ETHAN

The night was running long, the fire in the hearth dying off an hour after Emma was taken from my office. A burst of laughter fell over my lips at the thought of her - of the fire she harbored that eluded her own understanding.

Even if she had no concept of who she is or what she could become, I saw it, recognized it in her the instant I stepped through the door to examine the new arrivals in that entry room. While the other women trembled and cried, she stood silent, her thin shoulders rolled back in defiance, her eyes tracking my every movement.

Emma is a predator despite her assurances that a violent bone cannot exist inside her average body.

How any person could be so blind of their own self confused me. Intelligence and beauty, fire and remarkable strength, that is the woman who will become my greatest accomplishment. I wasn't simply building a character, I was coaxing out the beginning of a legend.

For the first time in a long time, I'd found a person who excited me.

Picking up the screenplays for the films I would produce in the morning, I scrubbed my hand across my jaw, my finger sliding over the stubble. No matter how hard I attempted to read over the set designs and concepts, I lost focus, my mind drifting back to one particular film that had become my obsession. The final touches were being put on it, the crew working late into the night to have it ready so that I could present it to a late night guest I was expecting.

Would he see the genius behind the film? Would he understand that we'd stepped away from the old and repetitive to venture in a direction that no director or studio had yet gone? I could only hope, and as the hours dragged on, I found myself standing by the dying fire with a glass of scotch in my hand, having abandoned the scripts for the next day's films after rereading the same tired lines.

My mind was fixed on the thought of Emma when a knock sounded at my door. Regretting the disruption, I turned, but refused to move to open it.

"Come in."

The door popped open, my production assistant, Brent, stepping through. In his hand was a silver disc encased in plastic, my hands clenching and flexing, my feet carrying me across the floor. Snatching it from his grasp, I left him standing mid-step with his mouth open on a word that never quite made it past his tongue. I was already behind my desk, slipping the disc into my computer by the time he finished that last step.

"This better have all the cuts I made to it." My gaze snapped up to pin Brent in place. "You made every correction? Do not throw shit at me and pretend I won't notice."

"Everything that you requested has been done." He spoke like he was standing in front of a firing squad, even holding his hands up like I'd launch myself across the desk in his direction if he so much as gave me a funny look. "We didn't deviate from any of the instructions."

Satisfied, I clicked play and stood to my full height, crossing my arms over my chest as the image faded into view. A bokeh effect blurred out the extraneous details to highlight the star.

Emma sat on the bed, her body so still, yet powerful. Even as she glanced at the camera, a tear slipping down her cheek, I saw the spark of hatred inside her.

The scene came into full view, the bokeh fading to reveal the makeup table on her right reflecting the man walking up behind her. His face flashed in that mirror for only a second before the cameras panned left to his stalking body, Emma was a silent figure to the right of the screen, the curves of her body a perfect shadow beneath her negligee where the light caught it just right.

In him, I felt the hunger, the drive to hunt. In her, it was indecision, fear, but just a hint of the acrid emotion.

Emma's head turned, and the expression on her face was meant for me. I remembered locking eyes with her in that moment, fighting to keep my face blank in an effort not to interfere with the decision she would make. Fire flamed behind those eyes, utter, blinding hatred shining through.

She was perfection on stage, a living, breathing incarnation of human desire, hope slashed through by betrayal, of the avalanche of complex emotions that every person faces when danger stands at their back.

I'd lied to her after filming this, lied while trying to get close enough to subdue her. It wasn't finishing the film that made me hard as a fucking rock, it was the effect of watching something as raw and feral as her while filming it.

Her nightmare was standing in front of her - no, not her nightmare, no man but me could be that to Emma. But he was a man she despised, her breathing picking up as color chased across her cheeks, draining again to an ashen white when he launched forward. The man's performance was mundane and boring, the same old movements, the clichéd words he'd used to taunt her. I remembered being so angry with her at that point that I wanted to march up on stage to force the knife into her hand.

