Page 19 of Deviant

“Justice?” She gasps, and we all hear the contempt in her voice. God, I’m going to love working that out of her, turning that tone into something far more respectful.

I grab her face, pulling her so that she has to properly look me in the eyes and as the distance closes, I can smell the sweat on her skin, I can smell the stench of her. She hasn’t washed in days, she absolutely stinks. I tilt my head dropping my gaze to see the perspiration pooling on her skin.

The hall is hot, stiflingly so. It’s like the very fires of damnation are here, surrounding us.

God, I want to run my tongue along her collarbone, taste the fear that she’s concealing so carefully.

“This woman insulted me, I demand recompense.”

“Fuck you,” she spits, but her words are drowned out. Forgotten.

So I take in a deep breath of her, savouring the smell of her filling my lungs as I watch the pieces all fall into place. As I witness the puppets behave exactly as I planned.

“Her sentence still stands.” Seth says.

“Of course.” I reply. Of course this bitch will die. That’s a given.

But unlike my small-minded friends, I don’t want it to be quick. I don’t want it to be a tick box. No, I’ve never permitted myself to take this step, to truly lean into what I am. Oh there have been moments, treats if you will, but I’ve always had to hold back, to taper my needs.

As I stare at my new plaything, I know I don’t have to do that this time. I can indulge in every fucked-up desire, every twisted want that pops into my head.

I can mould, and bend, and break as much as I want.

I can kill this woman in so many ways, over and over, and only once my needs are satisfied will I deliver that final, lasting, sentence.

It’s cold. Dark. Pitch fucking black but that’s the least of my worries.

I’ve been down here for a day, maybe longer. Time seems to move funny when there’s no way to keep track of it. And your mind seems to latch onto every sound as if there’s more to it than just a drip of water or a creak in the floorboards.

I know this is part of his game.

That throwing me in here and leaving me to wallow in my fear is all part of his nasty little plan, and yet there’s a bit of me that’s relieved. At least I’ve got time to get my bearings, time to clear my head, to lose the fuzziness of being repeatedly drugged and knockedunconscious.

There’s a bucket in the corner. The level of disgust I feel when I finally have to use it is indescribable, and now, afterwards, the whole cell has a faint aroma of piss, enough to catch in your throat and make you gag.

When I finally do hear the sound of footsteps, I can’t keep the fear from radiating through me.

He’s here. He’s coming.

I force myself to my feet. My legs are shaking, but I do everything I can to still. I don’t want him to see my fear. I don’t want him to think that simply locking me in this basement or wherever the hell I am, is enough to break me.

My arms are still bound but I managed to manoeuvre my legs around so that now they’re at least in front and not behind. I doubt it’ll make much difference, but I have to hope, don’t I?

The door springs open. It’s almost alarming that there’s no noise except a slight whoosh.

If this were a horror movie there would be a creak of rusty hinges, there would be some sort of dramatic moment.

But this isn’t a movie. This isn’t a dream either.

This nightmare is my life and it will be until the monster standing before me grows bored and decides to end it.

My breath hitches at the thought, my adrenaline spikes even more. I feel like this moment here will set the scene for all my days to come. I have to make a point now, I have to prove that I may be caught, but I am not beaten. At least, not yet.

I’ve stared at photos of him for so long, that to be here, to see him in the flesh feels almost surreal. It’s as though I’m finally face to face with the devil. Even in the limited light, the glint in his dark eyes is obvious as is the trademark smirk and dimple. He exudes charm, and privilege and everything you’d expect from a man born into an obscene amount of wealth. It practically reeks out of every damn pore.

For a moment, it’s like my brain can’t compute this, like I can’t do anything. I’m paralysed by my fear and I stand mute, pathetic, as he prowls into the space, getting far too fucking close.

“Not gone all shy on me now, have you?” he says with what sounds like a hint of disappointment.

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