Page 58 of Sadistic

"You thought buying her an Arabian was a reasonable response?"

"I thought it would show I was paying attention. That I could provide." I meet her eyes, letting her see the truth of it. "Instead, it showed I was the weird kid with too much money and no concept of normal human interaction."

"What happened to her? The girl?"

"Rebecca Marsh. Transferred schools within a week. Probably still tells the story at parties." I signal for another round, needing the liquid courage. "My father was going toreturn the horse, but we ended up keeping it at the family stables. The Mackenzie side, we’re very into horses."

"Were you?"

"Maybe a little." The admission surprises us both. "I've never been good at the space between wanting and having. It's not how I was raised."

"But you're not normal people."

"No. And neither are you." I lean forward, drawn by some invisible force. "Which is why this might actually work out between us."

She's quiet for a moment, studying me like she's seeing me for the first time.

Maybe she is.

The Doran who buys horses and doesn't know how to talk to girls is different from the one who kills without question.

"You knew about Njal," she says suddenly. The name is a blade between ribs, but I don't flinch. "Watched me be with someone else for two years."

"Yes."

"How did that feel?"

The question deserves honesty. "Like watching someone else live the life I wanted."

The words come out raw, unfiltered. "Every time he touched you, every night you spent in his apartment, every morning he got to wake up beside you—it was torture."

"Then why didn't you stop it? You stopped thirteen others."

"Because you chose him to burn the time away with." I finish my drink, needing the burn. "The others were possibilities. He was your choice. There's a difference."

"Is there? Or did you just like watching?" There's an edge to her voice now, but also genuine curiosity.

"I hated every second of it," I admit. "But I watched because I couldn't look away. Because even seeing you happy with someone else was better than not seeing you at all."

"That's..." She pauses, searching for words. "Either romantic or deeply disturbing."

"Both," I agree. "Most things about me are."

"You're not what I expected," she says softly, and there's something in her voice that makes my chest tight.

"Neither are you."

We've moved closer without realizing it.

She's playing with the wolf charm on her keys, an unconscious gesture that draws my attention to her hands.

I know those hands—have watched them take notes in class, gesture when she talks, grip a coffee cup like a lifeline during finals.

But I don't know how they feel on my skin.

"What happens after?" she asks, breaking into my thoughts. "After the wedding, after I finish law school, after the duty is done?"

"What do you want to happen?"

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