Where was the girl who'd questioned me like she had the right? Where was that fire that rolled behind her crystal blue eyes every time she locked her gaze with mine and fired back some ridiculous accusation or comment? For a moment, I’d feared I'd misjudged her, that she would die violently because I was the only person who could find her buttons to push.

The frame became a close up of her body once the rapist had shredded the silk negligee. I watched the rise and fall of her chest, admired the marks and imperfections of her skin. I found myself reaching to the screen to run my fingertip over the perfect curve of her heaving breasts. So much anger in that small body, so much barely contained rage that I would have sworn it would burst out to set fire to the stage.

He was inside her, but her face was turned to me, the guilt and confusion flooding her when her body responded to his cock like I knew it would. I'd felt her orgasm while ignoring the spark of jealousy that came to life inside me.

It had always been my rule to avoid fucking actresses. They were petty and contrite, little polished dolls that could play the part of something more when, in truth, there was nothing inside them. They were chameleons taught to imitate, but when push came to shove, they didn't understand how their roles were always bigger than them. I had no desire to become part of their fantasy, no inclination to indulge a spoiled brat by promising her she was just as pretty as she hoped she could be.

But yet, with this woman...

No. I couldn't go there. If I touched that flame, I'd lose the ability to shape it into the roaring inferno I knew it would become.

Her screams tore through my office, a chorus of pain, of humiliation, of insufferable injustice. But it was in her screams that I knew the transition was happening. Just a tiny inflection in the voice that clued me in to the fury rolling inside her.

His mistake had been pushing her too far. If he hadn't mocked her, hadn't ripped her open while promising he'd enjoy doing it to others, she may have never made the decision to grab the knife and shred his heart.

How glorious it had been to watch her fight him in the end. Human nature stripped fully, she'd shirked the veil of civilized behavior to unleash the warrior within.

This wasn't just a film, it was a one of a kind diary, an intimate recording that could never be duplicated because a beginning this divine could only occur once.

The film stopped and I stood silent for only a second. My heart raced beneath my ribs, my cock a noticeable weight against my leg. Even now while she was nowhere in sight, she affected me like no other.

But I would never allow myself to go there. To have her would be to lose her. To lose her would be a travesty I could never forgive.

"Is Mark Hale waiting for me in the theater room?" Head snapping up, I volleyed the question at Brent.

Caught off guard, he stammered for a moment before answering, "Yes, he's been here for a few minutes already. I wanted to let you see the film before we prepared it for the theater."

On a long stride, I left the office, the door slamming against the wall as I passed through. Destiny awaited me in that theater, a future pushing toward creation rather than dreadful repetition.

Brent practically ran to keep my pace, his labored huffs comical. For a man so out of shape, you would think he'd take the opportunity to tame his own addictions. I would have told him a long time ago to put down the fucking donuts and get out of my studio if his chubby, sticky fingers weren't so brilliant with edits. He was a genius at a computer, one of the only crewmembers who didn't require my constant oversight and direction.

Reaching the theater room, I slowed my pace, tugged the cuffs of my jacket into place and ran my fingers through my hair. Mark Hale was a big money bastard that had only one concern: his bottom line. If a film wouldn't earn, then it wouldn't be released, but he'd never refused one of mine.

Not that it meant anything. There weren't award shows for the films we made. It wasn't like the dark web was full of fancy film critics watching with pens furiously scribbling out all the critiques they would give in the Sunday paper. It was a poorly kept secret only accessible to those perverts and sickos that had gained access either through learning from a friend or navigating the dark tunnels themselves.

Still, without Mark's funding, the studio would close and I'd be cast back to the drivel produced in Hollywood. I couldn't stomach directing another pathetic imitation of what true sorrow and fear looked like. The pretty bitches with their practiced screams, the poorly crafted bad guys with their cliches and fake weapons, the muscle bound hero who always sweeps in at just the right moment with some common quip of a line that makes me want to stab out my eyes.

