, an action that I must take to achieve certain results.
I drag Tamara to the playroom, and when I pull her through the doorway, she pisses herself in terror.
Good.
She fucked up big time.
I tear her clothing off with my bare hands while she fights like a wildcat and screams curses at me. Then I haul her to an area where there’s a grate and a shower, and I turn the shower on full force.
I can’t abide any kind of uncleanliness. I was forced to grow up wallowing in filth, and it makes my skin crawl.
Memories flash before my eyes.
The day I lost my other half. Charlemagne. My twin brother.
