12. CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tyler

T he past few days have irrevocably changed me. The little time I've spent with Dahlia—during her waking hours, that is—has chipped at my resolve.

You were always on my mind.

She broke into my apartment in broad daylight, sneaky little thing. Was it the first time? Don't know. Don't care.

She was there.

After my bathroom break, I smelled her sweet scent all over the room. Then the note next to my laptop.

You were always on my mind.

Fucking abusive Jimmy Angelov. Obsessive Jimmy Angelov. Dahlia loved that side of him.

And Christ, her arousal on the note.

Mine .

Ignoring it would've been best. Pretending I don't care about this blast from the past would've been wiser .

A day and a half. I've lasted a miserable day and a few hours, to be exact.

The skies are dark as I cross street after street toward her.

The storefronts are decorated in orange, black, and purple. With spiders and cobwebs. Skulls.

They're nothing but a backdrop. Nothing but a nuisance on my way to Dahlia.

I tried. My God, I tried to convince myself that keeping my distance meant saving her.

Failed.

As I paced my apartment last night—as I pressed her note to my nose—I knew she won. I couldn't keep this up. Being away from her.

What if she dies? the reasonable side of me screams as I pass another Halloween decorated storefront. Another dark alley.

She won't. My reply is concise. Or I'll join her in hell. Whatever it takes.

Staying away another second means I'll die. I won't survive this.

The last of my resolve has snapped, after years of denying myself the love of my life.

If someone sliced me open, cleaned the meat off me, they'd see my bones.

They'd see the woman I've been trying to protect. The person I love more than I love my own damn self.

Dahlia.

Her name is carved on each and every one of my bones.

Dahlia .

I'm ready to face misery, tears, and anguish. I'm ready for a thousand dangers to cross our path. I'm ready to face it all and be her human shield.

As long as we're together.

On my terms. How I see fit. I'll need to hover over her. Protect her.

Sure, she's strong. She's a fighter.

She's creepy and crazy and a serial killer.

She's mine.

I'll keep her safe.

It will be nonnegotiable.

The rest is up to her.

We'll be together. I'll fix myself.

I'll fix us.

Then…

That's when I'll do all the things I haven't done in four years.

A lot of them were the things I'd done while being her guardian.

Do the grocery shopping. Buy her clothes. Pay her bills.

She didn't let me do much more than that back then.

This time around, it'll be different. I'll give her everything. My little savage could ask me to get her cocoa beans from the source, and I'd take the first plane to the Ivory Coast. I will. I'll fucking do it without thinking twice and be back home for dinner.

I'll fight for her. Work through my issues alongside her. I'll go crazy with worry and fear that something might happen to her, but I won't leave her again .

We'll find a way to fight our bad luck. To love each other.

And she'll give me all of her. I'm not the man I used to be. A few screws have come loose, I'm aware of that.

What I'll do to her in the bedroom…

The idea of biting her, of owning her, boils my blood. The thought of burying myself inside her tight pussy and even tighter ass has my cock jerking in my jeans.

Perfect timing, since I'm here. Outside her apartment. Outside the building where I used to live. I lean against the old and scratched glass door, blending in the shadows wearing my dark hoodie and jeans.

There aren't guarantees that I won't lose my mind altogether.

I'm fully aware of the man I turn into around her. Unhinged is too subtle of a word for my illness. Reality blurs when I see her face—when I fucking think about it.

I'm nowhere near the man I am at work. While on virtual conferences with my boss or other people at the company I work in. I'm not that person.

Then again, maybe it won't be such a bad thing. Dahlia would love it.

She loves me.

I love her.

We'll navigate through this murky disaster of a life together.

She and I.

I check my phone for the time. Eleven thirty. She should be done doing whatever it is she does with target number seven. She's never there later than midnight .

A notification flashes on my phone while I wait. It's from my blog. One that stands out among the dozens I get around this time of year.

Watcher1988. The person who thinks they could catch Dahlia. Who left a message yesterday, saying Roses are red. Violets are blue. You'll never catch the October Killer, because I'll be there before you.

I don't let them get to me. For the simple reason that they won't have her. They'll never have her.

No one will.

The notification doesn't show the contents of his latest comment. I have to log into my blog to see that.

Watcher1988's comment appears under the last October Killer blog post, saying: It's been days. Where's the big breakthrough? What are we waiting for? Do it already. Or I'll catch them first.

Reverse psychology. Cheap tricks that would work on kids.

No one's ever going to know my girl is one of the most proficient serial killers out there.

I won't give up her identity. Ever.

