Instead, I play the game she innocently isn’t aware of participating in and anticipate her every turn.
She moves. I move.
Gabriella is unaware of the demon whose strike outweighs her gentle moral compass. A lesson she’ll learn soon enough as I’ll always devour my prey whole. No empathy. No soul.
But then again, it’s been this way since the first time our paths crossed.
Her shallow breaths are coquettish.
Her walk is sensuous without trying.
My pretty girl is the definition of effortless and I’m only but so strong to resist such a gift. Even with eyes full of unshed tears and a pale complexion a few days ago—the result of shock from her nightmare and the stress brought on by those around her—the little artist is exquisite and much too trusting. She’s innocent in her search for acceptance, and I’ll teach her just how useless that way of thinking is.
My girl is above all others, never an equal.
She’s a queen. My queen.
Soft music plays from her dimly lit bedroom window tonight, and I smile. Are you giving into sleep, little one? I know her habits—routine—and this one always leads to her passing out. This is how she decompresses after a stressful day and right now, she’s up on her bed drawing in a private sketchbook comparable to a diary while our guest on the ground whimpers at my feet.
He’s scared. A shaking, pathetic excuse for a male, and my lip curls in disgust.
How did he ever think he’d be good enough? How can a man who pisses himself at the sight of me end up any other way but as he is now:
Tied up and gagged. Scared and shaking.
“This is the only chance you get to explain, Mr. Roy.” There’s an indiscernible noise that escapes him, his throat bobbing harshly. “What’s that, Tim? I can’t hear you.”
“Please.” It’s the only word I can make out, and it serves to make the blood within my veins throb in anger. The ire that’s been slowly building since he accosted Gabriella rises and my eyes narrow, lip curling over my teeth as a growl rumbles up my chest. “I learned my—”
He’s cut off by the rubber sole of my boot driving into his mouth, breaking a few teeth. At once, his head snaps back and his body arches—nearly toppling over—but the bound position he’s in keeps him on his haunches. Tim’s eyes are wide, tears falling down his dirty cheeks while he chokes, and I pat his head as one would an ornery child.
And I wait patiently as a father does for his breathing to calm. I give him a dignified moment to collect himself before squatting down to his eye level. “We are going to try this again. Understood?” At his nod, I give a small tug and the cloth covering his bleeding mouth falls, exposing the damage. The four teeth in the front are broken and a large, deep slit is on his bottom lip, causing his chin and neck to be bathed in red. “Talk.”
His lips tremble, face becoming paler the closer I get. “I didn’t know she had a boyfriend.”
“Continue.” A pretty little voice comes from Gabriella’s room, and I catch a small peek of her walking in front of the window toward her closet. It’s why I chose this position near the tree line in her backyard. It gives me just enough of a vantage point to see a glimpse of her here and there if she crosses from one side to the other. And right now, she’s heading toward the same closet where I left a second gift for her to find in due time, but for now, I hold a single finger over my lips while standing to my full height.
Those disgusting cries of his die down as both our heads turn and watch the shadows dance across the wall, and then we get a glorious peek of her padding back toward the bed. It’s brief, but that singular second is an act of mercy from me to Mr. Roy. A gift, because his end is near.
The lights go out but the music stays on, the volume rising just a little more. She’s listening to a classical composition, the melody slightly haunting as the piano becomes the focal point as it reaches its crescendo.
“She wouldn’t approve of this,” Tim whimpers so low I almost miss it, but don’t.
“Is that so?” He doesn’t take heed of my hiss or the way my teeth clench as he nods. He doesn’t take in the special pair of gloves I’ve slipped on with metal tips at the end of my pointer and middle fingers sharp enough to filet flesh. “Please do share how well you know her. How intimate you are with her day to day.”
“I’m—”
He’s cut off by my hand shooting out, grabbing a fistful of hair and tearing a chunk clear off. I’m forcing his head back, the angle painful, and I don’t speak until our eyes meet. “Don’t lie.”
“I’m not.” Another low cry, the sound of a wounded animal meeting its end.
“Final chance.” My nails dig in, cutting into his scalp. Blood rushes to the surface, matting his hair and dripping down his neck, and my nostrils flare at the sight. So easily overpowered. “How well do you know Gabriella Moore?”
“I’ve been a fan for a while.” His voice is no higher than a whisper, the truth finally passed through his injured mouth. “Follow all her social media.”
“Keep going.” I let him go and Tim falls forward, spitting on the ground, and the remnants of his teeth land on the grass with quite a bit of bloody spittle. He’s coughing between disappointing sobs, trying to clear his airways, and my nose wrinkles in disgust when all he manages to do is vomit from the action.
