Page 78 of Psychotic Faith
"Your throat," I remind her, hearing the rasp still present when she speaks.
"Let him hear what his ignorance nearly cost." She turns to me, and her eyes hold that cold clarity I recognize from the basement. "He needs to understand I'm not his little girl anymore."
My chest cracks at the thought of the choice before her, not from fear she'll choose him, but from knowledge of what this will cost her. I've already lost my father to violence. Now she'll lose hers to choice.
I dress while she brushes her hair, leaving it down to frame the bruises. My phone shows the Judge still at the gate, arguing with our security. Folder clutched like a weapon. Man probably hasn't slept, been investigating all night, trying to find evidence to pry his daughter from my hands.
He doesn't understand she's not in my hands. She IS my hands now. The ones that held the scalpel. The ones that chose blood over law.
"Ready?" I ask, though ready isn't the right word for walking into your father's disappointment.
"Always," she says, taking my hand. Our fingers interlace, her pulse steady against my palm. Hundred and ten beats per minute. Elevated but controlled. My girl preparing for battle.
The walk to my study takes forever and no time at all. Each step is Faith choosing me over him, choosing darkness over light, choosing the basement over the courtroom. My cock shouldn't be getting hard from her resolution, but my body responds to her commitment like foreplay.
The study door opens to reveal Judge Theodore Winters like an avenging angel. His suit is wrinkled, unusual for a man who treats appearance like armor. Eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night spent hunting evidence. The folder in his hands thick enough to convict me of a dozen crimes. But his gaze locks on Faith first, and I watch his face crumble slightly seeing her in my clothes, bruises visible on her neck.
"Faith. Thank God you're alive." The relief is genuine despite the anger vibrating through him.
She moves to stand beside me instead of running to him. The choice visible in positioning. In proximity. In the way her hand stays linked with mine like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go.
The Judge's expression shifts from relief to horror as he processes what he's seeing. Not a kidnapping. Not coercion. His daughter choosing to stand with the man he's spent years trying to destroy.
"Sit," I tell him, gesturing to the chair across from my desk. Not an offer. A command in my own territory.
He doesn't sit. Instead spreads the photos across my desk like dealing cards of condemnation. The surveillance shots are comprehensive. Me entering Faith's apartment on multipledates. Us together at the community center. At the film premiere. Here, at my home.
"This man has been stalking you, Faith." His voice shakes with barely controlled fury.
Faith picks up one photo, her at her mother's grave, me watching from a distance. The image grainy but unmistakable. Her finger traces my outline with something like fondness.
"I know," she says simply.
The Judge stumbles. "You KNOW?"
He pulls out more evidence. Polaroids in evidence bags—copies, he must have had her apartment searched while she was out. Police reports of men who disappeared after interacting with her. Correlation charts linking their last sightings to my movements.
"Five men dead, Faith. Five men who just happened to look at you wrong before vanishing."
"More than that," I correct, my voice conversational. "You're counting the ones you can prove. The real number is higher. Plus the compound, of course."
The Judge's face drains of color. His hand shakes as he turns to Faith. "He's a killer! A psychopath! The worst of the Rosetti monsters!"
Faith doesn't flinch from the accusations. "Yes."
That single word hits him harder than any denial would have. He reaches for the desk to steady himself. "Then why? How?"
"He's more than what you can see, Dad," Faith says quietly, the possession in her voice making both of us look at her. "And, whatever he is, he's mine now. My defender. My guardian angel. My monster."
The admission hangs in the air like a confession. The Judge stares at his daughter like he's never seen her before. Maybe he hasn't. The real her, not the performance of innocence she's worn since her mother died.
"What has he done to you?" The whisper is broken, a father watching his daughter choose damnation.
"He gave me permission to be myself."
The words land heavy between us. I watch the Judge process them, trying to reconcile the Sunday school teacher daughter with the woman claiming a killer. The cognitive dissonance makes him sway.
"Come home now," he says desperately, playing his final card. "I'll get you help. Therapy, protection, witness relocation if needed. We can fix this."
