Page 148 of Rage

“What’s wrong?” I ask as he stays sitting there. His eyes are on me, watching. What thoughts does such a creature have? I would love to know. I’ve sat through entire days following trailsof thoughts all about Casper and his potential feelings and ideas. Even if I physically leave the island, my mind never does, not since he first opened his eyes. I thought I was obsessed before he came alive, but that was only drive and focus.

I’m entirely obsessed with my Casper. I pay him too close attention—every movement, every breath, every blink of his eyes, every turn of his head. I watch and record it all in my head.

Which is how I know something is off. He’s not acting normal. With the light in hand, I move closer. What I see makes me gasp, and I drop the candle on the floor. It snuffs out, letting the darkness consume us once more. The giant and me, all alone. I hear the waves hiss and the wood creak and groan.

How could he smile? He has never done that; I don’t think he even can, either from muscle deterioration or maybe the stitching. My hand goes to my mouth, touching my lips. It was a trick of the light; the flickering candle must have made me see a smile.

Swallowing thickly, I reach down to grab the candle and relight it, but Casper moves, reaching for me with his long arms. His fingers wrap around my bicep, and he stands, pulling me upright. It’s then I remember the way he’d held me last time I was here. The power he yields is concerning, sometimes even terrifying. When he killed that mouse, his expression never changed. He showed it to me without an ounce of shame for the gore he presented me. I searched his eyes for something, anything…but no empathy could be found.

Perhaps I expect too much of him. Empathy might not be born but made. I’m not sure how to teach him right and wrong, though. I’m a scientist, not a philosopher. I’m not even a teacher. I’d have to, though, and soon.

Those thoughts are in my head as he grabs me, along with the fact that I’d seen not a single mouse since that day.

“Casper,” I say as he holds both my arms, pulling me close. He bends down to my height. I can feel the tip of his hair brushing my forehead in the darkness. Large, calloused fingers trail down my arms to my wrists. His breath tickles my cheeks.

My body is trembling; I can’t help it. He lifts my hands to his chest, pressing my palms to his body.

“Are you hurt?” I ask. He drags my hands slowly up, his breath becoming more labored as my fingers brush over his collarbones. I’ve touched him so many times, know every part of him. “I’m not doing an exam right now,” I exhale in a whisper. I don’t think he’s requesting an exam, though. Something feels different—charged, like a sky full of lightning.

Still holding my wrists, he drags my hands up his neck, and I think of what I saw a moment ago—the trick of the light that made him look like he was smiling. He pauses as I inhale sharply, my hands on his jaw.

“Did you…” I can’t get the words out. Did he cut his threads? He pulls my hands slowly up until my fingers brush the edges of his stitches. I feel empty holes where strings used to be and try to pull my hand back. He holds me there, though, making me feel what he’s done. He pulls my fingers to his bare lips and makes them brush the shape of his smile.

“What have you done?” I ask. He opens his mouth and drags two of my fingers into it. A tongue presses against my skin, warm and wet in his mouth. I gasp in shock as he displays exactly what has been done. He tastes me thoroughly, spearing my two fingers apart and dragging his tongue between them.

“How?” I ask. But there’s only one answer, isn’t there? It’s preposterous to think someone else did this. He did this to himself. “Oh God,” I whisper. The implications of this... I’ve been a fool, thinking I had something immature on my hands, that he was simple of mind.

He sucks on my fingers, and a groan rumbles up his throat and vibrates in his mouth. My face heats, and something heavy twists in my belly. I pull my fingers from his mouth, and he lets me go entirely. I stumble backwards, my heart in my throat, his spit still coating my fingers.

Casper bends down and picks up the candle, taking it back to the table and setting it upright in its holder. I hear the soft scratch of the matchbox drag across the table as he moves it in my direction. He wants me to light it. I walk over and strike the match before lighting the candle. My hands shake as I carry the flame to the wick. Dim, soft light fills the room again.

