She's been preparing for me without knowing it.
My phone buzzes again.
This time it's a series of messages from Paul, who's been monitoring David.
David has called her phone forty-seven times since yesterday.Left twenty-three voicemails ranging fromconcerned to angry.Currently drinking at his apartment. Seems unstable.Want us to handle it?
Not yet. He might be useful.
I pull up the audio files Paul has been collecting.
David's pathetic voice fills my office:
"Selene, please, I know you're getting these messages. Whatever you're going through, we can work through it together. I love you. I've always loved you. Even if you're with someone else now, I can forgive that. Just come home."
Then, later, drunker:
"This isn't you. This is your trauma talking. You'resick, Selene. You need help, not some random fuck who doesn't understand what you've been through."
If only he knew.
The random fuck understands exactly what she's been through because I caused it.
I crafted her trauma with bullets and blood when she was too young to understand what was happening to her psyche.
And now I'm reaping what I sowed—a perfect, broken toy who craves the darkness I put inside her.
Another message, this one from two a.m.
"I'm going to find you. I put a tracker app on your phone months ago, for your safety. I know you're in the warehouse district. I'm going to save you from whatever you've gotten yourself into."
Interesting.
The pathetic ex has more spine than I gave him credit for.
This could complicate things—or make them more entertaining.
A soft whimper from my bedroom draws my attention.
Through the monitor on my desk—yes, I have cameras in my own bedroom, because I trustno one—I watch Selene stir.
Not waking, just shifting in her sleep.
Her thighs press together, hips moving slightly.
A moan escapes her lips.
She's dreaming, and based on how wet her thighs are getting, she's dreaming of me.
Time to make those dreams a reality.
I return to the bedroom, moving silently despite my size.
She's on her stomach now, ass slightly raised, presenting herself even unconscious.
The bruises on her ass are purple-black, perfect imprints of my hands.
My marks. My property.
