Page 39 of Psychotic Faith
"Real," Luca says simply, his hand possessive on my hip.
"No," I whisper, not ready to accept that. "This was just… I needed… I don't know what I needed. But I'm not what you think I am."
I trace the scratches I've left on his chest, shocked at my own violence even in passion.
For the first time, I wonder if my dreams about violence could become real.
“You’re exactly what I think you are,” he tells me.
His smile is that wrong smile that terrifies me even as my body responds to it.
"And you’re going to help me paint the walls with Neumann."
The thought sickens me even as something dark in me whispers 'yes.' I push both reactions down, unable to process either.
"No.I'm not… I'm not like you."
"Of course not," he says, but his tone suggests he knows better.
When I stand to shower, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. His marks on my hips, my breasts. My hair is destroyed, my lips swollen, my eyes bright with something that looks like confusion and fear more than freedom. But satisfaction floods me seeing the deep scratches across his back, the bite mark I left on his shoulder when he made me come the third time. The crescent moon cuts from my nails on his chest. He marked me, but I marked him right back.
Behind me in the mirror, Luca appears, pressing against my back, his hands possessive on my hips. We look wrong together. Dark and light, goodness and evil. Except I'm not sure which is which anymore.
16 - Luca
Six hours since I first took her. Six hours of alternating between fucking and planning murder. Now it’s three a.m. and Faith sleeps against my chest, her weight already familiar after only hours of having her here. My cock is still half-hard from our last round, her pussy having gripped me so tight when she came that I saw stars. The evidence of our coupling has dried on her thighs, marking her as mine in the most primal way.
I surprised myself by actually sleeping for a few hours. Four hours straight, which is some kind of personal record. My finger traces patterns on her bare skin, deliberate maps rather than random touches. Here, along her spine, is where I'll make the first cut on Neumann. Shallow, just enough to make him understand what's coming. My finger moves to her shoulder blade: deeper here, where the nerve clusters will sing. The thought of his screams makes my cock twitch against her hip.
She shifts in her sleep, pressing closer, and I note this new data point. Her breath catches on every seventh exhale, a pattern I've been counting since she fell asleep. Seven breaths normal, then that tiny hitch, like her body remembers violence even in dreams. Her nipples are still swollen from my mouth, marked with faint teeth impressions that make me want to add more.
My back stings from her nails, long furrows she carved into my skin when she came. The bite mark on my shoulder throbs. Good. I want scars from her. Want evidence that she fights back even while surrendering.
My Glock sits on her nightstand next to her reading glasses. Violence and innocence side by side. The burner phone beside it buzzes again. Marco. Fourth call I've ignored. The family needs their enforcer for the Detroit situation. But their enforcer died somewhere between Faith's first orgasm and her teeth sinking into my neck hard enough to draw blood.
My free hand holds my phone, scrolling through surgical diagrams while my other continues mapping Neumann's future agony on her skin. Each line I trace is another cut I'll make, another scream I'll extract. The juxtaposition doesn't feel wrong. Planning systematic torture while my fingers brush against the bruises I sucked into her hip bones. Tenderness and brutality have always been the same language in my mind. Love letters written in screams.
She clutches at me in her sleep, fingers digging into my ribs like she's afraid I'll vanish. Through my cameras, I've watched her sleep alone for weeks. She never reaches for anything, never seeks contact with empty air. But now, with me here, she anchors herself against my body like I'm the only solid thing in her world. Her leg hooks over mine, and I can feel the heat of her pussy against my thigh, still wet, still ready.
The realization hits suddenly: I want her more now than before I had her.
This is wrong. Not morally. I don't traffic in morality. But scientifically, psychologically wrong. Possession should diminish interest. The unknown becomes known. The hunt ends. The mystery dissolves into disappointing reality.
I've had twenty-three obsessions since the Rosetti-Moretti massacre. Each one studied, pursued, possessed, discarded. The pattern never varies. Want builds to having. Having leads to boredom. Boredom triggers disposal. Clean. Efficient. Predictable.
But looking at Faith now, tasting her cunt on my tongue still, feeling where she marked my chest with her nails, I need her again. Need to spread her legs and bury my face between them until she screams. Need to fuck her until neither of us can walk. The equation is backward, broken, impossible.
My cock hardens fully at the memory of how she looked riding me earlier, head thrown back, perfect tits bouncing as she used my body for her pleasure. The way her pussy clenched when I wrapped my hand around her throat, just tight enough to make her head fall back in desire.
My mind rifles through past obsessions like filing cards, trying to find the error in this pattern. But none of them compare to this. To her. I know exactly how tight her pussy is now, how she tastes, how she begs when she's close. I should be satisfied. Should be planning my exit. Instead, I'm calculating how many different ways I can make her come before dawn, how many times I can fill her with my cum until it's dripping down her thighs.
Something cracks in my chest. Recognition. The last time I felt anything close to this intensity was before. Before the massacre. Before I watched my father die and learned that feeling things only leads to agony.
Not yet an adult when everything inside me shut down. The same night I killed Mikhail during the chaos, watched the life leave his eyes as payment for what they'd done to us. A decade of numbness since then, ten years of performing emotions without feeling them.
Faith hasn't just broken my pattern. She's cracked open something I sealed shut that night.
My hand shakes as I trace another line on her skin, plotting Neumann's destruction while my cock throbs against her hip. The tremor disturbs me more than any violence ever has. Thisfeeling, raw, unfiltered, impossible to classify, it's what I felt before trauma rewired my brain.
