River bites into his apple and peers at me over the shiny red skin, chewing silently while he thinks loudly. He is seeking out signs of weakness in my eyes.

“Any word yet?” he asks.

“There is no need for pointless conversation,” I tell him. “If I’d had any word, you would already know.”

He shrugs. Takes another bite of his apple.

“Well, perhaps this is all by design then,” he muses.

“What do you mean?”

“Perhaps there are more enemies in the woodwork.”

“Again,” I tell him. “This is something I’ve already considered.”

“Yes.” He leans back in the chair and props his foot up on his leg. “Perhaps there are many, in fact. We can never really know for sure, can we?”

He smirks, and I do not indulge him with a reaction. Psychological warfare is River’s favorite leisure time activity. Usually, he can entertain himself for hours with subjects less intelligent than him. But that has never been the case with me.

“I’m going to move soon,” I assure him.

He shrugs again. Finishes off his apple.

“I didn’t even mention her.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Maybe you have nothing to worry about,” he says. “Maybe they won’t come after her.”

“Your games don’t work on me,” I tell him.

But he is grinning because I am reacting as I told myself I wouldn’t.

River reads me too well, sometimes. He knows I’ve been putting it off. But he doesn’t know why, and he’s made it his mission to get to the bottom of it.

“All I’m saying is that it seems you’ve moved on,” he says. “It’s like you don’t even remember the cage. It’s like you don’t even remember the animal they turned you into.”

One single word.

The cage is all I need to hear to bring back those visions. I close my eyes and recall the suffocating weight of death in my chest. Those memories flash through my mind in rapid succession.

The waterboarding. The torture. The hallucinogenic drugs and the interrogations. My body still bears the scars of those years. The years that I spent in the secret program made especially for children like me.

Children predisposed to murder.

I was exactly the target they sought out. When they took me from the asylum, it was a simple matter of what my file said. That I had killed my mother. The perfect subject.

I remember those words. Those were the last words I heard before they assigned me a number. A number that meant I was no longer part of the human race. A number that would become my only identifier in the darkest pit of hell. And when I had finally reached the end of my contract… when I was finally able to come home… vengeance could no longer be mine.

I open my eyes to meet River’s. The resolve that wavered before is unhindered now. He smiles because he knows it too.

“Can you just imagine it though?” he asks. “The expression on his face when he learns of all the ways the student has surpassed the teacher?”

I can imagine it. I have imagined it many times.

“If you don’t think you have it in you though, I’d be happy to volunteer,” River offers. “I’m not as well-versed in torture, but I think I’d do a bang-up job of it.”

“Like fuck you will,” I growl. “You stay away from her.”

River could do a good job of it. But the idea of him touching Isabella makes me want to murder my only friend in this world.

“You have plenty of willing subjects to play your games with,” I tell him. “This one is mine.”

He smiles again and leans forward on his elbows.

“Then what are you waiting for?” he asks. “Go and get her.”

* * *

One night.

I will let her have the night.

I hate this fucking city. I hate Luke, and I hate this hotel. Anyone could get in here.

Anyone like me.

I stand over her bed and watch her sleep. The scent of lavender clouds the room, and this is how I know she is anxious. She always uses the oil when she’s anxious.

There’s a knife on her nightstand. Because she doesn’t feel safe. She shouldn’t.

There are so many predators out there. Predators like me. Predators like Luke. Even now, her phone vibrates from the nightstand with his name. Over and over. Never any peace. It has to stop.

I retrieve her phone and block his number.

Isabella flips over in the bed, and I freeze. It’s not necessary. She isn’t awake.

She is trapped in a tormented sleep, tangled up in the sheets. And now her breasts are visible beneath the sheer material of her tank top.

My hands ache to touch her.To feel her. I take the knife from her nightstand and trace the curve of her skin. She shivers, and it gets me hard.

I want to taste the blood that flows beneath her milky flesh. I want to feel it between my fingers, sliding over my cock. The tip stops just above her breast, and I force myself to drag it away, digging it into my thigh until it burns.

I must be patient. The rest will come. In due time. I know what I need to do.

The pain doesn’t help. It doesn’t keep me from picking up her journal and indulging in the obscenities of her mind. She writes these lyrics every day. Depraved and melancholy. They speak to me. They speak to me in a way that nothing else ever has.

It is a pipeline straight to the fucked up chambers of her deceptively innocent mind. These lyrics she writes are not lyrics at all, but only her own cravings coming out to play. Today’s song is darker than the rest.

I am so hard I can’t control my thoughts anymore. Her clothes are on the bathroom floor. And this isn’t what I came here for. I tell myself to be patient.But I can’t.

I find her panties, and I bring them to my face and inhale. Then I crumple them in my fist and unzip my jeans, wrapping them around my cock.

Isabella breathes in and out, and I watch her. Choking my dick violently with her underwear. Her skin is so pale against the Raven of her hair. So pure and milky and untouched.

I have watched her for so long. I have watched the way she turns up her nose at the boys who look at her. I have read the words in her journal.

The confessions of her raw desires.

She is a virgin.

An angel.

I’ve never had the opportunity to ruin something so beautiful before.

Her hair spills over her shoulders and skates across her nipples. Small and pink and hard against the thin fabric. I want them in my mouth. I want them on my face and on my cock. I want so much to feel her from the inside. To fuck her until I can’t anymore.

This is neurosis. Fervent and miserable. The agony consumes me from the inside out.

I will destroy her. I will destroy everything divine left inside of her.

Coming on a choked sigh, I spill myself into her panties. I shove them in my pocket and keep them.

The man in me tells me to leave. The animal won’t let me. I walk to her bed and sit down beside her. She is within arm’s reach. But I won’t allow myself to touch her.

Beautiful things must be admired from afar. Beautiful things must not be touched. That’s what he always used to tell me.

He was wrong.