Page 7

Chapter seven

Damien

Seven Days Later

It’s been two weeks since I first laid eyes on her, and I’ve found out a lot about her since then. Last week, I finally calmed down enough, after a couple of hours of torturing the Dust bunnies, to tell Alex to bring me another laptop, and I searched through her files again. I became even more intrigued with her every second I looked through those files, and I wasn’t sure that was possible. Her strength amazes me, and now her shielded demeanor and quirks make more sense to me. She’s never looked more ravishing than how I see her right now.

Her past is not quite what I expected at first, I'll admit. Her parents were wide open drug addicts. They openly abused and neglected her, but the system failed her. There was a report on finding Ashia at seven years old sleeping on rocks next to the lake. Her parents passed out, high off crack in a tent next to her. Somehow, the Department of Child and Family Services didn’t even remove her for the first time until she was twelve, and handed her over to the Andersons three times, but each time forced her to return to her parents. Each instance spouted some bullshit about how they were actively trying to stay clean and polish their parenting.

There are many incident reports in the DCFS files that I can’t recover fully. Many of the entries being blacked out or even partially deleted. I can only imagine what other dark and vile things she had to endure before they finally overdosed one month apart when she was seventeen, thankfully after she had gotten herself emancipated at sixteen. Even still, she attended and paid for both of their burials. She’s a much better person than I am. I would’ve left their bodies to rot in the morgue, or better yet, somewhere hidden where I could have revisited to watch their bodies decay.

Her ex-boyfriend, Cooper, abused her. Almost killed her, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. When I hacked back into the city police files, I forced myself to look at the countless domestic abuse calls made by neighbors. Six were responded too, and the seventh one ended in his arrest and paramedics called. The file showed the mangled mess he put her in. Every cut, bruise, handprint, and tear. It makes me fucking sick again with rage just thinking about it.

Her beaten face, torn clothes, and mangled right arm are burnt into my brain, along with the amount of blood from the crime scene photos. With the amount on the floor and walls that was shown, it looked like there was enough to be a blood bath. I can picture the fight and violence it must have taken to spread that much blood around. Her own recollection of events was recorded after she had woken up from her life-saving surgery, and the tale is horrifying.

Though that’s not what has me seething with hatred. It’s the look in her eyes in the photos attached to her file. Her broken, defeated eyes. Darkened by the horrors she endured, not near the bright ember eyes I witnessed myself. No wonder she waits and dances in solitude and away from lingering eyes, or why she cowers either behind the barber shop doors or her apartment. Afraid to allow anyone close enough to see that raw side of herself, knowing they would just tear it down to see the scars that lie beneath.

It says that even after her testimony, and six witnesses between her best friend, a cop, and four neighbors, he got to his last trial before a ‘technicality’ was discovered, and he was let go. Set free. On domestic violence, rape, and attempted murder charges. From the looks of the court records, between the technicality and his high-profile defense team his mommy and daddy paid for, she was lucky to get a restraining order.

That piece of shit.

I suppose it’s luck that he was released, because if he was in prison, I wouldn’t get to handle him myself. And now, I'll get to see that he receives his punishment. One fitting for a vile, disgusting, scum of the earth like he is. I’ll string him up, meat hooks piercing every limb. Then I'll use cranes to jerk him around like a puppet on strings, and when I give her the controls, I’ll look upon her with pride as she enjoys every fucking second of it.

I'll be her angel of death. He’ll feel what he did to her, and he’ll suffer greatly for it. She has a light I’ve never witnessed before, and that piece of shit tried to put her out. I’ll see to it that she never has to conceal herself again. She’ll never have to cower into her own being and shrivel away from any ounce of normalcy in fear. One day, she’ll stand tall next to me with dignity, and I'll help her get there. All in due time.

I already sent one of my men to Seattle to find him earlier this evening. No one, and I mean no one, will touch my fucking girl. Anyone who touched her before me will pay a price, but this price, Cooper Siezly will pay with his life.

I will have her.

I decided that evening two weeks ago. In that moment, I just knew that I would do whatever it took to keep her safe and protected. Not only from others, but from herself. She sees herself as broken, unable to be desired by anyone who isn’t out to use her. Her own thoughts scare her just as much as men do. Any man tries to touch her again and I’ll show her just how protected she is with me. She won’t have anything to be afraid of with me.

