Page 18 of Psychotic Faith
"Let me go." But she doesn't move away from my touch.
"Never." The word comes out as a growl. "I won’t let you go until the last breath leaves your body. And probably not even then, because I don't share well, even with death."
She stares at me, something shifting in those hazel eyes. Not surrender, not quite. But recognition. Of what I am. Of what this is. Of what we're becoming together.
"You'll beg for it," I tell her, stepping back suddenly, completely removing my body from hers. She sways forward without my support, hand flying to the wall to keep herselfupright. "You'll beg me to touch you. To take you. To make you mine in every way that matters."
"Never."
"Tomorrow," I say, straightening my cuffs like we've been discussing the weather instead of drowning in sexual tension. "The Polaroid has instructions. Follow them, or I'll handle Neumann permanently. And little faith? When I handle things permanently, there won't be enough left for your twelve-year plan. There won't be enough left for God to recognize."
I turn to walk away, then pause, looking back over my shoulder. "Oh, and Faith? Next time you run from me, I won't be so gentle when I catch you."
I leave her there, shaking against the door, arousal and fury warring in those hazel eyes. My cock throbs with every step away from her, demanding I go back, demanding I claim her. But this isn't about taking her apart. It's about making her come to me. Making her choose the sinner over the saint.
The sound of her ragged breathing follows me down the hallway, each exhale a reminder of what I'm walking away from. What I'll come back for.
Tomorrow she'll find the instructions in that black Polaroid, the photo of that crooked little smile that quirks her lips right before her first sip of coffee every morning. Tomorrow she'll have to choose: her twelve-year plan or accepting my protection completely. But I already know what she'll pick. Her body already chose the moment she ground against my thigh.
A lifetime without proper sleep, and finally, something worth staying awake for.
My little faith. So brave in her fury. So beautiful in her denial.
9 - Faith
The twelve-block walk from the hotel should take fifteen minutes. It takes me forty, stopping every few steps to catch my breath, to press my thighs together against the ache he left. My keys slip from trembling fingers, clattering against the hallway floor. The sound echoes too loud in the empty corridor, announcing my unraveling to anyone listening. My dress clings to my body, damp with sweat despite the November cold seeping through the building’s old windows.
I finally manage the lock on the third try. The apartment greets me with its familiar shadows, but nothing feels the same. He's been here. In every corner, touching my things, learning me while I slept. The space that was mine alone now belongs to him too.
Rosetti. The name burns in my mind like a brand. My father's enemy. The family he calls Chicago's cancer. And the youngest one—Luca—the one even hardened cops whisper about with fear.
I lean against the closed door, legs suddenly weak, and a memory crashes over me. One I've buried so deep I'd almost convinced myself it never happened.
I was sixteen. Four years after Mom's murder, two years into my careful planning.
The memory is so vivid I slide down the door to sit on the floor, transported back to that night.
Simon Putney. One of Neumann's poker buddies, always at his charity events. I'd been watching him because he was part of Neumann's circle—just learning their patterns, I told myself.
But that night, walking past his brownstone after late volunteer hours at the library, I saw through his living room window. His wife on the floor, blood on her lip, begging. Him standing over her with his belt raised.
I didn't think. Didn't plan. Just acted.
His back door was unlocked—these wealthy men never think anyone would dare. I slipped inside while he was still in the living room, while his wife sobbed behind a locked bathroom door. Found him twenty minutes later in his study, drinking scotch like he hadn't just beaten his wife bloody.
The GHB was from my mother's old prescriptions—I'd researched it obsessively after reading about date rape drugs, thinking I needed to protect myself. Never imagined I'd use the knowledge like this. The dose had to be perfect: enough to paralyze, not enough to kill.
When his muscles locked, when he could see and hear but not move, I pulled a chair close. My hands were steady. My voice didn't shake.
"I took pictures," I lied, but he couldn't know that. "Your wife's bruises. The blood on the carpet. Time-stamped." I leaned closer, smelling his scotch and fear-sweat. "I know you work at Neumann Pharmaceuticals. I know you golf with him on Sundays. Imagine if he knew what you do to your wife. Imagine if everyone at the country club knew."
His eyes widened in terror. Good.
"But worse than that," I continued, my sixteen-year-old voice eerily calm, "I know where you live. I got in tonight. I can get in again. And next time…" I pulled out an empty syringe from my pocket, one I'd taken from the school nurse's trash. "Next time the dose will be different."
I stayed until the paralysis wore off three hours later. Watched him test each limb, saw him realize a teenage girl had made him completely helpless.
"Your wife is leaving you," I told him as he struggled to sit up. "You won't fight it. You'll give her everything she wants. Or I come back."
