She's Judge Deveraux's daughter, and I'm getting attached.
If she ever finds out the truth—no, when she finds out, because secrets like this always surface—she'll try to kill me.
Or worse, she'll look at me with those dark eyes full of betrayal and hatred instead of the worship I've grown accustomed to.
I should send her away.
Give her back her clothes, remove the collar, and tell her to forget this ever happened.
It's the smart move. The safe move.
But I'm not going to do the safe thing. I never have.
Because when I went to check on her at four a.m., she was curled up in the guest bed, still wearing the collar, tear tracks on her face, my name on her lips even in sleep. "Please, Cassius. Don't send me away."
Even unconscious, she begs for me.
And that's the fucking problem.
She's under my skin now, as much as I’m under hers.
In my head.
I closed my eyes last night and saw her on her knees, looking up at me with those dark eyes full of need. Saw her coming apart under my hands.
Saw her standing up to me, defending that pathetic ex.
I've had hundreds of women.
Broken them, used them, discarded them without a second thought.
But none of them looked at me the way she does.
Like I'm salvation and damnation combined.
Like I'm the answer to prayers she didn't know she was praying.
The food arrives, packed neatly in bags.
I pay cash, leave a tip that ensures continued silence, and walk back to Purgatory.
The morning air is crisp, autumn settling over the city like a blanket.
Normal people are heading to normal jobs, living normal lives.
I've never been normal.
Neither has she, not since I made sure of that eight years ago.
Eight years.
She's been broken for eight years because of me.
And now she's mine in ways she doesn't even understand.
The poetry of it should satisfy me.
The judge's daughter on her knees for his killer.