The only man I won't kill for touching her is her tattoo artist. She sees him every month or so. Always on Tuesdays to avoid the Domestic Violence Support Group she still attends. From what I can gather, she doesn’t go much anymore. The tattoo sessions are her therapy now, and I know exactly how that feels. Not that I need therapy. I’ve had a much better life than her.

My parents were well off, and treated me and my sister great, until my sister died of cancer when I was twelve. But even after that, my parents and home life were great. What any other kid would want, and what I’m sure Ashia begged for her whole life.

I do what I do because it’s what I feel is right. What I feel will best help the world. There’s no dark reason behind it. I kill people to better the world, and I fucking love it. My tattoos do help me process what I’ve done. It’s not that I feel guilty, or wrong in my ways, but there’s just something about the tattoo needle that helps you think things through. It’s as if the needle plucks the right place and it communicates with what dark thought it’s going to heal, leaving ink in its wake.

When I saw her artist touch her the day after I saw her for the first time, it almost sent me into a blind rage, but I was contained later that night when I witnessed her pain from the alleyway below. The mixed emotions of depression, fear, and shame showed on her face. But seeing how she took the physical pain, like it wasn’t even happening, then embraced her emotional pain, is how I know she’ll be perfect for me.

The only person who will bring her pain from this day forward is me. Only she’ll be begging me to do it while I heal her internal anguish silently. I’ll hold her as she screams up to whatever God exists for putting her through those events, just so she knows that she doesn’t have to be ashamed of her pain. I’ll be gentle with her at first, careful not to break her into a traumatic state, but once she feels safe with me? That’s when we’ll play.

I look across, like I have since I bought this building, and see her normal routine. I need to buy her black-out curtains once I have her. I can see everything in that apartment, and I'll be damned if anyone stalks her but me. I'm just glad this building doesn’t have the shit security system the hospital has. It was way too easy to hack in and watch her dance around. I avoided looking at Serena like the plague, but her? Fuck I watched every single moment.

I was surprised by how fast she and her friend actually are. They’re both in good physical condition, but their small size contributes to their speed. After losing them for a moment, I scrambled through the alleyways to cut them off, but I finally found them walking through the field of grass.

I almost laughed after having a small panic attack when they climbed the fence, but when I got a closer look at what they were doing and saw that Serena had set the evening up for her, I was relieved. How funny would it be if my girl was a criminal? Well, thankfully she isn’t, and the gesture from her friend made me think that perhaps she isn’t as bad as I thought she was.

My obsession with her has only grown, and the vile, cruel things I think of to the thought of someone else touching her is alarming. She’s done something to me, awoken whatever demon was dormant deep in my chest, and soon she’ll experience the monster she’s unleashed. I’ve found every piece of available information that technology has on her. Background checks, social media, medical history, bank accounts, credit report, and what property taxes she’s charged for. I also saw where she had to pay for parking last month to go to the grocery store. Outrageous. I’m just going to buy her the yearly pass. My girl isn't going to struggle from something as simples as going to the store.

She just got off from work and went upstairs to make dinner. A small portion for anyone else, but with her documented stomach issues throughout her time with Cooper explains that reasoning.

Fuck I hate saying his name…

Once she’s done eating, she washes the same plate and silverware she always uses and puts it back on the dish rack. Normally, she’d make her way to bed and turn on whatever movie she feels necessary, but this time, she doesn’t go straight to the bedroom. Instead, she stops at her kitchen counter and pulls her cup of flowers over to her.

I see as she inhales their scent, like an angel smelling God’s creations. I’ve given her countless flowers over the past two weeks, all black or dark red, but none of them as beautiful or captivating as her.

They remind me of her, each having to endure the harsh nature to bloom, just like her. Each but the first with notes attached, telling her she owns me, that I own her, that I imagine her touch as soft as the pedals. After I found all of the information I did on her, I sent her a note with her next flower that demanded her story be carved into the cathedral walls, and I meant it. She’s a Shakespearian Queen and deserves all of the praise that comes with it. Someone with that kind of strength and determination to live should be worshipped, and I’ll willingly bow at her alter.

