Page 67 of Twisted Obsession

“Ansel, you said we were building trust. It goes both ways. I’d like for you to trust me as much as I’m putting my trust in you.”

He sat, assessing me as I prepared to ask the questions that had been burning a hole in my brain. “Where do you go when you come back with blood on your hands? Where do you go when you have the black leather gloves?”

“I kill,” he confirmed before my eyes fell closed.

* * *

Ansel had droppeda bomb on me, and neither a hint of remorse nor a touch of sorrow was in his tone as his intense gaze remained on mine. The shock of his confirmation left me frozen as my mind sought some type of logical reasoning.

The level of fright that filled me sent my heart plummeting to the bottom of my stomach. The only sound outside my mind telling me to get up and run was the ticking of the clock on the end table and the light trickle of the wind against the windows.

“Why do you kill?” I asked, the question finding its way out of the thick cloud of terror I was trapped in. “Is it people you kill for your MC like August does? Is it people that threaten your life?”

“No,” he answered, only offering that one word.

“Why do you kill, Ansel?”

My attempt to calm my voice failed as fear overflowed and spilled into the tone of my shaky words. I needed to know the answer, but at the same time, I was afraid to know.

Ansel had a complicated side that I didn’t understand. The idea of him killing people because he was a sociopath that did it for fun had my leg jumping as it tapped a low beat against the couch.

“I’m a serial killer, Regina. I don’t do it because I have a sick, psycho fetish. I do it because I believe I need to.”

My heart hit the floor and bounced around before it melted into a bloody puddle. My brain screamed for me to get up and run, but with a hole in my chest, I was left sitting there too stunned to move. My mouth dropped open, and my body shook as oxygen turned into unbreathable solids around me.

I couldn’t call forth a single word at Ansel’s confession. This was why he had no problem protecting me. It would guarantee him more kills.

“I bet you’re going to leave me now, huh? Now that you know what kind of monster I am?”

No words came. They’d all melted into my fear as I sat blinking. Hard swallows and deep breaths came and went as I fought to compose myself and remain seated next to someone that had admitted to being a serial killer.

My fingers dug into the tops of my thighs to keep the trembling at bay. My words were forced out past my fear long enough to utter words.

“Why do you believe you have to go out and kill people?” I inquired. Fear engulfed me, shredding my body into strips of meaty flesh. My voice shook, making my words choppy. However, the realist in me kept me sitting and in place.

Being around my family and doing unspeakable acts in the name of Dominquez had hardened me enough to face my fears head-on. It had turned me into the kind of person who was willing to go deeper than the surface, and it was abundantly clear that Ansel had a depth and darkness that had never been breached.

My question surprised him as much as it surprised me. Noticing the hint of confusion on his face nipped at the clouds of fear that had surrounded me.

“Why do you believe you have to go out and kill people?” I repeated. “Did they do something to you? Is it for revenge? Do you do it for satisfaction?”

“Anxiety,” he answered.

His voice was low but held firm to its unapologetic edge.

“Murder is how you deal with your anxiety?” I questioned, my fear seeping away more with each new revelation he revealed. He called it anxiety, but there was something much more complex than anxiety happening with Ansel. For now, he could label it as he saw fit.

“Pills don’t work. Talking to head doctors doesn’t work. I’ve exhausted the traditional ways and nothing but death works.”

I’d somehow found a way to steady my breathing as air escaped in a low hiss from my mouth.

“Ansel, please help me understand what you’re saying. What you’re doing?”

“Why haven’t you called Aaron yet to come and pick you up, Regina?” he asked. There was a pleading in his eyes I’d never seen before. I believe he was afraid of me leaving him, but he’d risked it by telling me about his actions. I pondered my answer to his question, taking my time to think it over.

“I’ve been around you for over a month in total. Other than the first day, I’ve never gotten the vibe that you have a desire to kill me or hurt me. I’m scared, Ansel. Terrified. But, I would also like to understand you. I haven’t called August yet because I’ve seen what he can do, and I don’t believe he’s that much different from you.”

He gazed at me, likely wondering if I was crazy. In a way, I was. I was sitting next to a man with blood on his hand from a fresh kill, one who had admitted that killing was a way for him to deal with what he called anxiety.

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