Page 10 of Taunting Tarran (Wild at Heart #1)

THE PUNISHER

The following day I wait for Tarran to leave her house before I pick her locks.

Once inside, I pause, listening for any signs of an unexpected return.

The silence is absolute, broken only by a ticking grandfather clock somewhere.

I open drawers, rifle through paperwork, I even thumb through her underwear.

It hadn’t taken me long to find out where Tarran worked, what her hours were, and when I could sneak into her home looking for any insight into her life.

It wasn’t my intention to have her know I had been here, but as I worked, a dark thought took hold – I could taunt her.

I hadn’t noticed it in the dark, but Tarran’s house is immaculate, the morning sun filtering through pristine curtains casting soft, diffused light that illuminates her perfectly arranged furniture.

It’s almost too orderly, too sterile, and too meticulous.

I pop open a crystal decanter smelling the amber liquid before pouring it into a glass.

Inhaling, I take a slow, deliberate sip, savouring the warmth in my chest, and then I leave the glass on a side unit.

I start to move items out of place, like a drawer half-open.

I shift a photograph of her younger self, and ruffle her perfectly made bed.

I made the house look lived –in. I even do her laundry.

While the machine whirs, I wander into the bathroom where I’m met with the same sterile and clinical layout.

Seeing her toothbrush, I reach towards it.

In the mirror, I catch my reflection, with a malicious grin spread across my face.

Then, as I pluck the toothbrush from its holder I run the bristles along the hair of my short beard before plunging it into my mouth.

Sucking the toothbrush, I lick my lower lip and drop the brush back into its holder wondering about when she will return.

I sit in her living room chair hoping this is enough, that breaking in would satiate my curiosity, then I can erase her from my mind, but like a stubborn stain, she’s there, occupying my thoughts whether I want her to or not.

No matter how hard I try, memories of her then and now linger like a ghost haunting the crevices of my mind.

Each image of her brings a pang of longing, her muffled screams echoing in my mind, refusing to be silenced.

I bring a garment of her clothing close to my face, her scent not lessening or numbing the pain, the inhale bringing me both comfort and torment.