The sweet success of ripping a freshly painted nail from his victim’s tortured finger, the exquisite pain she must have felt from the flush of bright rich blood. It was glorious watching her green eyes burn with hate and fear, her screams muffled by black stockings. But he wouldn’t visit again, not until she had healed her wounded soul. Not until she had reconsidered the window that, although locked, was easy to force open. Not until she missed him, as she surely would. She loved him after all, didn’t she? Then again, maybe he wouldn’t ever come back. It was a very strange marriage, even for him…

© kym darkly

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