Page 33 of Dead Love
“I don’t understand what you want with me,” I snapped. My body pulsed with frenzied energy, every muscle laced with heat.
“I enjoy ruining perfection.” His voice was calm, as if he were simply talking about the weather. “I want to make your pain into my art.”
My heart clenched. Those paintings. The ashes in his basement. I knew what that meant.
“You are evil,” I said, forcing the panic down. “You are selfish to your core.”
“Selfish?” he laughed.
“Sadistic.”
“That’s not where it stops, flower.”
The words made me shiver and cringe all over. I hated that he called me that—and yet it made me feel like I belonged too. I wanted to hurl the words into his mouth. It made me angry and frustrated that I liked it, like he somehow owned me. Like he could manipulate me. Like he knew I would like it.
He had broken so much of my life already, and yet I couldn’t control the ache between my legs.
“You burned my home,” I shouted, trying to get the strength inside of me to come to the surface, to stand up to him. “You almost killed my mother.” He smiled, and I scowled in response, then said, “Why don’t you just burn me too?”
A wicked smile crossed his face. He went to the computer, hitting a button. The second furnace rumbled on, and he opened the hatch, the fire blazing. The machine started beeping an erratic alarm, as if something was wrong. My heart raced.
I ran toward the door, but he grabbed my shoulders, his grip so tight I could feel the bruises forming. He threw me down on the conveyor belt in front of the open machine. He pulled my long hair against the metal, using it to pull me taut against the belt, stretched out before him. The heat from the furnace blanketed my face. My eyes burned. What had I done?
“Tell me,” he commanded. “Why shouldn’t I burn you?”
“Please, Vincent,” I begged. A tear slipped down my cheek. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“Tell me, is that what you want, Kora?”
I looked back and forth between his eyes. My breathing was heavy and rapt, and his body pressed into me, holding me down. Serenity settled over him. A surge of adrenaline shot through my limbs, awakening all of my senses. He wanted to hurt me.
And what would it feel like to end it all?
If I wasn’t here, I would be with my controlling mother, my practically non-existent father, living a lifeforthem. And here? There was no facade with Vincent. I was his prisoner. And I knew if he was crazy enough to put a tracking device inside of me, then I would never escape. What difference would it make if he burned me too? What would it actually change?
Sometimes, it seemed like the only way I could move on. Even when I was with my parents. Like it would always be the same.
And I couldn’t bury those emotions right then.
“Tell me what you want, flower,” he said. He dragged a hand up my thigh, tickling my skin through the thin fabric. My body trembled. He grabbed my cheeks, forcing me to look at him.
“Burn me,” I whispered.
He studied me, his eyes roaming my face. Then he turned on the conveyor belt, and it rolled toward the machine, the heat rolling toward my head. I closed my eyes, tears slipping down the sides of my face. The heat blasted hotter. I squeezed my eyelids together, rocking back and forth, pushing it all down, waiting for the inevitable. My heart pounded and my hair sizzled, the burning fragrance filling the room. The machine whirred, the fire crackled, and I turned my face to the side, looking straight into Vincent’s dark eyes, reflecting the crematory’s golden fire.
Suddenly, he shoved me off of the belt, knocking my head to the ground. My whole body was feverish, my hair still warm, the tips charred and brittle. I lifted myself onto my hands, then Vincent pinned me to the ground, staring intently into my eyes. There was a vacancy inside of him as if he was trying to see what was really there.
He had been wrong about me; he was realizing that.
He switched off the furnace.
CHAPTER12
Vincent
After I threatenedKora in the crematory, I brought her back to the basement in silence. She had enough food and water to last awhile, and with the tension to kill each other higher than ever, we needed space.
She was supposed to be an object to watch die. My inspiration. My spark. My art. And yet, the flash of rage and hope and fear in her eyes had set me on fire. She could no longer escape down into that place where she felt nothing. She had to face this.
