CARLOS POV:
I can picture her in those sexy innocent pajamas. Compared to her dark ambitions, rage, and that vicious mouth, she does look feminine and dresses softly for bed.
I unlock the door with my copied keys, having already disabled the alarm. Her house sits close to a mountain, perfect for training and just a boat ride from Marcus... That name is buried, and I need to get her away from him. Soon.
My gun rests in my pocket, loaded and ready to eliminate that supposed husband. More reason for her to fuel her vendetta against me. I check her living room first...... no evidence of male's presence. I walk up to her bedroom, twelve stair steps away from living room
"Anything new?" Damien texts. Always worried. How he manages to play chess with her when he's this terrified is surprising. But he possesses patience I lack entirely.
My breathing becomes erratic before escalating to an uneven fire. There's my personal fire.
Exactly as I'd pictured her. Front naked with a blue short that says: Little pet. Curved ass pushed out, clutching the teddy bear that conceals her knife and gun like lifelines.
My body electrifies at the reality of her breast bare against that teddy.
I've sometimes watched her sleep & have the map of her naked body mastered. I didn't intend to, my doll just prefers sleeping stark naked or with lingerie sometimes. Giving me blue balls whenever I visit
"Clear, but still searching," I text back before tiptoeing to the basement entrance by her closet where she have her Manic on display. Images of her pear like tits surfaces again, making me adjust my jeans until crimson lighting greets me.
Entering the basement fully, The sight stops me cold. Smile warms up my cheeks & my heart pounds hard. She's still obsessed.
More photographs of me than I last saw, plaster every surface. With me looking as handsome as I dressed for her.
Four years ago was when I noticed her stalking Me. By the third time I saw that little figure disguised as an old man, I decided to start dressing magnificiently, to give her a good shot. After all, she put in effort to not get caught.
Some images held in place with knives driven through my wrists, feet & face. Others with X's taped across my face.
But it's the centerpiece that makes my cock throb painfully against my jean.
A large framed image of me,with knife holes over my throat, pasted on a table, in the middle of the room like a shrine for her hatred.
Under it, candles burn down to stubs, wax pooled like dried blood. She's manic over my death & it makes me feel happy beyond imagination.
I step closer, trailing my finger at the edge of the frame, Welcoming the cold glass that bites my skin.
Every knife marks, wax pooling like dry blood, this room, they all look to me like a Romantic confession displayed in Tempest.
She has made me a king she worships with rage
My heart pounds, a thudding beat that craves to thank her. I imagine her standing here, gaze hotter than the lighting she put here, driving her knife into my throat. I adjust my cock as it strains at that image, swearing to ruin me, fury pulsing her blood, even at the mention of my name. My pulse is a raging mess & I suddenly feel hot.
She doesn't just crave my death, she exalts it, a raging oracle of vengeance, and I feel honored, my body alive with the thrill & dedication of her hatred.
The pulse of her throat under my palm yesterday resurfaces, making my stomach knot. She'd kill me before letting me claim her, pound into that fair cunt, but if that's price to show her my appreciation of this obsession with killing me, I'd die happy being slaughtered by her hands.
"You're not searching. You just went to see her," Damien texts & I willfully ignore
I stare at the shrine a moment longer, drinking in the beautiful madness of it. This isn't just revenge plotting: it's art. She's turned her obsession with my death into something of idol
Behind me, she have changed position of my Floors plan & schedules. She even added Damien's to it but a face stops me dead....
No she didn't.... I bend down in admiration, letting the laughter flow. Orio's face smeared in red: Palm oil
Her hostility & vendetta just makes my cock throb for more. To fuck more attitude & anger into her.
"Both. She lied. No husband," I finally respond.
Then head back to her room after taking images of the King I am.
Every step towards her sleeping form makes me hard, body pulsing with electricity. I'm wrapped with urge to wake her up, claim her & fuck my appreciation deep into her whole being.
My girl is a worshipper but liar, and discovering that thrills me more than it should. No trace of any husband: no men's clothing, no toiletries, no photographs. The fact that I've been fooled, properly manipulated, makes me chuckle in admiration
She played me. Actually bloody played me.