I owe her. I owe her so much for not being able to save her.

Ian's outrage was justified.

Except he wasn't the only one losing his sanity back then.

For years, I'd convinced myself that Ian and my grandma's tragic deaths were the trigger to my violence.

To why I kill some of the serial killers I catch instead of handing them to the police .

To why I break into Dahlia's apartment and jack off.

Why I fantasize about spanking her raw and making her cry for me.

It didn't. The abuse he and Dahlia went through fucked with my head.

Badly.

"Stop!" A muffled scream reached my apartment. I could hear Ian all the way up to the fifth floor. "Leave her alone!"

Dahlia hardly ever screamed. For the past two months, she'd barely let out any sound while Al tortured her. While he made Ian hurt her.

Ian couldn't stay silent. Wouldn't do it.

He'd told me a week ago he kept hoping someone other than me would call the cops.

I'd done it twice before. Every time they showed up, Al would put on his charming smile. Claim the bruise on Dahlia's cheek was Ian's fault. Just normal siblings in a normal fight.

Twice, the three of us had claimed Ian had nothing to do with this. Twice, Al had managed to convince the cops that Dahlia was a little liar and I was too in love to see through her lies. That I was a sexual predator.

I had no such feeling for a fifteen-year-old girl. No twenty-seven-year-old ever should.

Too bad Al was more convincing. They'd warned me if they ever see my predatory ass here, they'd be forced to book me. Me.

Another good thing about Al's death was that the false rumors cleared out. The detective who came to interview Dahlia after the fact had nothing to do with her sick uncle. She listened when Dahlia told her about the abuse. She believed her when Dahlia showed her the scars on her neck.

She even told her Ian could come back. That they wouldn't charge him.

Ian was nowhere to be found.

And I got to be Dahlia's ward.

But I digress.

They hadn't bothered interviewing anyone in the building. They left after that.

No other neighbor called like Ian wished they would. No one backed us up.

No one.

"You have to help them." Grams clutched my hand.

We were sitting on the couch, watching Casablanca like we did at least once a month. She loved that movie. But she wasn't paying attention to the screen anymore. Neither had I.

My body vibrated from pulses upon pulses of rage. My jaw ticked.

Staying here, not risking being arrested, was eating me alive.

"Tyler, make him stop. Please." Her slender hand had a surprisingly strong grip. "I can't bear it. Those poor children."

"The police—" The start of my sad excuse made no sense to me, so I clamped my mouth shut. Got up. Pushed my feet into my boots.

I didn't bother changing into jeans. My sleep T-shirt and gray sweats had to do.

No time. No time. No time.

"Don' t call the cops," Grandma whispered after me. I was already at the door. Hand on the knob. "Save them. You. Only you can put an end to this. At least for tonight."

One firm nod and I was out. Into the hallway. Down the stairs.

The elevator would take too long. Waiting for them would waste precious seconds where I could be saving them.

"You think you're so tough, little girl?" Al never bothered lowering his voice. It reverberated through the walls. "Here, Ian. Go ahead. Punish her. Mark her. Make her remember what happens to mouthy bitches."

The words were muffled, but I figured out what was being said. From context. Al's vicious demands hadn't changed much from one beating to another.

Third floor.

My heart beat fast in my chest. Adrenaline was responsible for that. And how quickly I flew down the stairs.

Second floor.

I ripped the door of the staircase open. Hallway.

"It's okay, Ian." I heard Dahlia from behind the door, her voice soft. She sucked in a breath. Hissed. And Ian groaned. "It's okay. Thank you for being the one to do this. It's okay."

"Let me in." I slammed my fist on the door. Cursing myself for forgetting the keys Ian gave me at home. "Let me the fuck in, Al."

I wished the cheap door would break. It never did. Dahlia and Ian couldn't open it for me, either. They wouldn't, unless the monster let them.

"The pedo's back." Al's voice came off happy. Conceited. I heard his heavy footsteps, the chain on the lock. The door opened. "Come here to fuck my niece? "

Other than his filthy smile, he looked clean. His normally greasy blond hair was washed. His blue eyes weren't glossy from drinking. He stood in the doorway in a crisp, white T-shirt and clean jeans.

He'd been expecting someone to call the police. He'd been there, torturing those miserable kids worse than usual.

Motherfucker.

"Ian." I ignored Al, searching for Ian and Dahlia behind him.

They were sitting on the living room floor. I couldn't see much more than that. Just the tops of their heads. Ian's brown hair and Dahlia's blonde, messy one. They sat close to each other. Neither of them lifted their heads to look at me.

