unbalanced and not holding the knife correctly.”
Since I started training with Zade three weeks ago, I've improved, but it doesn’t feel like enough. It never does.
Before me is a gelatin mannequin with countless stab marks in it, most of them far off from where I’m supposed to be hitting.
A reel of people clicks through my head, picturing each one in place of the mannequin. It helps for the most part, but then I freeze up, remembering Sydney’s lifeless body beneath me, or the feel of my knife cutting through Jerry’s throat.
Claws dipped in guilt have me in a chokehold, and I’m growing frustrated with myself. With him. I’m not like him. I can’t just kill someone and… get over it.
I whip around, shooting daggers at him with my eyes instead of my hands.
“You’re so unapologetic for what you’ve done. For how many people you’ve
killed. How are you okay with that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he challenges, tilting his head with an amused grin. I’d
say he looks like a cute puppy, but that would be a lie. He looks like a vicious
beast that’s been locked up too long and is ravenous. For me, in particular.
“I don’t know—morals?” I say, like the answer is obvious. Because it is.
“Guilt? Remorse?”
“The very people you want to kill are the founding fathers of society’s morals. I killed their expectations of me, and then I sliced open their throats to show them that they would never control me. They will only ever answer for their crimes, and I have no problem being the executioner. If you don’t want to do this, y—"
I slash my hand in the air, cutting him off. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me an
out.”
“It’s not an out, it’s an option. I want you to do whatever you can handle, Addie. If that means staying home, I support you. If that means going on a massive murder spree, I’ll be right by your side, baby. You’re still having nightmares about Sydney and Jerry, and carrying around that guilt for protecting yourself. If you can’t learn to accept that, how will you accept taking anyone else’s life? Because believe me when I say, this won’t be self-defense from here on out.”
“I don’t know how to accept it, Zade. I feel like I’m justifying murder.”
“Just like I ‘justified’ stalking you?” He puts air quotes around the word because we both know Zade was well aware of what he was doing and how wrong it was.
“Forcing a gun into that pussy and making you come all over it? Or all the other times you told me no, and I did it anyway?” he volleys back. The flush in my cheeks deepens, and my face burns from the reminder of that stupid gun.
“Did I know it was wrong? Of course, I did. But it clearly didn’t stop me from
doing it. You need to figure out your morals, and what you’re okay living with.
Not what you’ve been taught, but what you feel in your gut.”
“So, stalking and assaulting me is written in your book of morals?”
“No,” he says, his smile widening. “I was obsessed with you from the
moment I saw you. All those dark, twisted emotions I felt were the rawest form
of who I am. I made the decision to show you that instead of concealing it. I never claimed to be a good person, little mouse, and that was something I decided I could live with. Just like murdering a bunch of pedophiles and human traffickers.”
“I’m pretty sure the people you kill tell themselves the same thing you do to
help them sleep at night,” I comment dryly.
“I’m sure they do,” he agrees easily, taking a step toward me. My breath hitches, but I stand my ground, even as his voice deepens sinfully, “And I’m sure there are many who claim to be good and honest, and that they would be willing
to kill me for my crimes against you. But that’s the difference. I’ve never made
those claims.”
A flush crawls up my face, warming my cheeks beneath his intense stare.
“You make it sound so easy to just be… bad.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice.”
He has, which raises more questions. I roll my lips, my pulse beating
erratically, working up the nerve to ask the question on the tip of my tongue. I’m
afraid of what might happen once I do.
I’ve explained to Zade before that it was going to take me time to get used to
some things about him. And now that I’ve been through what I’ve been
through… all those old feelings are resurfacing. Not the hate or the desire to get
away but accepting and understanding his contradictions and skewed morals.
“So, what’s been stopping you then?” I rush out.
Cocking his head, he waits. “From fucking me,” I say bluntly. “You didn’t stop before. What’s stopping you now?”
He’s silent for a few beats. “Because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself,”
he murmurs, staring at me thoughtfully. “There would be a very different
reaction this time around—you already know that.”
I cross my arms, popping out a hip. “Would there?”
“Yes,” he says firmly. “Do you think if I pinned you to the ground, you’d fight me at first only to end up grinding your pussy into my face because I’ve awakened something in you? Or do you think you’d fight like your life depended on it, only to end up mentally checking out from the trauma?”
I swallow, the truth tasting like dirt on my tongue.
“You will never hear me call myself a good man. Or kind. Or even honorable.
There is very little left of that in me, and the truth is that it was never really there to begin with. I was born with a blackened soul and good intentions. And there is a difference between those who are needlessly evil and those who do bad things
hoping that something good will come out of it. I'll let you decide for yourself which one I am.”
He doesn't wait for me to answer—I get the distinct feeling that he wants me
to think about it first.
He steps towards me, and my muscles instantly stiffen. That’s when I realize I
don't need to think about it at all. Trauma has a tight hold on me, but all I want
him to do is hold me tighter.