Page 77 of Psychotic Faith
He positions himself behind me, his cock nudging at my entrance. I'm so wet again, my body programmed for his darkness. I wonder how long it will take to unlearn this, or if I even want to. The question dissolves when I feel him slip inside. The slow, remorseless stretch fills me with a pain that's almost relief—a pain that belongs to me, one I can choose, one that carves out space for something new inside me.
"Show me you understand. Show me you know what you've chosen."
I push back against him, taking him deeper, my body answering what my voice can't. The answer is yes, yes, yes, in every language I never learned to speak. I want this. I need the punishment and the reward, the way it all blurs together in the dark.
"Good girl. My perfect, terrible girl."
He fucks me slowly, keeping me on the edge of consciousness. Each time my eyes drift closed, he changes angles, makes me gasp back to awareness. He wants me to remember every second, not to slip away or escape the consequences. He wants me right here with him, pinned to the moment, helpless and awake and complicit.
He leans over, lips at my ear. "Hours from now," he says conversationally, like he's telling me a bedtime story, "you'll tell your father you're safe while my cum drips down your thighs. You'll promise to see him soon while your throat still aches from what you've done."
The shiver that runs through me is more than arousal—it's dread, it's triumph, it's the realization that I'll never be innocent again. He keeps fucking me in long, slow strokes, grinding in deep, grinding against every bruise and reminder of violence. His hands roam my body, mapping out the territory of his victories: my waist, my shoulder, my battered throat. He grabs my jaw, turns my face so he can see the tears leaking from my eyes, so he can watch as the pleasure and shame and pride all battle for control.
"And when he asks about Neumann's disappearance, you'll act shocked. Concerned. The perfect innocent daughter who knows nothing about the basement where he bled out."
I try to protest, to say I’m not that good at lying, but the words never make it past my lips. Only a whimper, a shudder. He’s right—by the time my father calls, I’ll be ready, the mask will be perfect, the performance flawless. The agony and the ecstasy of that truth is almost too much, and the orgasm hits unexpectedly, wave after wave, tearing through me until I’m sobbing into the pillow, eyes pressed shut.
He fucks me through it, relentless, and then flips me onto my back. I’m still shaking, muscles twitching, my vision blurred and salt-stained. But he holds my face in both hands, almost tender, and says, "Look at me. I want to see your face when you realize there's no going back."
His pale blue eyes are almost silver in the pre-dawn darkness, beautiful and terrible and so full of want that it makes my heart clench. I mouth the words since I can't speak them: "Never was."
He smiles, soft and cold. Then he thrusts deep, once, twice, three times, and he comes inside me, hot and heavy. He collapses forward, weight pressing me into the mattress, breath fanning across my cheek.
"Sleep now," he says, finally allowing exhaustion to claim me. "You have hours before facing the world."
But he doesn't let go right away. Instead, he stays inside me, holding me still, as if to keep the violence and the memory locked in place. His hand strokes my hair, then my cheek, fingers gentle.
When he finally withdraws, it’s slow, careful, and I feel every inch of loss. My body is a ruin, bruised and stretched, the inside of my thighs sticky with his cum. I let my legs fall open, too tired to care about the mess, and stare at the ceiling. The city is waking up outside. Horns begin to honk, garbage trucks rattle down the street, and in the blue-gray light everything feels more impossible, more real.
He leaves the room for a moment, returns with a warm, damp towel. He kneels between my legs, cleans me carefully.
I watch him as he finishes, as he tosses the towel aside and crawls in next to me. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close, his body curling around mine like armor. The violence is gone. All that’s left is the aftermath.
I feel his breath slow, his heart steady against my back. I know he's not sleeping—he’s never fully at rest. He’s waiting, always, for the next threat, the next moment when he’ll have to move, to protect, to kill.
But for now, we’re suspended in this liminal space, neither innocent nor damned, just two people tangled up in each other’s ruin.
29 - Luca
Twenty-four hours since Faith chose the basement over her father’s salvation. Her breathing against my chest follows a pattern: seven normal breaths, then that tiny hitch that means she’s dreaming of blood. My blood or Neumann’s, I can’t tell. Don’t care. Both are hers now.
The bruises on her throat have darkened to purple-black, perfect impressions of Neumann's fingers that make my jaw clench every time I see them. But she's alive. Breathing. Here. My little Faith, who walked into my basement seeking justice and walked out accepting a killer, seeking sleep in my arms.
My phone buzzes. Security alert. The screen shows Judge Theodore Winters at the front gate, folder thick with what looks like surveillance photos visible even through the cameras. His shoulders are rigid with righteous fury, the stance of a man about to wage war for his daughter's soul.
My body recognizes the threat before my mind processes it, muscles coiling, hand reaching for the Glock that's always within reach. Faith stirs against me, immediately alert despite the bruises still purple on her throat. Her hand finds mine on the weapon, not to stop me but to share readiness.
"He's here." Not a question. We knew this was coming.
I watch her face, waiting for regret about Neumann, dealt with permanently, his fate sealed in my basement, but see only concern about her father. Any other girl would be panicking. Would be scrambling for excuses. But Faith just breathes against my chest, calculating.
"You could leave through the back," I offer, though every cell in my body screams against letting her go. "I'll handle him."
She sits up, decision already made. The sheet falls away, revealing the canvas of her perfect, flawed skin.
"No more running." She slides from bed, moving to the closet where I've hung clothes for her. Not the librarian cardigans she arrived in, but sophisticated black that marks her as Rosetti property.
I watch her dress with the same attention I use when selecting tools for interrogation. She chooses the silk blouse that shows the bruises on her throat rather than hides them. The fitted skirt that makes clear she's a woman, not the child her father wants to save. Every choice deliberate. My perfect, terrible girl preparing for war.
