Page 54 of The Cute Psycho

If I'm honest with myself, that's exactly what had drawn me to him. The fact that he's both man and beast, human yet not entirely humane. There's something deep within him that could crush me in a second.

As I sneak glances at him, I'm once more struck by the way his muscles coil, as if he's trying to keep himself from snapping at any moment. Even when his playfulness is at its best, there's still a tension that radiates off of him.

It's also becoming clearer that I am courting danger by being with him. Yet, why can't I find it in me to care?

Maybe because I see in him what I've tried very hard to surpass in myself; violence that's asking to be let out, blood demanding to be spilled.

I'm at a point where I have to wonder if I am what I am because I've been conditioned, by being called evil my whole life. Or, I've simply always been this way, and some people have astutely noticed before my wickedness manifested.

I wonder... What would he say if he knew I'm a murderer?

Somehow, I thinkhewould not bat an eye.

"Have you ever killed someone?" I ask, my eyes on his profile. The more I look at his face, the more engrossed I find myself in his micro-expressions–the rehearsed and the spontaneous.

His lip pulls up in amusement, and he chuckles.

"Someone? Define someone."

"One person? Two?" If he's in the mob like my brother, then he may have committed crimes.

I almost laugh to myself as I realize that not too long ago I was worshiping God in his very house, and now I'm condoning all types of crimes.

"One?" He turns to me, his expression one of disbelief. "Sisi, you wound me." He feigns a hurt expression.

"Then how many?"

"Are you sure you want to know? You might run for the hills," he says, but I persist, thinking it can't possibly be that bad.

"Tell me."

"I can't say I've counted," he turns to me slightly, as if waiting to see my reaction, "but it must be somewhere in the thousands." He shrugs.

I stare. Open-mouthed. I just continue to stare at him, waiting for him to say it was a joke.

When he sees I'm not reacting, he pulls over.

Turning fully toward me, his lips are drawn in a tight line.

"Don't try to make excuses for me, or even make me into something I'm not, Sisi," he says, his fingers going under my chin and pushing it up, forcing me to stare into his eyes. "It's better if we go into this with some degree of transparency. I'm a cold-blooded killer. I don't need a reason to kill. I just do. So next time you see me in a rage, you run. Because I can't promise you won't be next."

"You're trying to scare me," I whisper, my upper lip quivering.

"Is it working?"

I shake my head. I don't know why. The rational side of meknowsI should be terrified. I should have been scared the moment he'd had me by the throat, my feet in the air, his eyes emotionless as he'd looked at me. He could have easily snapped my neck.

"It should." He comes closer, and I feel his breath as my own. My pulse quickens, my eyes dropping from his eyes to his lips. "I should scare you, Sisi. I should fucking terrify you," he rasps, but I'm not paying attention to his words. I can only see the way his lips move, his tongue sneaking out to wet the lower one, his teeth white and straight, the dream from the other night making me clench my thighs in discomfort, as I remember his painful bite on my skin.

"How... would you kill me?" I raise my gaze to his, swallowing hard as I see exactly what he wants me to—an emotionless killer.

"Why?" His voice is thick, his gaze unflinching.

"Tell me," I urge him, a sick desire forming inside of me.

Too much time spent in the cemetery must have addled my brain.

His hand comes up to my face, brushing the bangs from my forehead.

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