He thinks I don’t know that he watches me.

Sure. Like he’d leave me in this room by myself all day. Suicidal Grace. What a joke.

I’m lonely and scared but I’m not stupid. I spotted the camera on the third day, when I pulled the bed under the window. I suspected it even before.

He thinks a minister’s daughter doesn’t know the ways of a demon. How could I? I’m so untouched and innocent.

I know demons. None exactly like him, but every demon comes in a different form. That was one lesson of my father’s that I never forgot.

The demon watches me masturbate. I shouldn’t do it, but I can’t help it. It’s the only attention I get. My only connection to human life. Through a cold, empty video feed.

I lie on my stomach and come for him. Maybe he’ll punish me, but I doubt it. He knows it would give him away.

Careful not to look at the camera, I roll on my side when I’m finished. A tear drops into the sheet, where he can’t see it. I feel sick and twisted inside. Like a craven little whore.

I wasn’t supposed to come, not for real. I had a plan. Hide my face so he couldn’t see my deceit, and fake an orgasm. Let him think it was for him.

I was going to seduce him. Make him weak with the one advantage I have. His desire to fuck me. To own my virginity. That’s my only bargaining chip.

How did I stumble into this world? Where my pussy and my resolve are all I have?

I thought it would be easier. I’ve already experienced pain beyond pain. Life with Bram couldn’t be worse.

But I’m already losing track of days. Losing myself. I’m desperate for contact and attention. If I don’t have it, I won’t make it. And I have to make it.

I didn’t need to touch myself. Not really. But it felt too good to lie face-down with my hand between my legs. The thought of him watching set my pussy on fire. Once I started, I prayed to stop. But I couldn’t.

All I could think of was his cock. How hard he’d have to thrust to force it into my untouched cunt. I thought of his eyes piercing into mine while he ripped my pussy apart.

And then I came. I gave him something true and precious, and I loved it. It was the craziest and most intimate thing I’ve ever done. Nothing has ever felt so good. For a fleeting second, life was worth living again.

But now that it’s over, I want to die. I want to take it back. I betrayed my true love with his killer. Again.

I suck my juices off my finger so I won’t find a sticky streak in my sheets later. A bitter reminder of how lost I am.

And now I sit waiting for him to come home, my heart leaping with every imagined sound. I’ll never know if he watched. Maybe he hires someone else to do it. Maybe he doesn’t care what I do. I could touch myself all day long and it wouldn’t matter.

Maybe. But I don’t think so.

This sickness between us has lasted too long. There’s something there. It’s twisted and terrible, but no matter what I do, I can’t kill it. I can only use it to try to survive.

That night, he drops off my dinner of roasted chicken and grilled vegetables and leaves with barely a grunt of greeting. He won’t even look me in the eye. My heart falls as he turns and walks out.

I almost yell out for him. Please don’t leave me in this cold, silent room. I’ll die if you do.

But I’m done begging. No more pounding my fists and crying. I’m finished putting on eyeliner and lipstick and singing stupid 80’s songs.

From now on, I’ll be silent. If he wants a reaction, he won’t get one. I’ll live on what he gives me. Silence and isolation.

Later that night when the house is dark and I’m lying in bed, he comes into my room.

He comes in almost every night. I lie awake and wait for him.

I listen for the turn of the door handle. His quiet footsteps. The rustle of his clothes as he leans down beside the bed to pick up my ballet slippers.

Tomorrow they’ll be facing the opposite direction. The door to the bathroom will be closed just an inch. The red lipstick Coral left will be in a different drawer.

For a second I’ll wonder why, and then I’ll remember. It’s a message.

In here, my perceptions belong to him. He decides what reality is. I don’t have control over anything. Even the things that aren’t supposed to matter.

I can see him in the bathroom, touching my robe and towel. He looks so…tender. Like part of him is capable of caring.

In the months after James died, when I stalked Bram Russell online every night because I couldn’t sleep, I searched for clues to who he was. For something that would make him seem human.