I watch as she plucks the tulip, the first flower I left for her, from the cup and carry it with her to the bedroom. She crawls into her bed in nothing but a black thong and over-sized t-shirt. That’ll be replaced with my t-shirt soon enough, or better yet, nothing at all. From the way she nestles on top of her pillows and lies on her back, propping her head up slightly, I can quickly see where this is heading, and I’ve never felt so shaky with anticipation. I never understood why women love the ‘paint me like one of your French girls scene’. However, I certainly do now. I can picture myself smearing the blood of her enemies across her chest as I force my cock inside her tight walls. The way her nipples would harden as I rolled them between my fingers. Or how her how pussy would swallow my thick digits as I took my time and played with her.

My dick presses against my pants again, and I can already feel the throbbing head begging to be inside her. I’ve been trying like hell to ignore the throb, the incessant need to pleasure myself every chance I get to the thought of her. I need to be hard and ready for her when the time comes. The first time she has sex in years needs to be memorable. Pleasurable, mind blowing, and soul sucking, and it damn sure will be.

I watch intensely as with her left hand she brings the flower to her nose, and with the other starts to lift her t-shirt as she sensually feels her skin from her belly button upward. Giving me a divine view of perfection. I excitedly give in, unzip my pants, and pull out my cock, pumping it slowly, determined to wait to ravage myself to thoughts of her until she starts to get into her own rhythm.

Practically torturing myself, I grip my base at a strength I imagine her touch to have. Then I mask the feel of my own hand by imagining how soft and tender the flesh of her palm would rub against my shaft. Those slender, delicate fingers gracefully wrapping around my hardened length. Not even able to grasp it fully. How slowly and sensually she would run her hand upward to the tip, and swipe the pad of her thumb along my slit. Spreading the precum around to act as a lubricant.

Fuck. I'm going to cum just from the thought.

Her hand grazes across that perfect body, exploring every tantalizing curve. Making its way up to her now clearly hardened nipples. She twists her left nipple in her hand and her breath stalls. The pain clearly shooting a pleasurable sensation throughout her body due to the sight of her muscles tensing.

I knew my girl liked pain.

After pulling on it, she slips her fingers back down her smooth skin and into her thong, her head flying back at the sensation. Quickly, I spit in my hand and grab the base of my cock. Pumping it slowly as I wait for her to really play with herself. I only begin to stroke it faster once I see the arch of her back curl, creating the perfect bridge between euphoria and bliss. I imagine those painted black nails tearing into the skin on my back, and what her moans would sound like vibrating against my dick. That long black hair curled in my fist and her golden-brown eyes rolling into the back of her head as I make her come.

The movement her hand makes shows that her fingers are creating perfect pressured circles around her clit as her neck begins to stretch out, accentuating her now labored breaths. Those perfect tits rising and falling under that god forsaken shirt. I suddenly want nothing more than to press the sharpened side of knife at the hem of her shirt and jerk up with all of my strength to rip that useless fabric from her divine figure.

She inhales one last deep smell of the flowers’ essence before plunging two fingers into her soaking pussy. Her soft, warm, supple fingers sliding through her slick at just the right angle. Sure to curl into the sweet point of no return. Timing the thrust of her fingers in tune with the circular motions her thumb is now creating. Her eyes begin to roll the moment her body tenses. I can just imagine how her cunt is clenching around those fingers as she bends them to her will.

I feel my own body tense at the thought. That rumble at the base of my spine building and roaring, but I hold my release. Determined to watch as my goddess’ release floods her body and fractures her psyche.

Her mouth opens and leg jolts, and just the sight of that makes my balls tighten and abdominal muscle taut as I come alongside her into the towel from my shower. I watch as she battles to catch her breath. Her hand moves from her spasming core to run gently over her hips and thighs in slow, comforting motions. Seemingly, to calm herself down.

I take a deep, shaky breath in, my arousal still gnawing at me, as I watch her smell her flower one last time before placing it on her nightstand and rolling over. Showing me that perfect plump ass and tantalizing curve as her body lays across her bed.

I know exactly what flower she’ll be getting tomorrow. Something as rare and seductive as she is. A symbol of lust, but as black as the depths that I'm willing to dive into for her.

I pull out my cigarettes and light one before I pull out my phone to text Carter. It’s time to show my obsession what she’s done to me. It’s finally time that I introduce myself. Cement myself into her world and change it for her forever.

