Page 19 of The Ecstasy of Sin
Something inside me shifts—insidious and seismic. Like the madness is reorienting and changing its shape.
I struggle to reclaim control of myself, but when I do, I gaze down at her to find her looking through me like she’s drowning in her own sea of sickness.
What’s your story, little lamb?
“Oops, sorry. I’m homeless.” She must see the conflict in my eyes, because her voice is sincerely apologetic, the angelic tone stroking my senses.
She probably assumes I’m offended by her touch now that I know she’s homeless, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
Her quiet giggle has me lifting a brow in curiosity. She is completely unaware of the monstrous urges I’m currently battling in silence. The twisted desires I’m entertaining—because I’m fucked up and my depravity knows no limits.
In any other situation, I’d act on my impulses like a ruthless addict, one that operates with methodical precision. Getting caught puts an end to my fun, so I’m strategic with my violence.
But this… this is different.
My instincts are colliding with something I don’t fucking recognize.
Normally, I’d devour this opportunity: feed the monster caged within me, a feast of innocence to soothe the madness. A temporary balm to my insanity.
Instead of snapping like a string pulled too tight, the shift has me star-struck.
She’s melting into my embrace like I’m not a villain capable of destroying her life. Like I’m safety, and not the biggest threat she’ll ever face.
She’s so fucking fragile, and suffering so deeply, but her beauty and softness sing to me like a melody of redemption in the burning pits of Hell.
Her knees buckle again and her body tries to give out on her, but my arms are already around her. Her hands roam to my chest, testing the strength she finds there, and I tense under her curious touch.
Run, before I do something I might regret, little lamb.
A small part of me still wants to wrap my hands around her throat and watch the life drain from her magnetic eyes, to end her misery and release her from whatever this is that has a hold on her.
Luckily for her, that is not the part of me that wins.
“Sorry, sir, I'm looking for a d-doctor,” she explains while stuttering and slurring her words.
I narrow my gaze, trying to figure her out. She doesn’t appear physically injured, but the pain is there, stitched into the tension all over her delicate face.
Her eyes are haunted by ghosts I find myself wanting to understand, and stranger yet, needing to control.
“Are you hurt?” I ask, leaning back just far enough to look her over. She’s pale and sickly looking. There’s a thick, angry vein pulsing at her temple, throbbing like it’s about to burst.
“Yes,” she breathes, just before her face twists into a grimace so sharp it looks like someone’s carving her open with a blade laced in acid.
I watch her eyes closely, because they tell a story her mouth won’t give up to me. I study every change in her expression as whatever is happening to her delivers surge after surge of pain. Then her face relaxes slightly, and the delirium that usually accompanies extreme pain fills her from head to toe.
I recognize that pain induced delirium because I’ve coerced that beautiful hysteria out of my victims before.
“You look like the hero from my current mafia romance read,” she says out of nowhere, laughing gently like she just shared the world’s most charming secret. Before I can respond, she buckles again, collapsing against me.
“What’s happening?”
She tries to respond, but whatever she says comes out as gibberish. It reminds me of a viral video Ryker sent me a few years back of a news anchor having what everyone thought was a stroke on live TV.
She tries again, slowing down and trying her best to enunciate her words. It seems her brain doesn’t want to co-operate, but I manage to snag a few things from the verbal mess.
Migraine. Pain. Meds
That’s all she manages to say before her eyes flutter and roll back, her body going limp in my arms. Her body jerks, like she’s fighting it, and I can’t help but frown down at her.