I learned that his parents were dead and he had no living relatives. His job history was listed in vague terms that gave me the creeps, like “government services” and “educational consulting.” In months of searching, I uncovered only one picture of him with a woman. It was blurry and dim, but I had no doubt it was him. She had dark golden skin and long black hair, and his arm was wrapped around her shoulders. He was smiling. He looked happy. She was gazing up at him as if he ruled her world.

Once, he had a shred of a heart. I don’t know if he does anymore.

He sits against the wall under the window and watches me pretend to sleep. He doesn’t know I’m pretending. Or does he? Are we both part of the same charade?

My skin aches to be touched. I don’t just need him for food and someone to talk to. I want to see him. To hear his voice and his praise. Which only makes me hate him more.

I can smell him from here. Without the distraction of books and music, my perceptions are like an animal’s. I breathe in his hot skin and dark, earthy cologne, his breath and his cock. The scent is so delicious my mouth waters. It makes me wet. I bite my lip to keep from moaning.

A leaf swirls by the moonlit window above his head. The tiny red light on the camera – a barely visible pinpoint – floats in space on the ceiling.

His advantage. When it suits him.

I sit up in the dark. I’m naked except for the sheet pulled up to my chest.

He sits straighter against the wall. He’s surprised to see me awake.

“Hi,” he says.

Hi. As if he didn’t creep into my room at midnight to fuck with my head.

“I’m just wondering something,” I say. “Since you seem so good with video cameras.”

He turns his face slowly toward the ceiling. “So you’ve been performing for me.”

“You’ve been watching.”

“Obsessively.”

“Why?”

“Why?” His voice is low and gruff. “You were suicidal a week ago. You’re in my house. I have a responsibility to watch over you.”

“Watch over me, or watch my body?”

“Both.” He rests his forearms on his knees. Even from here, I can see his shadowed gray eyes. “We came together, Grace. Did you know that? While you were touching that drenched little pussy, I was in my office jerking off with you. I timed it perfectly. It was fucking beautiful.”

He’s seen everything. He’s watched me cry and sleep and touch myself. It’s violating, and horribly comforting. I want to reach for him, to quench the aching loneliness.

“I bet it hasn’t failed once,” I say.

His voice is deathly quiet. “Excuse me?”

“The camera you’ve been using to watch me. I’m just wondering why it’s so reliable, while the one at your front door died that night.”

He doesn’t say a word. He sits and watches me until my neck prickles and my mouth is dry.

“You know why, Grace.”

My insides feel hollow. “No, I don’t.”

I shrink back into the sheets as he stands up. His powerful figure steps close to the bed and looms over me. His arms are crossed, his bare feet planted apart.

“You lie so fucking well,” he says.

“I’m not lying.” I hate my small, meek voice.

He lets out a soft laugh. “What a con job. The innocent girl and her poor boyfriend. He made one little mistake by following me and paid for it with his life.” Bram’s features twist in the moonlight. “And I fucking protected you.”

“You protected me,” I repeat in a stunned monotone.

His eyes are two fiery black holes. “Do you know what I saved you from? Do you have any idea?”

My mind spins in sickening circles. Protected me. Saved me. It feels like an upside-down world where nothing make sense.

I shake my head. “Please, Bram –”

He interrupts me by walking out. He comes back a minute later and points something at the ceiling. It’s a remote. The tiny red eye of the camera goes black.

I lie frozen in bed, my heart pounding. Bram sets the remote on the nightstand.

“I was wrong to monitor you without telling you,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t sound sorry. He voice makes me shiver.

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

He presses the pad on the wall and the door opens. His silhouette towers in the moonlight. My whole body yearns for him, for just one touch.

“You know, I told myself I was watching over you while you were alone,” he says. “But the fact is – you’re beautiful. I just loved looking at you, Grace.”

He turns, and the door closes quietly behind him.