As the door clicks softly into place, Alice’s words ring in my ears.

She said what I’m doing to her is a crime. She said I’m a sick person for keeping her here, even though I’ve told her again and again that I’m only doing this to protect her. Why can’t she get that through her stubborn skull?

Sure, technically, I was a convicted criminal, and some people say ‘once a criminal, always a criminal.’

I know I haven’t told her too many details, but...

The way she looked at me toward the end, it was like the way I look at them.

She thinks I’m no different from those dregs of humanity.

And that hurts.

Damn, why do I have to care what she thinks of me? I’m not even being paid to do any of this. I’m spending a lot of time and resources of saving her sexy ass, and all it does it make her hate me. None of this makes any sense.

In the movies, the guy who saves the damsel in distress would at least get to fuck her. In my case, I’m pretty sure the reason the girl is not already in my bed is because I’m trying to protect her.

I could still see the yearning in her eyes. She kept biting her lip sensuously, playing with her hair, rubbing her thighs together. I was never more glad to have chosen a glass desk, because I wouldn’t want to miss seeing those legs wiggling deliciously on the chair. It made me want to spread her like butter and have my way with her.

I have to thank Alejandra. If it wasn’t for her, Alice wouldn’t have come to see me. I told her to give Alice anything she needs, so she must’ve known some groceries wouldn’t have been a problem. But I guess she decided that we needed to talk, and she was right, like she often is.

I was getting sick of Ana’s cooking. Don’t get me wrong, she’s decent, but she’s no Alice.

Alice has a keen sense of taste and some kind of obsession with perfection. It’s like an addiction to her, the need to control every single aspect of her creation. We’re kind of alike in that way.

Every time I visited The Local, I could tell she had tweaked her cooking according to my weekly feedback. Even if she acted unaffected or insulted or angry, I knew soon she’d be chasing after that perfection again, and she’d come up with something better next time.

Honestly, that dogged pursuit of perfection was the first thing that jumped out at me when I first laid my eyes on her.

In my mind, I thought, this was a woman who’d be going places; she’d spend all her energy on her craft and come up with something amazing. And it was that same obsessive quality in her that drew me to food, as well. I learned to love what she loves.

I was obsessed with her. Raphael was sick of hearing me talk about her, but there was no escape for him because we were cell mates for years.

Raphael thought I was crazy for tracking Alice down as soon as I got released, but my obsession left me with no other choice. Let me put it this way: I couldn’t not search for her.

The way I found her wasn’t exactly legal either, which could’ve gotten me into hot water if my probation officer ever found out.

I don’t know, maybe Alice had a point. Maybe once I’ve committed a crime, I’m bound to do it again. Maybe once I’ve crossed a line, it blurs everything together and makes it harder to determine where to stop next time.

I definitely have a problem knowing when to stop. Alice could be right, the tracker may be overkill.

I swivel in my office chair to look out the window at my highly trained, heavily armed bodyguards. I spare no expense when it comes to security.

When Alice is involved, I’m even more cautious. She can’t defend herself, after all. And I was the one who got her into this mess in the first place, so I’m the one responsible for her safety. I take that responsibility seriously.

We’re not dealing with common robbers here. We’re dealing with torturers, murderers, people who treat their fellow humans worse than animals.

Again, it’s ironic.

If the police and the justice system hadn’t gotten involved in my life, I never would’ve had any contact with violence ever, except for a stupid backyard fight when I was a stupid teenager.

But I found myself in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and they caught me. I don’t think I even did anything particularly bad.

It all started when I became friends with Brian, who was a junkie. I wasn’t innocent either—I tried the stuff once or twice, but a big aspect of enjoying drugs is losing control over your own body and that’s just not something I’d ever really enjoy.

Anyway, one day Brian took me to see his dealer to buy more “supplies,” but we got there just in time to get caught in a shoot-out between the cops and the dealers’ guys. It was a drug bust gone bad.

I got lucky and only got sent to prison.

Brian died.

I watched him die right in front of me, his eyes confused and panicked, like he couldn’t fathom why his body was falling to the ground. I was frozen in place, just staring at him, and I couldn’t flee the scene in time.

I learned, a long time ago, that one wrong move could risk everything, so I don’t take chances when it comes to safety and security.

Of course, considering my line of work now, that’s kind of a ridiculous thing to say. I face danger all the time, after all. I just surround myself with as much security as it takes to minimize my risk. There’s no other choice now.

Like I said, if it wasn’t for prison, I would’ve become an upstanding member of society, who has absolutely nothing to do with the criminal elements. Now it seems like contact with those criminal elements makes up the biggest part of my life.

My stomach grumbles. I can’t wait to have a meal with Alice again.

Besides the food, I also look forward to watching her try to convince herself that she doesn’t want me. I can see the truth in her eyes, her lips, her thighs, her long legs—every single part of her body betrays her true desires.

She can fight this all she wants, but I know she’s going to end up spread-eagled on my bed anyway. That body was made to be fucked by me.