Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 24966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
I wanted her to be my ultimate prey.
And this was an obsession I couldn’t control.
1
ROMAN
My cock was hard, and it was because I was about to feed my dark beast yet another life.
A therapist might say I got sexual gratification from stalking and hunting. And I supposed I did to an extent. I was sure there were plenty of psychological reasons why I acted the way I did, why my body always reacted in this way when I was murdering someone.
But I didn’t care about the why or how of what I did. I just cared about how the need and urges grew with each passing day and that, until I acted on them and fed my monster, it would gradually consume me.
Heavy breathing. Rush of adrenaline. Stiff cock. Sweat beading my brow.
I had all those symptoms right now from my illness as I kept to the shadows and stalked the man I’d be killing tonight.
I curled my hands into tight fists then relaxed them. I did this repeatedly as I moved closer to him, a piss-drunk motherfucker who I’d been watching for weeks now.
My mind whirled with thoughts of why I was doing this… again. It was the psychologists and psychiatrists I’d been forced to see as a child to blame for me even thinking about anything but bloodlust at this moment.
Make no mistake—I had no fucking conscience.
I was made to see the professionals after being caught trying to cut off hands of one of the older boys in my foster home. I’d been put through the ringer, each of them trying to find out why an innocent six-year-old would do such a heinous act.
I never told them I caught the fucker trying to hurt the foster family’s beloved pets.
With my past a mystery, seeing as they found me—three years old at the time—wandering the streets at night, covered in blood, and wearing nothing but some dirty shorts, I was a puzzle to them.
I’d been told I must have dealt with severe physical, emotional, or sexual abuse during my childhood. But with a past as unknown as mine, they were only able to speculate.
My deep psychological scars no doubt led to my lack of empathy and difficulty forming healthy relationships.
My childhood trauma—because surely being found covered in blood and wandering at night had to mean trauma was involved—could manifest in violent tendencies to regain control or cope with unresolved pain.
As a teenager, they said I exhibited traits of psychopathy, that I viewed others as objects to manipulate or harm without emotional consequences.
They were right, but I knew how to play the game. I knew how to mimic so that I was deemed fit to be in society and not as a threat to myself or anyone else.
Pulling me back to the present, the man staggered, drunker than shit, and probably unaware he was being stalked as prey tonight.
He reached out and braced a hand on the brick building, the alleyway he wandered and stumbled down smelling of garbage.
Someone threw a bottle in the distance, and the sound of breaking glass echoed through the alley.
“Who’s there?” he slurred and spun, losing his balance and sagging against the brick wall.
I said nothing, just stalked closer until I was a few feet from where he stood. His head lowered, his body involuntarily swayed from how drunk he was.
I was still so fucking hard, but my arousal had nothing to do with this man. I was aroused because I was about to take a life, and that's what really got me off.
The man had no idea I’d been watching him. For weeks now, I followed and studied him. I learned every disgusting habit, every filthy secret he thought no one knew, and the ones he didn’t care if everyone knew.
This fucker wasn’t good at hiding anything—not from a person like me. No, men like him were sloppy and careless. They thought the world owed them something, that they could take whatever they wanted.
And this one...he was going to pay for it all tonight.
He played the part of a respectable and successful motherfucker, a face you’d pass on the street without a second thought or worry that he’d double cross you. But behind closed doors, he let his mask slip.
The abuse of his wife, the fear he inflicted on the people around him… it was something he had to pay for. It was something I had to give him to sate my dark beast.
Brandon Mackle wasn’t just violent; he was cruel. His wife had to hide her bruises, and his daughter flinched at the very sight of him. And this asshole got off on it—making the women in his life break one bit at a time.
And he thought no one would stop him.
But I would. Right now.
I wasn’t a savior. I was the devil, and I was here to make the world a shittier place for people like him.