Me:

You need a haircut. Tomorrow at 6pm.

My phone beeps, and I check it, thinking it would be Carter. It’s not. It’s Zeke, another close friend, and the guy I sent out to Seattle.

Zeke:

Arrived at targets’ last known location. Looks like he packed up and left in a hurry. Already called Carter to check flight logs for his name.

Fuck.

I slowly and carefully make my way into her apartment by picking the shitty locks on her door. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist. I need to be closer to her. To see her deep breaths and peaceful sleep. Especially after receiving that message from Zeke.

Looking around the small space, I see that while she may live here, this is no home. There’s nothing that makes this place personal, and certainly doesn’t reflect who she is.

The furniture is plain, there’s a total of four plates, bowls, glasses, and sets of silverware, and there’s only one picture in the living area. A picture of herself, her best friend Serena, and I’m assuming Serena’s parents. It sits in a cheap, small frame on one of the plain wooden end tables beside her beige couch. She clearly does not have the monetary capabilities to buy the things she actually wants.

Her liking of science fiction media and reading would prompt a much more collected feeling. She has two books, and from a total of ten minutes I’ve seen her read either of them, it seems that her mind races too much to complete them. As many times as I’ve caught her favorite space franchise on her small TV, I had previously thought that she would have some collector’s figures, or ships, but there’s nothing. If she weren’t home, this place would look abandoned. She needs more space and money to embrace the things she likes. That’s something else I’ll be able to do for her.

After watching my Goddess ravage herself, I couldn’t resist coming over, but my main objective is to hack her phone. Not only so I could have her location and search history, but so I could block it for anyone else that could possibly want it. The fact that Cooper is alive and well, and isn’t where he should be, doesn’t sit right with me. I’m going to do everything I can to keep him from reaching her, and then we’ll exact her revenge together.

After all of this time, would he really come back for her? I checked the date on her restraining order, and it hasn’t expired yet. Not that a flimsy piece of paper would keep a criminal like him away. I shouldn’t automatically assume he’s on his way here. So far, there’s no evidence of that, but something doesn’t feel right about it. It’s as if I can feel his venomous breath down my neck. Like the dark cloud she imagines that surrounds her is real, and it’s only getting thicker as the hours pass. But if he is on his way here, that makes things easier for me.

I sneak into her bedroom to see my beautiful woman sleeping. The faint blue and yellow lights from outside lining her every curve and showcasing her gorgeous face. Looking at her now, it’s almost impossible for me not to yank the blanket off of her and shove my cock into her cunt. I feel my mouth salivate, and that pushing urge raising me to toes almost forces me to lunge towards her. I may know her, but she doesn’t know me yet, and I need to remember that. As hard as it is, I swallow, hard, and knock the urge from my thoughts as I carefully pick her phone up off the side table and set myself in a small, grey, padded chair in the corner of her room, facing the fire escape.

I click a few times on her phone, unlock the screen, begin looking through everything, and it’s almost as bare as her apartment. She doesn’t have social media, except for a popular app that has an endless loop of videos set up by an algorithm, but her profile is private, has no profile picture or videos posted, and it doesn’t have a username pertaining to anything about her. Just ‘User’ and a bunch of random numbers. My guess is she just has it to watch. She does find comfort in humorous media. Her movie choices some nights have proven that.

Pulling up her gallery, I notice there’s not many photos or videos either. She does have a photo of one of my notes, and that has a warm, fluttered feeling running through me. As if the flower wasn’t obvious enough, my Goddess was picturing me as she touched herself tonight. Does she wonder what I look like? How big my cock is? What my large hands could do to her small body?

The other pictures she has are saved from her messages, and they’re selfies of her and Serena. She doesn’t seem to be comfortable in her own skin, which is astonishing to me with how beautiful she is. Does she not see her gorgeous brown eyes or soft, sweet face when she looks in the mirror? What does she see when she looks at herself?

There is one picture that her friend isn’t in, and it looks to be from around Christmas time. She’s holding a glass of eggnog, with the other barbers behind her also holding glasses and making different faces. Clearly, she was drunk at the time, but at least she looks slightly more relaxed in this photo. The eggnog is halfway surprising, since the only alcohol I’ve seen her consume is Malibu coconut rum. Disgusting stuff, but I suppose I could learn to tolerate it for her. Whatever my girl likes, I like.

