Page 21

ANASTASIA

He has to be kidding. I am not licking his cum off the floor. Somewhere there has to be a line, and this is it. After a few years of therapy, I have learned that people treat you the way you allow them to. This is not a normal situation, because my life is hanging in the balance, but I can’t do this. I won’t.

“No.”

In a flash, Psycho’s eyes darken to the shade of coal, and he grabs me by my hair, pulling me down to the floor. Putting his weight on my back, he growls angrily.

“Drink up, little lamb. This is not a fucking request. It’s an order.”

With a whimper, I continue to refuse to be treated like this, when he pushes my face down into his cum.

“This is what cum sluts do. Now lick it up.”

Leaning over me, he speaks low into my ear, his voice coming out deep and lethal sounding. I know I don’t have a choice, so I scoop it up with my tongue, while any respect I had for myself disappears without a trace. The bile rises in my throat as I swallow, and I nearly vomit. Not because of how he tastes, but the fact that I just licked the floor like a dog. This is what he meant, when he said I’d hate myself so much, that I’d kill myself if he didn’t. He’s wrong though. This man does not know me, and he doesn’t know I can, and will, survive him.

Psycho gets off me, and pulls me to my feet.

“Where is this ex of yours? Is he over you, or should I expect him to come looking for you?”

I shake my head in irritation, because Carlo is not a subject I talk about. The mere mention of him is all it takes for the stabbing pain in my chest to return. Long after the person that hurts us is removed from our life, the pain remains. It’s the one constant that follows me everywhere I go. Some days it lessens slightly, as a smile crosses my face for one reason or another, surprising me. Without warning, it comes back with the strength of a hurricane, threatening to rip apart all the pieces I glued back together.

“No. He’s in prison. Maybe one day you’ll meet.”

He grabs my arm and pulls me to the stairs, before entering the code on the keypad to the left of the door. It’s not lost on me that no one gets in or out without those numbers, and I try to see them, but other than a six, I fail miserably. I don’t know where we’re going, but it’s also not lost on me that we’re both naked. As if reading my mind, Psycho chuckles softly.

“I’m taking you to your bedroom. You can take a shower and get ready for bed. You’ll be locked inside, but if you can behave, it’ll be a better environment than the basement.”

I don’t bother to ask what happens if I can’t behave, because I already know the answer. He takes me across a vast living room that screams money. The floor is a stunning white marble, and the vaulted ceiling is painted a deep red, with two crystal chandeliers hanging overhead. All the furniture is black, a sectional, and two oversized chairs. The painting on the far wall catches my attention. It matches the tattoo on his stomach. It has fire, a knife plunged through a skull and says ‘Your death is a gift’. It makes me curious, and he questions my gaze, as it’s drawn to the large canvas.

“What?”

“Your death is a gift. Does that mean something to you?”

He nods with a smirk.

“It means a great deal to me. Death is freedom from pain. Most of the time when I end a life, they’ve earned the relief. The torture they have endured has gone on for weeks at a time. By the time I kill them, they don’t want to live anymore. The will to live is gone, replaced with the readiness to die.”

I shake my head, and make a disgusted face.

“You’re a serial killer.”

He chuckles as he takes my hand in his, and pulls me to the red, double-sided spiral staircase.

“That would be my brother, counselor. Not me. I kill out of necessity, not for sport.”

As we walk up the stairs, I say, “A serial killer is defined as a person who murders three or more people, in a period of over a month, with a cooling down period between the murders. Is that not you? Have you not killed that many?”

While it’s not surprising, Psycho doesn’t answer my questions.

We make it up to a bedroom, and he nods for me to enter. The room is large, but doesn’t have a lot to it. There’s a large bed with a deep red comforter, and a small dresser.

“You must really like red.”

He chuckles darkly.

“Red is the color of blood, little lamb.”

I fight myself to not roll my eyes. It’s weird and a little gross.

Psycho points and says, “There’s clothing in there for you.”

I tilt my head and look at him, as puzzle pieces slam together in my mind.

“Was this planned? Even if I hadn’t gone to your warehouse, this was going to happen, wasn’t it?”

His movements are quick, as he wraps his hand around my throat, and slams me against the wall, shaking the dresser where it stands.

“Was this premeditated, counselor? Yes. Let’s not get shit twisted. You are not a goddamn victim. I never would have laid a finger on you, had you not gotten into my business. This is a dangerous game, little lamb, but I’m more than happy to play with you. While you’re crying about all the things I will do to you, remember, you started this.”

His breathing is heavy, as he stares into my eyes with that dark gaze, that promises what he has done to me is simply the tip of the iceberg. He has far more sinister plans for me.

Psycho squeezes his hand around my throat, not cutting off my air supply completely, but enough that I begin to panic. My heart pounds in my chest, and his lips pull up into a smirk.

“I suggest you take a shower, and get some rest. You’re Psycho’s plaything now, and you never know when I’ll get an itch that I just can’t scratch.”

He removes his hand from my throat, and steps away with a chuckle, as I gasp and cough, nearly falling to the floor. I take my first full breath when he leaves the room, and shuts the door. A shiver runs down my spine, as I hear the click of a lock. I’m never getting away from him. There’s no chance.

I run to the window and look outside at the world around me. The bedroom faces a massive pool, and gardens, as far as the eye can see. I was not looking for an escape, but it becomes clear it wouldn’t have been an option, when bars slide down outside the window. I look around the room, trying to find cameras, because I know Psycho made those bars come down. Is he watching me? Probably. I don’t see any signs of surveillance, but I don’t doubt that, somewhere in here, there are cameras.

“I hate you,” I say out loud, hoping he hears me, before turning and walking to the bathroom, to take a hot shower.

I stand under the rainfall showerhead, soaking up the warmth, as I think about the man I wish I had never seen again. What made him this way? There has to be some traumatic event that led him down this path of madness. Children are not born evil, they are made. Was he abused? Mafia men are terrible people, so maybe his father beat him, and made him like this. I certainly don’t remember his dad being abusive, but maybe I wasn’t around for it. I’m fascinated by human behavior, and believe there’s normally a rational reason people snap, and do heinous things. It doesn’t make it okay, but it does explain how it happened.

After finishing in the shower, and drying off, I open the drawer to the dresser to find my clothes. Not clothes he bought for me.

My clothes.

He took them when he was in my house, which shouldn’t be surprising at this point, but it is. I groan in frustration, and get dressed in my favorite pink pajama pants, and a matching tank top. Crawling into bed, I squeeze my eyes shut tight, as the grief seizes me. I don’t cry, I never do. That part of me is dead. After Michael died, love was replaced with hate. Losing a child is the most painful trauma any mother can experience. It’s how I know I can survive this madman, no matter what he dishes out. Nothing could be worse than the day he was taken from me.

I let out a shaky breath, and force myself to sleep, knowing tomorrow I’ll go through the same things I did today, or maybe worse. My only solace is the hope that, if I die, I’ll get to hold my baby again.