Page 36 of The Butterfly Killer

It was frustrating he couldn’t even read the man in front of him now. He’d been able to understand the kill so well when he was analyzing the murder scenes that he thought the man himself would be like reading a book. It had even scared Marcus that he was too alike and too close to the copycat killer.

But it seems he and the man weren’t as attuned as he once worried. The man gripping his jaw and standing over him like some god might have well been any stranger on the street with no ties to Marcus what-so-ever.

What should have brought him some sort of comfort was actually the thing that made him sweat with anxiety.

Marcus jerked his head back. The man’s fingers slipped across his hot skin, leaving a blazing trail that burned him even more on the inside. His lips parted in a soft pant. Hot air blew through his nose, burning his nostrils. His chest heaved. His eyes narrowed down to a single point: the man.

The man raised a brow. That was the only sign of emotion, the only change in his expression since Marcus had first woken up…was it hours ago? Or days?

His own brows furrowed in confusion as he couldn’t tell how much time had passed since then. His eyes darted around the room to find a source of time. Surely the man wasn’t living in the middle of nowhere by himself with no way to tell time. It would be a step closer to going mad.

If he wasn’t already.

Marcus licked his cracked and dry lips. The man’s eyes flickered to them.

He moved so suddenly Marcus jumped. The man ignored his skittishness and crossed the room to the kitchen corner. He grabbed a large canteen and poured a bit of water into a cup with a broken handle. He put the canteen back on the ground under the window and returned to loom over the bedside.

Marcus wearily looked up. He met the man’s eyes even though every fiber in his being didn’t want to. He was compelled to. As if the man had some power over him that Marcus hadn’t even come to realize yet.

The cup hovered in front of him, between them as a truce that came laced with betrayal. The man jutted it toward him, urging him to take it. Marcus looked down into the cup expecting to find something foul. Maybe a body part. Maybe blood. He found nothing of the sort. Just clear liquid that made him feel like an animal when he had to hold himself back from snatching the cup.

He cautiously raised his hand. It shook with weakness. The man saw and grabbed it. Marcus’s breath hitched at the coldness in the man’s fingers. That large hand closed his over the cup. He guided it to Marcus’s mouth and held it there until he was sure Marcus wasn’t going to drop it.

Marcus’s hand still shook as the man’s hand left him. The cold water filled his mouth. He drank greedily, downing the whole cup before he could really taste it. It wasn’t enough. The thirst wasn’t quenched. He felt the cold fill his stomach like a balloon, but it still wasn’t enough.

“More,” he rasped, pushing the cup back at the man.

The man snorted but took the cup. “You’ve had enough.”

He turned away, walking back toward the kitchen corner to return the cup.

“No, please.” Marcus’s resolve broke. He didn’t care if he was begging. He was in pain and he needed something.

He needed the man’s help whether he wanted it or not. He didn’t have a choice. He felt how sick he was. It was the sickest he’d ever been and it would be so easy for the man to just let him die.

The man paused. He gazed down at Marcus. Surprise maybe? Or a cruel satisfaction that Marcus was breaking faster than he thought.

Marcus’s brain was too foggy to care one way or another. He held his weak hand out—begging for the drink. But the man turned his back to him. He put the cup in a bucket that must act as a small sink.

He came back, grabbing the chair from the right side of the…cabin? Whatever it was, it was too cramped for Marcus’s comfort. It was made even smaller when he was forced to be confined to this small bed.

The man pulled the chair beside the bed and sat in it. The legs creaked under the man’s weight. His limbs were long, his body too large to fit comfortably into the seat. He draped one arm over the back of it and stared at Marcus.

Marcus took a shuddery breath. His throat and chest ached with soreness. His eyes darted again across the small room,searching for answers not there—or so well hidden he would never be able to find them.

When his eyes met the man’s again, something changed. The man’s head cocked just a fraction and his emotionless eyes held some sort of curiosity. It was the kind of look someone gave to a bug crawling on the floor. A child-like wonder that bordered on cruelty when the child inevitably squashed the bug under their palm.

“Hello, Marcus,” the man said in a soft low voice.

Marcus swallowed against the forming lump in his throat. It shouldn’t have surprised him the man knew his name. The man had been stalking his sister, luring him out there. To do what? Finish what the real Butterfly Killer had started so many years ago?

The man leaned forward. His knee bumped into the side of the bed. Marcus went still, holding his breath for only a second and then letting it go because his weak body couldn’t keep doing it.

The man waited. Marcus waited as well. It was a game of chicken to see who would cave first. Marcus knew there was a game happening, knew he was being forced to play, but he didn’t know the rules and he didn’t know what the winning piece was.

Only the man knew.

The man’s face crumbled. The stoic look that had hidden his emotions dropped. Irritation and a flicker of anger showed on his face. Marcus was both enamored and frightened with how quick the man covered up the emotions.

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