It was all so useless. So fake. So patronizing to a commercial crowd that starved for beauty, sex and the bullshit ideals of how women and men should behave.

None of that garbage was what life was truly about. And it seemed that every time I attempted to introduce truth to film, the producers jabbered their tired mouths droning on about how the crowd wouldn't accept what hadn't already been done to death.

Oh, that's too graphic. That's too horrible. Nobody will allow that type of ugly truth to disturb their happy little bubbles. They want the fantasy, Ethan, not this type of filth shoved onto the television screens of their perfect fucking homes.

Fuck them all. I'll do this my way.

Speaking over my shoulder, I ordered, "Have the film ready to go when I give the signal. This needs to be perfect, Brent. No fuck ups. No equipment malfunctions. Nothing of the sort."

"On it, Boss."

He stalked off, well, as much as he could stalk off with that extra weight hugging his thighs making his cheap pants rub together so furiously I was concerned they'd burst into flame. Turning back to the door, I slammed my palm against the wood, pushing it open.

Mark Hale spun around, his round face tugged inward by his severe expression. Brows pulled together, he narrowed his dark brown eyes in my direction. Thinning blond hair was combed over to hide his bald spots and several small areas of discoloration marred his skin.

Beneath his wide nose, a poor excuse for a mustache rested atop thin lips held in a tight line. He was pissed I called him out this late and he hadn't bothered to change into something more snappy than a white polo shirt and tan khakis that had gone out of style ten years ago. His gut tested the strength of the front pleats that ran down those poor pants and I had to bite my cheek to keep from commenting on the cruel abuse of cheap fabric.

"Mark, normally I wouldn't admit it's good to see you, but tonight will be something special." Extending a hand, I almost laughed when he gripped it and squeezed in challenge. I knew his type. Somewhere deep down, he questioned his own masculinity and felt a show of strength would prove his testosterone levels were higher than mine. Rather than proving to him the truth of my superiority, I pulled my hand away first, allowing him the illusion that he was somehow more of a predator than me.

In truth, he was just another sick fuck that could only boost his ego by asserting his will on the bodies of helpless women. Pathetic.

"This better be good, seeing as how I had to come out here in the middle of the fucking night. Don't you ever sleep?"

"Artists rarely have nine to five hours, and those that do need to remove themselves from the business. Their inspiration is lacking. Would you like a drink?"

Brushing off the offer by cutting a hand through the air, he shifted his weight to walk down the center aisle steps. Taking a seat, he turned his face to peer back at me. "Are we watching this or what? I have to get back to the house before my bitch of a wife wakes up and finds me gone, and I'd like to visit the cages before leaving. Might as well make the most of my time here since I've been dragged out at this ridiculous hour."

Above my head, I could hear the team preparing the film in the projector room. The lights in the theater dimmed once they were ready. I took the seat next to Mark, but on the opposite side of the aisle. His cologne was so heavy the cloying scent threatened to choke me. "Before starting this, I want to explain -"

"It's another snuff film, Ethan," he barked, cutting me off. "If you've seen one, you've seen them all."

My lips curled into a smile. "You haven't seen this one. Which is why I needed approval before it was released. I think this particular film will make us far wealthier men than we could ever hope to become."

Beady eyes narrowing on me, he huffed out a dismissive breath. "Let's just watch the thing and get it over with."

That wasn't exactly the attitude I preferred for those about to embark of one of my artistic journeys, but what could be done with a person who didn't have it in them to understand the meaning behind each film I directed? Lifting a hand into the air, I snapped my fingers. The theater went dark and the screen came to life, my beautiful Emma coming into focus where she sat atop her bed.

She was even more magnificent on the big screen, every detail of her expression magnified until you'd be blind to miss each thought, each impression, each staggering emotion that filtered through her head while the man approached. Time stood still for me in that moment, my heart leaping into my throat at the very second the man launched in her direction.

