Page 80 of Psychotic Faith
He gathers his useless evidence, each photo a reminder of his failure to protect her from me. Or maybe his failure to recognize she didn't need protection. She needed permission.
At the door, he turns back. "I failed you."
Faith crosses to him, kisses his cheek gently. The gesture tender despite everything. "No, Dad. You loved me the only way you knew how. But I need a different kind of love." She looks back at me. "The kind that comes with blood on its hands."
The Judge meets my eyes over his daughter's head. In them, I see not just defeat but understanding. He knows what I am. What I'll do to keep her.
"Take care of her," he says finally.
"With my life," I respond, meaning it. "Or with everyone else's."
He leaves then, shoulders bent, footsteps heavy with the weight of losing his daughter to her own choices. Faith watches from the window as his car disappears through the gates. Her hand finds mine, squeezing tight enough that her still-healing palms must ache.
"That was harder than the basement," she says quietly.
"Different kind of cutting," I agree.
She turns to me, eyes wet but resolved. "I chose you. Completely. In front of him."
"You chose yourself," I correct. "I'm just lucky enough to be included."
She laughs, dark and fractured. "We're so fucked up."
I pull her against me, feeling her body mold to mine like she was designed for this space. Her father's visit has severed her last tie to the normal world. She's mine now, completely. No take-backs. No escape routes. Just us and whatever violence we create together.
"The family needs to know," I tell her. "That you're permanent now."
"After," she says, hands already working at my belt. "Right now, I need you to fuck me until I forget the look on his face."
"That's not forgetting," I observe, backing her against my desk where her father's photos still lie scattered. "That's replacing one memory with another."
"Then give me a better memory," she challenges.
I sweep the photos to the floor, not caring about evidence anymore. Her father knows. The world will know soon enough. Faith Winters belongs to Luca Rosetti. The good girl is dead. What remains is mine.
"Every time you see him now," I tell her, pushing her skirt up, pulling her panties to the side, finding her ready for me, "you'll remember this. Choosing me over him. Choosing to be fucked on the same desk where he tried to save you."
"Good," she gasps as I thrust into her without warning, her pussy clenching around my cock immediately. "I want to remember."
I fuck her harder, the desk creaking under our violence. This isn't making love. This is claiming territory. Marking the moment when she stopped being Judge Winters' daughter.
Her nails dig into my back hard enough that my blood seeps through his white shirt. Tomorrow I'll have to explain to my family why I look like I fought a wildcat. Good. Let them know she’s not some fragile victim.
"You're mine," I growl against her throat, tasting the bruises Neumann left. "Say it."
"Yours," she gasps, legs wrapping around my waist. "All yours. Every dark, terrible part of me."
When she comes, it's with a sob that might be grief for the father she's lost or relief at being free. When I follow, filling her with my cum, it feels like signing a contract in DNA. Permanent. Irreversible. Perfect.
We stay joined, breathing hard, her father's evidence scattered beneath us. Outside, Chicago continues its daily violence, unaware that Faith Winters just died and something darker was born.
"No regrets?" I ask, though I can feel the answer in how her pussy still pulses around me.
"Never," she says, pulling me down for a kiss. "I'm exactly where I belong."
30 - Faith
The mansion feels like home in a way my father’s house never did. I push through the front door without knocking because people who live here don’t knock. People who belong here carry keys next to concealed weapons.
