Page 48 of Promise of Destruction
No protection will be enough. Not for her, and certainly not for her sweet pussy. I won't take her against her will, no matter how enticing the thought had been the first time I watched her. Instead, I'll make her crave me. I'll make her not just want me but need me... and when she finally admits to that, I'll take it all.
Soren Palmer will have nothing when I'm done with her... she'll be a well-fucked whore, brainless and jobless, without the home she thinks is her safe place. But she will have money... enough of it that she can buy another house and take her time finding another job. I don't mean to leave her destitute... just broken.
Today is not the day for that, though. Taking her to the doctor had been a win even if I hadn't planned for it, because part of her fractured already. I could see the humiliation painted all over her gorgeous face when she realized where we were, what I was doing. And yet, she didn't run. She didn't walk out or refuse to go. She just relented, the perfect show of submission.
I'd be a fool to think all of the submission to follow will be so easy.
Being inside of her house is an opportunity I didn't expect to have so soon, but she was so desperate to get away from me that she locked herself in the shower and essentially gave me thefreedom to explore. I want to explore... I want to get inside of her mind, to see what she keeps hidden, what sort of panties she wears beneath those tight skirts and whether she has more toys beyond that vibrator. But I also feel like maybe I've violated her privacy enough for today.
Instead, I end up snooping just enough to find where she keeps the medicine-- in a cabinet above the oven. I grab down the basket with various over the counter products and prescription bottles, rifling through them until I find the pain reliever. I empty two of them into my hand and then add a third just in case.
But before I put the basket away, my curiosity wins, and I find myself plucking the prescription bottles to view the labels.
Amitriptyline, Clonazepam, Oramorph, Trazodone, Zolpidem...
The names of the drugs don't mean anything to me. Whatdoesmean something to me is the fact that all of them are prescribed to Soren D'Anerio. There's enough prescription medication to kill a race horse, and I recognize a few of the names as I move to the back... Avinza and Vicodin. My mother used those toward the end of things, before she couldn't swallow pills anymore. And Eszopiclone. I was prescribed those shortly after I left college, when I fell asleep driving for just long enough to wrap my car around a tree. The responding officer had been convinced I was inebriated, particularly when I told him I wrapped my tree around a car, but when he realized it was just a manifestation of exhaustion.
I got addicted to the sleeping pills, until they quit working.
I could see Soren needing sleeping pills after the murder of her husband... especially if she's the one who killed him. Something tells me that's unlikely, though. I can't imagine her to be capable of something so violent.
My eyes flit down to the dates on the bottles-- some of them are from years ago, and others were prescribed just last year, or in the last few months.
A quick glance at the hall assures me she hasn't yet opened the bathroom door, so I slip my phone from my pocket and snap a few pictures of the labels, deciding I'll have to research them myself later. I note that everything up until last year was prescribed by the same doctor— Emile Vitoli.
Once the medications are secured, I put them away and fill a glass with water, wondering just how unwell Soren really is.
I told her she was sick, but I didn't realize it was likethis.
I don't want to leave her, but I also don't want to fight her when she gets out of the shower and realizes I'm still there. So, I leave the ibuprofen and water on her nightstand, wait for the shower to kick off, and leave.
I'm sure to lock the door as I go, but I can't help wondering if the bigger threat isn't inside of the house.
Maybe she's not violent enough to kill a man. But she could be crazy enough to.
thirty-three
Soren
I’mcurledonmycouch, hair swept into the same bun it’s been in since I got off and had to get it off my neck, where I could still feel the ghost of his touch skating over my skin. Putting on a brave face for everyone at the bar last week, being caught up in Declan’s game, stressing over what he’ll do when he decides he’s had enough of it… it’s all exhausting. It's been days since he sprung a doctor's visit on me, and I'm not just mad. I'mtired.
Knowing he's watching me, navigating him like he's an atomic bomb in the office, feeling his eyes on me even when I'm alone.
I don’t have the energy to do anything more than sit here while the TV plays something in the background that I’m not paying attention to. I don’t even have the energy to move when my phone chimes with a new text.
I expect to find a message about how I should really be working, or some sort of innuendo from Declan. But the message is from Marissa.
Marissa: Be there in twenty. I’ve got pizza and wine, and I won’t leave ‘til you let me in.
I don’t bother texting back, even to tell her that her message makes no sense. I just sigh my frustration and then immediately feel the guilt gnaw at me.
Other than Vin, Khan and Marissa are all I have that are mine. Tony has made it a point to stay in my life since I became a young widow, but he’s only in my life out of obligation. My depression and neuroses drove away every other ‘friend’ that I had.
As it turns out, most surface level friendships can’t withstand murder allegations and an alleged suicide attempt, particularly because I still have no idea what really happened that night.
When I finally started to process everything, I’d been a constant thorn in Tony’s side. He had always had an answer for everything. He handled the finances for the family businesses and dealt with their enemies as well as their colleagues.
Anyone who had a vendetta against my husband would certainly be on Tony’s radar, and yet every time I called, he’d answer with a sigh, and I’d know that he had nothing to tell me. Every time I showed up on his doorstep at three a.m. because my thoughts wouldn’t let me sleep, he would just shake his head, and I’d know we were no closer to justice. I was beginning to think I’d alienated Tony too, the way I’d pushed away all my other friends. He started ignoring my calls, not answering the door. And then one day he pitched a theory.