Screams filled the theater room, my mind so entranced by the film, I failed to look over to gauge Mark's reaction. By the time Emma was straddling the body of the dying man, at the moment she glanced up to stare into the camera with blood dripping down her cheek to dot the floor beneath her, my heart was a staccato rhythm of desire and possibility, of achievement and glorious satisfaction.

My Emma had performed magnificently.

The lights in the room brightened and Mark failed to look away from the frozen image of a feral woman where she stared back at us covered in the crimson evidence of her rage.

"What the fuck was that?"

"That," I explained with awe in my voice, "was a new version of the snuff film. One wherein the viewer doesn't know who the victor will be. Almost as if watching the gladiators back in the days of the Romans."

Mark's head swiveled in my direction. "Why did you allow that woman to kill the man? How could you be so stupid? Nobody wants to see that. Our audience has a taste for weak women who are helpless to their dicks and to their weapons. Why would they want to see the woman winning in the end? What the fuck were you thinking? How much money did I lose staging that shit show?"

Closing my eyes for a brief second, I tightened my fingers over the armrest of my chair, redirecting the violence I wanted to commit against someone so ignorant.

"We have two audiences, Mark. One who enjoys simple rape and dominance. The other, however, prefers the kill. It is to that audience that this film is intended. Blood is blood regardless of which body spills it."

His face took on the hue of a ripe tomato, the skin discolorations fading beneath the heated color. "Our audience wants to see pretty bitches slaughtered. They fantasize about being the man taking her body in any way he damn well pleases and then doing the bitch until she's no longer breathing. They don't want to fantasize about the bitch fighting back and making mincemeat of them with a fucking butcher knife. We're not releasing this."

"We are," I stated firmly, "or you can find a new director." My head snapped in his direction, my eyes locking to his arrogant gaze. "And when you see the money pouring in on this film, you can thank me later. I'm holding firm to this, Mark. My finger is on the pulse of a new twist to the same tired crap you have me directing and I'll be damned to step back and let you bury it."

Red skin deepening to purple, he glared at me from across the aisle. "And what happens when we get complaints? What happens when we lose their business and they move on to other sites offering films the way they're supposed to be done? What will you do then to make it up to me?"

Laughter shook my shoulders. "You mean the amateur crap produced in dirty basements and staged garages? Let them watch that crap if they want. Although I suspect we hold the market in this because we've moved past the mundane and boring and given the audience something far more developed and entertaining. They come to us because we aren't like all the others and with this particular film, we'll launch ourselves onto a new level that will have them begging for more. Trust me on this, or find someone else. I'm not bending to your fear of change. We either continue exploring new films, or we become as stagnant as those idiots still filming in their seedy little apartments."

Grunting, he slammed his hand on the armrest, damn near breaking the thing in the process. "I'll give you this one just because I'm too tired to argue at this hour. But if it fails, I'm taking it out of your ass. You got me? One week, Ethan. That's the amount of time you have to prove to me this film is as revolutionary as you claim it is."

My smile stretched wider. "One week is all I need. It'll take less time than that for the money to come rolling in. As soon as word gets out, curiosity alone will have men throwing everything they have at us just to view it."

"It better." Standing up, he brushed his hands down the front of his pants, for what purpose, I didn't know. His efforts did nothing to remove the wrinkles. "Take me to the cages. I need to work out some of this frustration inside me."

The last thing I wanted to do was stand back and listen to this pig fuck some poor woman trapped in her prison, but he'd given me what I wanted, it was only appropriate I return the favor.

Standing from my seat, I grinned in his direction. "Some new women were brought in today that may meet with your approval. Normally, I like them to have their first experience on film, but I'm sure I can afford to lose one in order to appease your hunger." Inclining my head in the direction of the exit doors, I said, "Come, I'll take your there myself."