Page 50 of Psychotic Faith
Before she snapped, shot Maria's father, then herself.
"I'm handling it."
Maria studies me. "You look empty again."
My body goes rigid. She's observant, this one.
Empty. Yes. Want, take, discard. Except I can't complete the pattern. She won't let me discard her, and I can't stop wanting.
Movement in the doorway. My body recognizes Faith before my eyes do. Elevated cortisol and oxytocin, stress and bonding, my confused chemical response to her proximity. She's standing there, watching me demonstrate a chokehold release to Jerome.
How long has she been watching? Long enough to see me with Keisha? Even exhausted, even here with children nearby, I want to fuck her against the wall, remind her what these hands do when they're not teaching escape holds.
"Good," I tell Jerome, though my attention is entirely on Faith. "Practice with Maria."
I walk toward her, expecting disgust. Instead, her expression shows recognition. Understanding. She sees through this performance too.
"Hallway," I say quietly, and she nods. The kids don't look up. They're used to adults excluding them.
The hallway fluorescents flicker overhead. I close the door, needing the barrier. Already I'm calculating: empty hallway, no cameras, she's wearing a skirt. I could have her against the wall in two seconds.
"You followed me." Not an accusation.
"You look terrible."
"Sleep deprivation makes me unstable. More unstable." The joke falls flat.
"How long have you been coming here?"
"Three years."
"Why?"
"Because creating more monsters makes me feel less alone."
She flinches. "They're not monsters. They're children."
"I was a child once. Now look at me." I spread my hands. "I'm teaching them to be like me. Is that really survival?"
Her hand touches my face. Warm against my cheek, and my body betrays me by leaning into the contact. Her touch makesme want to pin her against the wall, remind her what these hands do when they're not being gentle.
"You're teaching them to protect themselves."
"I'm teaching them violence. Tomorrow I'll still kill anyone who threatens you. This," I gesture toward the center, "is just damage control. Three years of Mondays. Practically a saint, right? If saints had body counts."
But she's looking at me differently now. That specific expression that means someone's seeing salvation where there's only damnation.
"You stayed with that girl. Helped her through her panic attack."
"Pattern recognition. Narcissism disguised as empathy."
"You're lying to yourself about why you're here."
"Careful, Faith." I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back. "The last person who tried to save me ended up with my hands around their throat. And they weren't wearing a red dress at the time."
Her breath catches, and I smell her arousal. That sweet musk that makes my cock throb. Even here, discussing my irredeemable nature, she wants me.
"You're so determined to be evil," she observes.
