A man’s voice comes through the speaker, and Cara climbs off the bed. “If you’re not ready, Doll, I’m happy to do it.”
“Nope, let’s end this,” Suzy replies to the man, twisting back to the camera to face Cara. “Don’t forget…a happy woman is a woman fucked right. And if in doubt, ride that psychopath until he starts to taste colours. All the love, beautiful,” she calls cheerily with a regal hand wave like she’s mother-fucking-Martha-Stewart.
Laughing into her pillow, Cara comes up for air. “All the love!” she repeats Suzy’s affectionate closing words, beaming through the phone at her friend and the guy behind her, who I’ll assume for the sake of my untapped desire to maim and torture something, is Suzy’s husband. Her auburn-haired friend hops off her bed and throws an over-the-top kissy face Cara’s way before she cuts off the call.
I watched Cara tell Lenora she had no friends. My little hellcat can keep a secret it seems, even if she can’t seem to lie to me. Her body and her expressions are plenty vocal when Cara is locked in a situation she can’t get herself out of.
I plan to use that knowledge to my advantage.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EZRA
‘Yeah, wind yourself up more—it’s not like you’ve kept yourself flaccid and sworn off all women for the past six years. Do you know what that sort of pressure build-up does to a man—let alone a man who likes to fucking murder people for shits and giggles?’the gruff voice in my head remarks conversationally.
‘We’re not killing her already, are we?’another voice whines.
“No one is killing her,” I say decidedly, grunting the sentiment like a territorial rabid dog; if the dog could talk, of course—fictionally speaking. “I’m criminally insane—my brain works fine,” I state aloud; I don’t know who I’m trying to convince though.
‘I beg to differ,’the second voice in my head chuckles at my expense, and I push aside any further thought as to my mental acuity; no point pulling on that thread, nothing good could come from it.
‘Six years of celibacy—you’re practically a man of the cloth.’
‘With the unholy things running through his head—I’m calling bullshit.Those thoughts alone are enough to make thebig man himself blush. I don’t think fucking her throat raw while he holds her down by her hair is anywhere to be found in the scriptures.’
There’s something to be said for a personality disorder such as mine; I’ve built up the voices in my head over the years as a means of comfort, a friendly mist in the shadows that I can vent to.
Worrying—maybe.
Insane—certainly.
An issue I plan to address today—fuck no.
I stand and press my hand to the glass, fogging it up with a steadying exhale as I lean in. “She seems okay with deranged…this could be fun.”
The dinner bellthat rings out in the distance alerts me to the fact that I’ve been sat here like an obsessed stalker watching my girl through the two-way mirror for the past four hours. This small closet room is warm, and I’ve already downed one of the waters I brought with me for my little get to know Cara stakeout session. Even with the promise of a hot meal, I still have no desire to leave her. My stomach grumbles in protest, but fuck it—the hunger I have for her is far stronger.
Setting her phone up on the bedside table, Cara selects a song, ramping up the volume as “Kill of the Night”by Gin Wigmorefloods from the speaker. I watch with rapt fascination as she glides around, singing along to the music as she busies herself making the space her own. She adds the final touches to her room with framed photos, filling her drawers with her clothes, and moving to the window to hang a stained-glass dreamcatcher from the handle. With her back to me, the sideof her face in view bathed in sunlight, I witness as the carefree nature from moments ago—as she’d entertained her one woman show—fizzles away. She wipes away a stray tear that collects on her lash line as the window decoration glitters in the early evening sun.
It’s clear that the significance of it drags forward a painful memory. I consider beating my fists against the glass so she will turn towards me and away from the lingering sadness she’s holding onto so tightly. But I think better of it. Letting her know I’m here would likely scare her away, and the longer I spend watching her, the more convinced I am that I need to keep her with me, whether she’s aware of my presence or not.
She twists the chain and lets it go, the spiralling rainbow paint-strokes colouring her skin as she moves back across the room and dances out of her boots. The tension melts away the more she moves, and I’m in awe of every dip and curve of her beautiful body. Not being able to touch her, to explore every inch of her delicate alabaster skin—it’s fucking criminal. I grind my teeth, unable to hold back the grin splitting my face as she approaches the mirror and fiddles with the curls of hair that have fallen around her face.
Fuck. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
My initial reading of her as soft, naïve, and dare I say it—innocent, couldn’t be further from the truth. A hunger descends in her ocean blue eyes, that twist of a playful smirk promising a darkness I can relate to.
“What would you do, little Red, if your big bad wolf could see you like this?” Her voice is husky as she addresses her reflection, while tentatively trailing a finger down the centre of her torso, her breasts heaving under her dress.
The wheels of the chair I’m in whine as I move closer to the mirror, fingers twitching to grab her hips and pull her down ontome. Ready to show her exactly how bad this wolf wants to be buried to the hilt inside her. The lengths I would go to, to finally have a taste of her, they only solidify the criminally insane label I’ve been branded with. Moving the heavens seems like a small feat in the grand scheme of how it would feel to have her look at me this way without the barrier that gives me anonymity.
My gaze tracks the winding curve of her hips as she continues to sway along to the music.
“I bet he’d eat us up,” she pops the P with a salacious grin as she pulls her hair free of the band, unknotting the braid and running her fingers through it from root to tip to separate the curls. The way she says it, as though being my prey is the grandest idea to have ever entered into her head, has me yearning to set her loose in the forest. Ready to hunt her down and fuck her senseless under the stars when I finally catch her. As though she’s had a similar thought, I witness the fires of desire sparking to life in her hooded eyes as she trails her gloved fingers down the centre of her torso again, this time flicking open the buttons of her uniform fluidly as she unknowingly bares her skin to me. I silently curse the glass separating us.
“Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea what you’ve unleashed.” My fists tense and release as I revisit my idea of smashing through it to get to her. My gaze following the movement of her other hand as she places the tip of a finger between her teeth, removing the glove slowly. For someone who doesn’t know what a fan-fucking-tastic show they are currently putting on, she is knocking this performance out of the park.
My breath fogs up the glass as I wonder whether I could be careful with such a beauty; whether that darkness inside me once unleashed would devour her whole like it has so many others. It would be easy enough to do, to break her, to piece her back together one orgasm at a time until she’s so blissed out, she forgets who the fuck she is.
