Page 35 of Psychotic Faith

The calculation of it, the patience, makes my cock hard despite the circumstances. This isn't just revenge. It's art.

"I have evidence of everything," she continues, voice getting stronger. "Affairs with subordinates. Bribes to city officials. Three sexual assaults he's paid to silence. Financial crimes that would get him twenty years minimum."

"You've built a case."

"I was going to destroy him publicly. Make him confess to Mom's murder in exchange for a deal on the other charges. Force him to admit it in open court where Dad would have to see justice done." She looks up at me, and there's something cold in her eyes now. Something that matches what I see in the mirror. "Legal destruction first. Then…"

"Then?"

"Then I was going to watch him die in prison. Slowly. Alone. Forgotten."

I study her face, seeing myself reflected back. "Brilliant. Cold. Patient." A pause. "You're like me."

"No." But the denial is weak.

"Yes. You just dress it in cardigans and library cards instead of blood and bullets."

She doesn't deny it this time.

"Evidence won't bring her back," I point out, needing to understand her fixation on legal channels.

"But it will destroy him legally. Publicly. His children will know what he is. His wife. Everyone."

"I can destroy him better. Make him feel what your mother felt. Make him beg…"

"Not legally. That matters."

"Why?" Genuine curiosity. In my world, justice comes from strength, not courts.

"My father…" She looks away. "The law is all he believes in. All he has left of her is his faith in justice. If I go outside it, I lose him too."

"But you're already lying to him."

She looks up sharply. "For justice. Not revenge."

"They're the same."

"No.They're not." She pulls herself to standing, and I rise with her. "Justice is systematic. Revenge is personal."

"And which do you really want?"

The question hangs between us like a blade.

"Both," she finally admits. "I want both."

I reach out slowly, telegraphing the movement so she can pull away. She doesn't. My thumb brushes away a tear from her cheek, and her breath catches. First gentle touch between us. Her skin is silk-soft, warm, alive.

"You're magnificent in your patience," I tell her, meaning it.

"I'm tired of being patient." The admission costs her something. I can see it in the way her shoulders drop.

"Then let me be impatient for you."

"I can't let you kill him. Not yet."

"Then give me an alternative."

She looks up at me, something shifting in those hazel eyes. A recognition. A decision. "Help me destroy him legally first?"