Pulling the car into the secluded area of Sociopath’s warehouse, I turn the engine off while my hands grip the steering wheel tighter, my lips hurting as I bite them hard so no sound will escape them.

“Why did you bring me here, boy?” Matt asks, shifting uncomfortably yet curiously gazing through the window.

“Wanted to show you something.” I barely restrain myself from snapping his neck right there, and keep my voice even, so there won’t be even a hint of the emotion running through me.

His mouth spreads in a smile as his chest lifts in pride. “That’s my boy. Getting gifts for his old man,” he says proudly, and gets out of the car, still flashing me a grin.

What a dumb fucker.

Because law enforcement didn’t have much on him, just the one assault, and his great behavior and ability to deceive people, he ended up in jail for only a few years, and then he was released.

I destroyed half the living room when the news got to Suzanne, who quickly packed her bags and took Kim, fleeing the city. I highly doubted he would trail after her, because the authorities would keep an eye on him.

I got offers from the police academy and had my entire future in front of me. They advised me to leave too and never look back.

But how fucking could I, when I knew he’d go back to his old ways? He’d charm some clueless woman who’d be stupid enough to fall in love with him, and he’d make her life a living hell.

He giddily paces the place, and I try to concentrate on my breathing, remembering all the teachings about torture, but I come up blank.

I don’t want to play with him. I don’t want to show my art to him. I don’t want to see excitement in his eyes as he sees what I’ve become, because that was probably his single-minded goal.

To make me as fucked up as he is.

So with that comes a decision, as I shout from the window of the car, “Matt, get back. Change of plans. I have a surprise for you at home.” He frowns, not liking it much, and opens his mouth to protest, but that’s when I have enough.

I drill him with my stare, and he blinks rapidly and gets inside. “What kind of surprise?” he asks, but I ignore him, not feeling the need to play a part in this charade any more.

We are going to end it where it all started.

In the fucking house where my mother killed herself.

Ella

Pacing the room back and forth, I wonder where he went to be gone such a long time. He hadn’t left my side in the last two days, and I thought maybe I could convince him to change his mind, but I understand now that I thought with the mind of a woman in love, not a psychologist who knows better.

People like him do not change; they are too broken by the past to get beyond it. Most grow stronger through their experiences, but some use those experiences to define and lose themselves in this life.

The sound of the door shutting snaps me from my stupor and I walk to the living room and gasp in shock.

Kierian has a man on his shoulder. He dumps him on the floor and punches a security code into the keypad on the wall so no one can get in or out. The man is unconscious, a gash on his cheek leaking droplets of blood.

My first instinct is to help him, so I take a step in his direction, but Kierian’s harsh “Don’t” stops me midway.

He grabs my elbow painfully and I wince, but he ignores it and drags me to the far end of the hall, to the place he’s never allowed me to enter.

He presses a keycard near the door and it instantly opens. He throws me inside and I barely keep myself from falling.

What has gotten into him?

Only then do the computer screens showing different angles of his torture basement register in my mind. He presses on my shoulder, forcing me to sit in the chair in front of the screens, giving me a good view of what will happen.

“Kierian—” He takes out handcuffs and chains me to the chair so I can’t leave, even if I want to.

“You will stay here and see firsthand what it looks like when I torture a man.” He puts a blue file on the table, barking, “You can read all the information I have on him while I prepare him. Enjoy.”

So this is how he lashes out at me for telling him the truth?

“Don’t do this, please.” I promised myself I wouldn’t beg, but what else is left?

Please, don’t put me through this. Don’t make me see this part of you that will forever shatter my illusions of you.

At the end of the day, life makes me face the hard truth.

It doesn’t matter if you understand psychology or not; when you love a man, you expect him to get better or change.

Even if you know he never will.

He leans closer to me so that we’re only an inch away from each other, as he says, “No illusions, Ella. You’ll see who I truly am.” With that, he turns and leaves me alone while I close my eyes and pray for him to change his mind.

Because in this small room with the ten monitors and high-quality equipment, it will be impossible to hide from the truth.

And I’m afraid the truth might destroy me.

Flipping the folder open, I see the man is Mark Dacke, a doctor who has been married to his wife for the last twenty years.

They have a young son, and based on pictures in the first pocket, you’d think you couldn’t have seen a happier family.

It all changes though the minute you flip to another page, a report gathered by Kierian.

Medical treatment. The haunted eyes of his wife and son. Screams in the middle of the night. He must have spied on them, since these are his notes.

Throwing it back on the table, I cover my face with my hands and wonder what he will do to him.

In previous crimes, he didn’t have to prove anything to me, and he didn’t know the full truth about his biological father. Now though, all this pent-up rage will burst out onto this guy.

Is the doctor innocent? Of course not. But it’s not Kierian’s right to proclaim himself the judge of bad people. He could have spent his life catching people like this guy and let the justice system handle the rest.

That’s the right thing to do.

But how can I explain it to him?

Psychopath

Splashing water on the fucker, I watch him gulp for air as blood oozes from various cuts and stabs I’ve inflicted, and he barely holds his head up, exhausted from an hour of torture.

This one is more resilient than most. He hadn’t asked for mercy for an hour before he finally caved.

They all do, after all.

Watching him now, I know it’s time to move to my final stage of things and cut him open, but I can’t.

There is so much more I know to make a person feel sorry he was ever born. Half of them I’ve never used, because I had neither the patience nor the desire to spend so much time on the victim.

But maybe it’s a good opportunity to show Ella who she is dealing with.

I grab the brass knuckles, and I’m about to hit him, when Ella’s face appears in my mind, the fear in her eyes of what she’ll see, and I can’t go through with it.

For fuck’s sake! I shouldn’t be conflicted. I shouldn’t think about her. She is nothing but the prey.

But my egotistical self considers her mine, and as odd as the concept is to me, I don’t want to hurt what belongs to me.

Grabbing him by the shirt, I place him on the table and strap him to it while turning off the cameras, so she won’t have to see the grand finale to my sick hungers.

I think she’s had enough anyway.

And for the first time ever, killing a person doesn’t zone me out of reality. Instead, it reminds me that it’s the straw that will break Ella’s back.