Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 74123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Doesn’t matter, as long as she’s back.
I retrieve a cigarette and light it as I lean against my balcony. The first drag of nicotine adds a sense of clarity to what I have to do next.
There isn’t a choice anyway. It’s either the boring road of letting her go, and probably coming back more obsessed and dangerous, or I can finish what I started and teach my little Petal that there’s no way out.
She has just left the apartment for her shift, looking over her shoulder, and in the parking lot, and even when she’s in her car, as if expecting to find me.
Her lips were parted, and she had no makeup on. The roundness of her eyes is still engraved in my head. The way they darkened like a storm brewing in the distance, waiting to come out and play.
It’s not only fear. It’s not the usual excitement either.
There’s something curious about those eyes that I can’t wait to unravel, to break, and maybe, just maybe put it back together again, if I like what I see.
I could’ve followed her and made myself either noticeable or unnoticeable, depending on my mood. I could’ve fucked with her head until I’m the only thought inside it.
But I have better ways to do that.
I leave my apartment and head to hers. My little Petal has closed her window and balcony. She even let the blinds down, disallowing me any view to the inside. I never thought I’d miss seeing those cats lazing around.
The only way to go inside is to break the window, but I have a better idea.
I reach under the fire extinguisher and smirk when my fingers touch the small piece of metal.
My little Petal is smart, but she’s a creature of fucking habit. She thinks because she never pulled her spare key in front of me, then I wouldn’t know where she hides it.
Sometimes, it’s so easy to read her mind. Others, it’s like a fucking chore.
The lock opens after I insert the new key.
The orange cat stands at the entrance like a little demon, glaring at me.
I swear he snuggles up to her more when I’m around, demanding she pets and caresses him.
He doesn’t hiss at me anymore, which is progress, but he’s still taunting me with his close relationship with her.
He’s at his first strike.
Fucking hell. I can’t believe I’m giving strikes to cats.
I stride into the silent apartment and the cat follows in a lazy walk.
Pulling out my gadgets, I carefully install the listening devices in her bedroom and living room.
These are tools Lucio uses for his frenemies, and they’re hardly detected even by professionals.
I place one in the lamp and the other behind the mirror.
Once I’m done, I stare at my image. I look normal, so fucking normal, it’s uncanny.
Actually, I’m above normal, with looks that always got me anywhere I wanted with women.
But aren’t the normal ones the scariest?
If my little Petal had better self-preservation, she would’ve noticed that. But even if she did, would anything change? If she resisted me at first, would all of this have ended?
No, and no.
It would’ve only been uglier for her. I might be quiet, but I’m a fucking animal when I put my sights on something.
It’s never over until the prey is under my teeth, ripped to pieces.
And piece by piece, I collect them back together again.
Besides, I’m not entirely sure my little Petal didn’t sniff the darkness inside me. At times, when I’m fucking her, pulling her by the hair and using her body, she’d be dripping wet, staring at me with those stormy eyes like all this is otherworldly.
She’s an animal, too, in some way. She’s just either in denial about it or hides it so much better than everyone else.
Now, I need to know what she talks about or watches when she’s alone. If I know her better, I’ll fuck her over more efficiently.
All predators sample their prey before pouncing.
I sit on her bed and retrieve her laptop. She doesn’t use it often, but when she does, it’s in a dark room and she’d disappear with it under the covers.
She doesn’t do that with her books or Netflix, so there must be something here.
It takes me two tries to get the passcode. Her birthday was a miss, she’s not that predictable after all, but it’s her oldest cat’s name, Mrs. Hudson, the lazy one who’s always sleeping unless it’s time for food. My little Petal is predictable after all.
Her wallpaper is a picture of her two cats.
This fucking cat lady is incorrigible.
I go through her browsing history. Facebook, the hospital website, tons of articles and forums about cat care and cat owners sharing expertise, and some forums about Netflix shows.
It’s not until I reach the fifth page that my fingers stop at the cursor.
My, my.