Page 48 of Psychotic Faith
"Faith," Dad says suddenly, setting down his fork. "I need you to listen to me."
The seriousness in his tone makes me look up from my barely touched salmon.
"Whatever you're struggling with, and I can see you're struggling, I need you to remember who you are." His eyes bore into mine with all the weight of his position, his morality, his belief in justice. "You're better than the darkness in this city. You're one of the good ones."
The words should comfort. Instead, they feel like a joke. Because last night, I didn't want to be good. I wanted to be owned, devoured, destroyed and remade in his image.
"The darkness is tempting sometimes," he continues, not knowing how his words cut. "It seems easier, more immediate than doing things the right way. But once you let it in, Faith, once you compromise who you are… there's no going back."
He said he'd probably get bored,my mind whispers.Said he follows a pattern. Want, take, discard.The thought makes me angry, not at him, but at myself for already craving what I know will destroy me.
"What if…" I start, then stop. What if I'm not better? What if the darkness feels more like home than the light ever did? What if I don't want to go back?
"What if what?"
"Nothing." I force myself to take a bite of salmon. It tastes like ash compared to the memory of Luca's tongue. "You're right. I just need to remember who I am."
When dinner ends and Dad hugs me goodbye, telling me again to be careful, to stay away from dangerous people, I can barely meet his eyes. Because I know tonight, I'll strip naked and examine every bruise he left, pressing each one until the pain makes me moan. I'll touch myself thinking about him watching through his cameras. I'll hate myself for wanting him to come back, to finish ruining me.
And the darkest truth of all: part of me, the part I can't show my father, can't admit in daylight, isn't broken by sleeping with a killer.
She's disappointed it only happened once.
The November cold hits my face as I leave the restaurant, but it does nothing to cool the heat still pulsing through me. My apartment is only six blocks away, and I need the walk to clear my head, to prepare for another night of pressing bruises and hating myself for wanting more.
My key turns in the lock, and I step inside, already pulling off my cardigan, needing to see the marks again, to confirm they're real, that I didn't imagine…
I freeze.
The red dress from the theater is laid across my bed like a promise. Or a threat. The silk catches the light from my bedside lamp, making it look like fresh blood against my white sheets. My heart pounds as I approach, seeing the note placed precisely on top.
Three words in his harsh script: "Tomorrow. 8 PM."
My legs go weak. He's been here. While I was at dinner with my father, lying about who I am, Luca was in my apartment, in my bedroom, leaving me commands like he owns the space. Like he owns me.
I pick up the dress with shaking hands, the silk sliding through my fingers like water. It still smells like him, that dark, expensive scent that makes my pussy clench with memory. There's something else beneath the note. A hotel key card. The Ritz-Carlton logo gleams gold in the lamplight.
No room number. He knows I'll find him. Or he'll find me.
My phone buzzes.Wear nothing underneath.
The command makes me drop the dress, my whole body flushing with heat.
I should throw the dress away and definitely not show up tomorrow.
Instead, I'm already imagining it. The silk against my bare skin. Walking through the hotel lobby, knowing I'mnaked beneath the dress, knowing he's waiting. Knowing that tomorrow night, he'll finish what he started.
19 - Faith
Seven a.m., Monday morning. The only constant in my week that doesn’t involve blood or surveillance cameras.
I park the Audi three blocks from the community center, tucking it between a rusted van and a sedan missing its rear window. Nothing screams 'rob me' like Italian engineering in a neighborhood where most cars run on prayer. My hands shake slightly as I kill the engine, fingers trembling against the leather steering wheel.
The Glock presses against my ribs as I step out, a familiar weight that follows me everywhere. Two exits from this street, three potential escape routes, fourteen spots where a sniper could position. The paranoia is automatic, hardwired into my nervous system like breathing.
The November air cuts through my jacket as I walk toward the dingy brick building. Fresh paint covers last week's gang tags, but new ones already bleed through, territorial pissings of crews who think they own these streets. They don't. The real owners are poverty and violence, and they lease space to whoever pays in blood.
My phone screen stays dark. No messages from Faith since last night when I left the dress. Not that I expected any. Women don't usually text their stalker-turned-lover-turned-whatever-the-fuck-I-am-now. The exhaustion makes everything feel underwater, sounds distorted, shadows moving where shadows shouldn't be. When Faith happened, for a few precious hours,my body remembered what rest felt like. Now it's worse because my brain knows what it's missing.
