Page 68 of The Butterfly Killer

“Stop moving. You’re distracting me,” Roman murmured as he placed the last insect which so happened to be the dragonfly.

Marcus tried to hold still, really. It was just he couldn’t stop himself from crossing his arms and shifting his hips as he thought about how those same hands handling insects had been onhim.

The dragonfly dropped from Roman’s hand and landed crooked in the center of the piece.

Roman tsked. He moved back and looked over at Marcus with a dark look.

Marcus froze under the gaze, eyes wide.

The stare-down lasted for but a moment. Roman seemed to be happy with Marcus’s compliance and went back to fixing the mistake.

Marcus was twitching with how hard it was to keep still. He knew he could have left. He could be back in bed, sleeping whatever weird feeling he was experiencing off. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to be around Roman, to know what he was doing.

Perhaps that was a clue he should distance himself. It was a big fucking red flag he wasn’t terrified to be in the man’s presence.

Even so, he was mesmerized by Roman’s attention to detail. He could never do something like this. It would drive him mad.If Roman was the neatest person in the world, Marcus was the exact opposite. Walking into Marcus’s apartment would give Roman a heart-attack.

A chuckle escaped him as he thought about Roman trying to hastily clean up his apartment. The image of the man tearing his hair out by all the trash and clothes strewn about was the funniest thing since he was kidnapped—possibly before then too.

Roman growled. He swiveled in his chair.

Marcus stopped and froze again, but it was too late. Roman hooked his hand under the stool Marcus was sitting on and yanked. The feet scraped across the floor, screeching as Marcus was jolted forward. Roman didn’t stop tugging the stool until he and Marcus were sitting close together, shoulders brushing.

“Pay attention.”

Roman covered the shadow box up and sat it to the side. He grabbed another box and took the lid off.

The smell hit Marcus’s nose first. He moved back and covered his face.

It was the smell of death. Decay. He recognized it from the countless bodies he’d encountered during his career.

Roman wasn’t at all affected by the smell. He carried on as if nothing was wrong. Frankly, Marcus would be more shocked if Roman was off-put by the smell or even the dead animal in the box. He killed people for a sick thrill—death was his calling card.

Marcus didn’t have the guts to flee. He wanted to run, just jump through the curtain and hide under the bed again. That wouldn’t get the smell out of his head nor would it make the images of every other body he’d ever seen in his life leave him. He’d been riding on the high he’d gotten when he and Roman got off on one another, but now any sort of lingering arousal was gone.

Whatever animal was in the box, it was wrapped up in a black trash bag. Roman carefully unwrapped it. The smell got stronger. Marcus turned his face to the side and swallowed the building gag.

“I-I might puke,” he barely uttered. He squeezed his eyes closed. The scent punched him in the gut. His mouth watered as the impending vomit started to prepare itself.

“There’s a bucket to your left.” Roman’s nonchalance helped to elevate some of Marcus’s anxiety. He hadn’t known what Roman might do if he barfed all over his desk and subsequently his “collection”.

However, Roman didn’t seem to be worried all too much. Marcus didn’t know why Roman was letting him stay. If it was him on the flip side, he would have been angry someone was getting up into his space and watching him work. Roman was able to ignore Marcus for the most part.

Marcus found the trash can. He shakily grabbed it with both hands and pulled it into his lap. He hung his head over it and took deep breaths through his mouth. The smell wasn’t as bad when he didn’t breathe through his nose, but the scent was still there.

“I thought you discovered two of my works,” Roman said as he pulled the animal from its resting place.

Marcus hated that Roman called the dead women his “works” like they were art pieces. They were objects to him. Nothing more than paint smeared across a canvas. Meaningless. Arbitrary. Any kind of value he got from them came in the form ofattentionhe gotor psychological damage he inflicted.

“That doesn’t mean I like the smell,” Marcus choked out. He swallowed thickly. His breaths echoed in the empty trash can. There wasn’t even a trash bag inside.

Roman laid the animal down. He removed the trash bag and the cardboard box to the floor. He snapped the gloves off hishands, tossing them with the trash bag and box. He adjusted the overhead light, turning the brightness down and angling it to be only on the animal.

Though Marcus had to fight back his sickness, he still took a look at the animal. It was morbid curiosity and also the strange want to heed to Roman’s order to watch closely to what he was doing.

The animal was a kitten no bigger than Roman’s hand. It was even smaller than the man’s hand since he was large in stature.

Marcus stared at the kitten. Its eyes were closed. The fur was still soft, only a little matted, but still in somewhat good condition. And if Marcus couldn’t smell, he might have thought the kitten was sleeping.

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