He’s looking down at me from his great height. His yellow eyes have started to dim, turning amber, and for once, I finally see what was probably there for a while, perhaps forever. I seeintelligence, startling, penetrating intelligence.

I shift back, confused. I look around, not knowing what to do, unsure who I’m alone with. It’s Casper, but not how I presumed.

As I try to shuffle back further, he tips his head and smirks. The stitch marks don’t mar it at all—perhaps they even enhance what I’m seeing. The candle shadows are harsh on his face. For a moment, I feel as if I’m looking at the devil himself. I made Lucifer and brought him to life on Earth. A gasp leaves my throat, and he reaches for me before I can run, wrapping his massive hands around my wrists and dragging me against him again.

“Casper, please,” I beg him to let me go. He understands; he has always understood. God, he managed to perform surgery on himself and give himself a working tongue. I wasn’t even sure I could accomplish that, but I just felt the wet, warm muscle myself, dragging across my fingers. My face burns again, that ball in my belly squirming as attraction rears up inside me. It’s shameful how quickly it makes itself known, as if it was there all along and I was only fooling myself that it wasn’t.

I push those thoughts aside for bigger ones. Does this mean death did nothing to damage the brain’s brilliance? Dear God, does it mean he remembers it all? I’m aghast, in terror that the man I murdered is looking through new eyes—brought back to life by his very killer, coming to seek his vengeance.

“Don’t hurt me,” I beg as he bends, those intelligent eyes holding mine as his face comes close. I look at his lips, panicked I’ll see him mouth that silent word to me.Help. Help. Help.

Instead, Casper’s lips press to mine. I go still in shock—the only thing moving is my fluttering heart and pounding pulse. Casper looks at me as his soft mouth touches mine. He’s watching, observing, as I feel his lips open mine and his tongue dip into my mouth. Without thought, my tongue presses to his. Casper’s eyes close, and he offers up that soft groan from before. I feel it everywhere—on my skin, burying into my scalp as it finds every nerve in my body.

I’m weak, so weak. I made this man to my liking—every aspect is a perfect match to my ideals. His devilish face, his large hands, and now…his intelligence. He kisses me, and I kiss him back—my body burning and wet, my breasts pressing against his hard chest. I feel as if my clothes are too tight. I feel as if he’s damning me—begging me with the soft, eager press of his tongue to abandon all my ethics for him. This isn’t right, not at all.

And yet, all the repressed, pent-up tension surges like a frothy wave. It makes me crash into him, our eager, pained attraction birthing a whimper as he keeps kissing me.

His hands angle my face, making it so he can delve deeper and taste me more thoroughly. Casper is slow and meticulous, savoring every single second, whereas I feel frantic, trying to will him with my mind to kiss me harder. My hands are gripping his shirt tightly, fearful that when he pulls back, this storm will go quiet, that I’ll have no choice but to push him away.

But when he finally pulls back, I feel no desire for distance. I can’t push him away. I don’t want to. He lifts me with ease, placing me on the table. Then, his mouth is on my neck, dragging obscenely across my pulse. His hands settle on my thighs, his thumbs rubbing circles as his mouth works lower.

My hands hold his head, my fingers tracing the sutures across the top of his skull so I don’t forget this is Casper. I shouldn’t be letting this happen. He’s…not even human, is he? But I’m all too eager and willing as his open mouth trails over the swell of my cleavage, his tongue dipping in the crease. A thousand touches and a hundred suppressed thoughts have brought me to this—wanton desperation.

His hands move between my legs, and he rubs through my clothes. My legs and stomach tense as pleasure builds in the very core of my being. A whimper escapes me, and his mouth presses to mine, as if he’s greedy to taste the sound.

Casper pulls back and looks at me. My eyes trace his features—the cupid’s bow of his lips, the fashionable haircut trimmed tight at the sides and long on top, his hollow cheeks, the bump in his strong nose that tells me he broke it at some point. For once, I allow myself to feel what has always been there—lust.

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