Page 2 of Sweet Doe
The scream that tears from my throat echoes off the vaulted ceiling like the cry of a dying animal. The box tumbles from my fingers, its contents spilling across the marble.
A hand.
A severed fucking human hand, pale and lifeless, with a note tucked between the stiff fingers.
My stomach churns violently, and I barely manage to turn my head before I'm retching onto the church floor. Bile burns my throat as my body purges itself, as if it can somehow expel the horror of what I'm seeing.
But I can't unsee it. I know exactly what that severed hand means.
Alex is dead.
The man I thought I loved, the man I came here with, the man whose parents run this fucking church—he's dead. And this monster, this sinister reflection of him, killed him.
"You're going to be sick," he observes with a detached tone, like he's commenting on the weather. "That's normal. The shock will pass."
I want to run. I want to scream. Ineedto claw at his face until I draw blood and rip his fucking eyes out. But my body won't obey me. I'm frozen in place, staring at that pale hand while my heart shatters into a thousand pieces.
"Why?" The word comes out as a broken sob. "Why did you kill him?"
"Because he didn't deserve you." His voice is matter-of-fact, like he's explaining something so blatantly obvious to a child. "Because hehityou, and I couldn't let that slide. Because he was weak, and you need someone strong enough to handle all that fire inside you."
He moves closer, and I flinch away instinctively. But there's nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.
"You felt it tonight, didn't you?" His fingers trail along my cheek, and I have to force myself not to vomit again. "The difference. The way your body responded to me instead of him. You came alive under my touch in ways you never did with Alex."
"Stop." The word is barely audible, but he hears it.
"You can't stop the truth, baby. Everything between us tonight was real. Every orgasm, every moment of ecstasy, every time you begged for more—that wasreal."
His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, the same gesture that had made me melt just hours ago. Now it makes my skin crawl.
"You're insane," I whisper. "You're completely fucking insane."
"Maybe." He shrugs, unbothered by the accusation. "But I'm also right. You needed someone who could match that darkness you’re hiding, and Alex never could. He was too concerned with being perfect, with making mommy and daddy proud. Too weak to give you what you really wanted."
I try to pull away from his touch, but his hand moves to grip my chin, holding me in place. His fingers are strong,unforgiving, and I can feel bruises forming under his grip.
"But I can give you everything," he continues, his voice dropping to that hypnotic whisper that had seduced me so completely just moments ago. "I can be what you crave. I can break you apart and put you back together in ways that will make you forget Alex ever existed."
"Let me go." My voice is stronger now, fueled by my growing rage. "Let me go right now, and maybe I won't tell the police what you've done."
His laughter fills the church, bouncing off the walls like an unholy echo. "The police? Oh, my sweet, naive little doe. Who do you think they're going to believe? The grieving girlfriend of a missing man, or the evidence I left behind to frame Alex?"
The words make my breath catch in the back of my throat. Evidence. What evidence?
"That's right," he says, reading the comprehension in my eyes. "Alex's phone, his DNA, his fingerprints—they'll all tell a very different story than the one you're imagining. A story abouta perfect pastor's son who finally snapped under the pressure. Who killed in a jealous rage and then disappeared into the night."
My blood turns to ice as I realize the magnitude of what he’s done. This was calculated. He's been thinking about this for who knows how long, setting up his own brother to take the fall for his sins.
"You're a monster," I breathe.
"I'm a realist." He releases my chin and stands, towering over me like some vengeful angel. "And you're coming with me.Now."
"Like hell I am." The words burst out of me with more courage than I feel. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I'm walking out of this church, and I'm calling for help, and?—"
He moves faster than I thought possible. One second I'm on the floor, defiant and determined. The next, I'm pressed against the back of a pew with his body caging me in, his hand wrapped around my throat just tight enough to make breathing difficult.
"You misunderstand," he says, his voice calm and deadly. "This isn't a request. This isn't a negotiation. This is me telling you what's going to happen."