I start to look through her messages, and there’s more than I expected. A LOT of texts between her and Serena, but in the past few days there’s also been conversations with other people.

Richard Anderson:

Just checking in kiddo! You have time for lunch next week? Trying to plan it with Serena, I’m sure she’ll share the details. You know if you need anything you can call. We miss you!

Miss you too! I’m okay, and yes! Lunch would be awesome! I’ll get with Ser to make sure I can take off on a long lunch!

Ashia? Take lunch? Now that’s something I haven’t seen yet. Ever since I hacked the cameras in this building, I’ve only ever seen her quickly eat a small salad in between clients in the back room. Either taking hours between people or minutes to consume the whole thing. No in between. I continue to look at the messages to see an unfamiliar name. Tony? Who the fuck is Tony!?

Tony:

-Hey, Ash. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay this week.

Yes, Officer Nosey, I’m fine. LOL. Same boring routine, I keep telling you that you don’t have to check in, though it’s appreciated. See you next week?

You betcha! Glad you’re ok!

‘You betcha’? Pussy. What man talks like that? Tony?... Tony?...Anthony? As in Officer Anthony Bordeaux? The officer that responded to her attempted murder? I’ll make a mental note to check his background later, and if need be, put a fucking bullet in his brain. He clearly annoys her, and I’d kill him just for getting on her nerves. God help him if he flirts with or touches her. I’ll do more than kill him, I’ll torture him first.

There are also a few messages from Dr. Payne that she never answered. Most likely on purpose.

Dr. Payne:

Ashia, you didn’t come for the group this week, so we all wanted to make sure you were alright. We’re all thinking about you, and if you need anything, any time, please do not hesitate to reach out.

I understand this time of year can be hard for you, if you would like someone to accompany you to the cemetery, I’m more than happy to tag along.

The group discussed the possibility of coming to the barber shop to check on you. Though I told them surprising you was not the best idea. Could you at least let one of us know you’re alive? The other women are worried sick.

Fuck, no wonder she stopped going. I had read that her parents died in April, but that was nine years ago now. Just because it’s the same month, doesn’t mean she’s having trouble with it. How well do they know her? There’s not a single piece of evidence that anyone, including Ashia, has visited her parents’ graves. I know, I’ve checked. I’m sure I know her better than the pretentious Dr. Payne. I’ve never been to group therapy, but from what I’ve heard and reading these texts, it sounds miserable. No wonder she’d rather feel physical pain instead.

I quickly lock her phone to the sound of her sleepy groans as I watch her shift and lay on her back. She barely opens her eyes, and my heart skips a beat. Adrenaline begins to rush through my veins at the preparation of how to handle her. Please, don’t start screaming or do anything rash. This is not how I wanted this to go…

Thankfully, she softly closes her eyes and after a few moments her breaths even back out. The rise and fall of her perfect chest as shallow and smooth as before. I sigh quietly, thankful I didn’t scare the ever-living shit out of her. Even in her sleep, her paranoia gets to her, and I should’ve been more concerned about that before.

I’ve noticed that too, watching her. She’ll wake up at random times. Most of the time just to take a quick look around and then go back to sleep. However, sometimes, she wakes up in a panic. Sweating and heavy breaths taking over her chest. It always takes her a few minutes to calm herself down before she goes back to sleep, but the fact that she can’t get any peace, even in isolation, has my chest aching for her. I’ll give her the peace and relaxation she needs. By the time she gets to know me, her nightmares will stop. I’ll see to it.

After a minute, and I could tell she is back in a deep sleep, I walk over and gently place her phone back. Just one touch…that couldn’t hurt, right? Moving her soft blanket back over her body so she doesn’t get cold, admiring her figure as I do so. I raise my hand, gently use my knuckle to caress her face, and easily move her hair away from her cheek. Her skin and hair are just as soft as I imagined…and finally feeling her sends shockwaves through my body and into my core. Affirmation for every feeling I’ve had for her this far showing in those waves. I have to have her soon, before I can’t fight the urge anymore. I need her. My body shivers just thinking of it.

Soon…