Page 33 of Psychotic Faith
My laugh is bitter. "That's not safe."
"You haven't been safe since I saw you, little faith. Stop pretending otherwise."
The truth of it makes my chest tight. I've never been safe from him. Not since that first blurry image of me, maybe not since before that. Maybe I've been walking toward this moment my whole life, toward the nightmare who would destroy everything I built.
"One hour," I text back, already knowing I'm making a mistake.
"Thirty minutes. Unlock your door."
"Luca—"
"Every minute you make me wait is another man who looked at you wrong today who won't see tomorrow."
The threat shouldn't make me hot. But I'm already walking to my door, turning the lock. Already surrendering to whatever comes next.
I turn off the lights one by one, letting darkness fill my apartment. If I'm going to fall, let it be in shadow where I can pretend it's still a dream.
Because he's right. I haven't been safe since he saw me. But maybe safe was never what I wanted. Maybe I've been waiting my whole life for someone dangerous enough to match the darkness I carry.
Twenty-eight minutes now. My body already preparing, already aching.
Let him come. Let him destroy what's left of my control. At least then I can stop pretending to be good.
At least then I can be what I really am: his.
The doorknob turns.
14 - Luca
My hand turns her doorknob at exactly thirty minutes. Not twenty-nine, not thirty-one. Control is what separates me from the men I’ve killed for her. The door opens to reveal Faith still in the clothes she fled in earlier, her pupils dilating wide at my presence despite the bright hallway lighting.
She's been waiting. I can tell from the way she stands perfectly still, like she's been frozen by the door since texting me, afraid to move deeper into her apartment knowing I'm coming. Her breathing is shallow, controlled. She's been practicing what to say.
"You didn't use the window." Her voice wavers between accusation and relief.
"Tonight I'm a guest, not a ghost." I step inside, noting how she moves back exactly three feet. Close enough to seem welcoming, far enough to maintain the illusion of safety. There is no safety from me, but I let her have the comfort of distance. For now.
This is different. Being here with her knowledge, with her permission. The apartment smells the same: jasmine, vanilla, that underlying scent that's purely Faith. But the air carries a new charge. Fear mixed with anticipation. Anger laced with arousal. Her body's chemical signature practically screams contradictions.
I take in everything with the same precision I use when planning a kill. The evidence board she hasn't bothered to hide anymore. The empty wine glass on the coffee table, lipsticksmudge at the rim telling me she needed courage before texting me. The way her hands shake as she closes the door behind me, turning the lock like it matters, like I couldn't break it with one strike if needed.
"You're on time," she says, wrapping her arms around herself. Defensive posture, but her nipples are hard beneath the cardigan. Body betraying what her mind won't admit.
"You were expecting me to make you wait?" I move deeper into her space, noting how she tracks my movement. "That's for punishment, little faith. Tonight is negotiation."
Her laugh is bitter, sharp. "Negotiation. Is that what we're calling it?"
"You're ruining my plans," she says, chin lifting in defiance that makes my cock twitch. Even terrified, even furious, she faces me directly. No cowering. No begging. Just that steel spine I've been watching for weeks.
"You're ruining my control," I counter, letting her hear the truth of it. Twenty-eight years of perfect discipline, and this librarian with her soft cardigans and hidden violence has me acting like an amateur. Following her to premieres. Texting her like some lovesick fool. Letting Neumann live when every instinct screams to end him.
The admission hangs between us, heavy as blood in water. She's trembling now, but not from cold. This apartment runs warm. I know because I've checked the thermostat during my visits. This is pure response to me, to what we're becoming together.
"Tell me about Neumann. Everything."
She turns away, moving to the window where she's left me so many folded paper messages. "You already know."
"I know facts." I follow her, maintaining exactly eighteen inches between us. Close enough for her to feel my presence, farenough that she can't claim I'm crowding her. "His name. His company. That he killed your mother. I want YOUR truth."
