Page 32 of Pose for Me
Interesting.
It’s been close to three weeks since I’ve taken him, and over the past few days, he’s getting more hollow-eyed and listless.
His act has been discovered, so now he has nothing to keep him going but anger, and even that’s no longer enough.
He was good, I’ll admit that. How carefully he took out my sketch, how he ran his fingers over it reverently, how he barely glanced at the camera while doing it. Most people who weren’t as observant as me would assume he was admiring my work, but I knew he wasn’t. He wanted me tothinkhe was.
He tried not to glance at the camera, but when he did, he’d adjust his body so I could see his every movement.
If he were into me, he would do what I said and pose for a sketch. But he’s still hesitant. Just yesterday when I brought him food, I pulled up a chair and asked him if he was ready to be my model.
“Fuck you,” he growled while stuffing garlic bread into his mouth.
“Figured you’d reconsider by now, Agent,” I chided sarcastically, smiling at him. I wasn’t sure if he knew he’d given up the act in that one curse, but he’d solidified that he was faking it.
He shook his head. “I won’t ever change my mind. You’ll have to kill me to get a pose.”
Lane glowered at me, probably knowing that, even though I’m capable of it, I wasn’t ready to end his life yet. I still hadn’t gotten what I wanted, and I wouldn’t let death take that away from me. I would hold him here indefinitely if that’s what it took.
“You sure that’s what you want?” I asked and got pleasure from the fear clouding his features.
He kicked his chin up and repeats with as much conviction as he could muster, “You will have to kill me to get a pose.”
Even now, watching how he stares off into space, a drawn look in his eyes and his fingers in his mouth, I feel like he might be serious. He’s stubborn, I’ll give him that. But I think soon, I’ll tip him over the edge, and he’ll need me. When I break him, he’ll do everything I tell him to do.
My eyes are glued to the camera when he shakes himself out of his stupor, removes his fingers from his mouth, and reaches under his pillow. When his fingers grip the sketch I left for him, he immediately rips it up, throwing the pieces out of the cell.
“Oh, Agent,” I whisper, tracing a finger down the screen, “you’ll be mine soon. And I’ll sketch you to my heart’s content.”
As I say that, I realize that I haven’t thought about sketching anyone else. I haven’t felt the need to end another life. That’s not to say I’m cured or some shit, that my obsession shifted to Lane and I will never kill again, but it is fascinating that my sole focus is on him.
More than anything Lane has done, that fucking irritates me. One person can’t stop me from killing. Especially the person that won’t give me what the fuck I want.
I sit at the dining room table and glare at my phone screen, wanting to fucking break Lane, physically and mentally.
It crosses my mind to go out and get a victim, toss them in the cell, and lock them up together, but that’s not smart. Lane is an FBI agent. With another person, I wouldn’t put it past him to find a way to either hurt or kill me.
With a growl, I push back from the table and get Lane’s meal ready. I’ll use what he hates against him. It’ll be glorious to watch.
I’ve only been giving Lane paper plates but no silverware so he can’t use anything as a weapon.
He’s getting more than my other captives. I didn’t feed them at all, wanting them as vulnerable as possible before I killed them. But Lane? I don’t want him too weak. I want him to be in decent shape when he finally breaks.
When I finish making his plate, I grab a bottle of water and head downstairs. Lane is already standing when I step inside the room, as if he were waiting for me.
The difference in how he’s looking at me now is apparent. There is still anger in his eyes, but he also looks relieved that I came back.
It’s probably because after he told me he didn’t want to pose for me, I haven’t spoken to him. He’s shouted at me and tried to get my attention, but I haven’t given him any quarter. All his rejection has pissed me off.
I planned to ask him again if he would pose for me, but now, I think I’ll continue my silent treatment. We’ll see what that does to him after a week.
Without a word, I approach his cell and slide his food through the space at the bottom.
“Thank you,” Lane says in a subdued voice, shocking me. It takes effort not to make eye contact.
I glance quickly around the cell and see it’s filthy, food trays and baby wipes everywhere. If he keeps this up, I’ll have fucking mice, and I can’t have that.
Without a glance, I turn around and walk slowly to the door. “Wait!” Lane says, panic in his voice. “Don’t go. Please! I…don’t go! Ryell!”