That part scared me the most.

"Dahlia. Come here." My demand was loud. Neither of the kids acknowledged me.

"They're mine." Al's smile was sickening. "To do with as I wish. They'll never leave."

The urge to punch a hole through his chest and tear out his heart was debilitating. I pushed through.

"You're a sick sadist." My eyes wouldn't budge from Ian and Dahlia. "They don't belong to you."

"They are. Court says so." Al could've sold the kids' parents' shop. He could've taken the money and left. He hadn't. It was a game to him. They were a game to him. "Get the fuck out of here."

Another hiss from Dahlia had me shoving at his chest and forcing my way inside the apartment.

The scene that unfolded before my eyes was a kick to the chest. The gut. Everywhere .

Rage burst through me as if someone shoved a Molotov bomb down my throat.

Seeing that was when my sanity started tearing at the seams. That was how bad it'd been.

The siblings sat cross-legged on the floor. Ian in a T-shirt and jeans, tears leaking from his brown eyes and down his pale cheeks. Dahlia had nothing on but a black jersey dress. A single tear streaked down her cheek as she gazed into Ian's eyes.

But their clothes and tears weren't what fucked up my psyche.

It was the portable single stove at their side. The flames flickering in it. The knife in Ian's hand.

The two large, blade-shaped burn marks and blisters on the side of Dahlia's neck.

"It had to be me." Ian swiped at his tears angrily with the back of his hand. Sat up straight. Cleared his throat. "Better me than him. Better me than him."

"Always, brother." Dahlia smiled. Fucking smiled.

"She told me to go fuck myself when I ordered her to clean the floor," smug Al says from somewhere far, far behind me. "I threw the disgusting red sauce she made to the floor. And the soggy pasta. And the bitch wouldn't clean it up."

Punching him wasn't an option. Grabbing the knife from Ian and slashing Al's throat would be even worse. It would land me in prison. Where I wouldn't be able to keep an eye on these two.

But fuck, how I wanted to slaughter Al that day.

"No more." I fell to my knees. Took the knife from Ian. Tossed it far away. I grabbed Ian's chin, forcing him to look at me. "Ian. Where's the first aid kit I got you? "

I knew Al could and would hurt them. I just never imagined it'd be this bad.

Ian blinked twice until he snapped out of his trance. "In one of the cupboards."

"Bring it here. That and a clean, wet cloth."

I couldn't leave Dahlia. Wouldn't leave her.

Such a sweet girl with a crazy laugh that made staying in this building worth it. She baked cupcakes for Grandma while Al went to work. She had stolen one of my hoodies when she thought I wasn't watching.

I loved that girl. Not in the sense that Al suggested. Not at all. But I loved her.

My eyes sliced to Al, who shut the door behind us. Chuckling as he strolled to the couch and flopped down. The fucker turned on the news as though his niece didn't have blistering skin on her neck.

He wore a satisfied smirk. The night was over for him.

I'd burn him myself if I could. I'd make him suffer for every time these kids had to hurt. Her. Especially her.

It killed me that I couldn't. I was fucking powerless.

But I could be there for her. "Dahlia."

The hand I placed gently on her cheek woke her up. Her smile vanished. She watched me for a second before slapping her hand on the burn marks.

"Don't look," she whispered, her eyes horrified. "It's ugly. Has to be. Don't look, Tyler. Please."

Ian was rummaging through the cupboards. "Found it," he exclaimed, rushing back .

"It could never be ugly." I was gentle when I pried her hand off her neck. I had to sterilize it. And I wasn't disgusted. Never by her. "You could never be ugly. You know what you are?"

Ian dropped to the floor, the first aid kit already opened. Dahlia didn't answer. Her head whipped around to Al, and she growled at him. He flipped her off.

"Dalí," Ian whispered. Demanded. "Look at us. Forget about him."

"Come here." With the softest pressure on her cheek, I turned her to me. Softly. "Keep your eyes on me. I'm going to clean the burns and disinfect them. It might sting, but guess what?"

This time, she answered. She came back to me. To Ian and me. "What?"

"You're a brave girl," I said while I used the cloth to clean the burns. While I applied the antibiotic ointment. "Such a brave girl."

Her lips curled into a smile. When I'd just walked in, the smile belonged to Ian. A fake, reassuring smile.

Now, it was genuine. Ian and I managed to smile back.

My heart broke into a million pieces that day. My sanity couldn't take the scene I'd been a part of.

I see that it wasn't Ian and the massacre.

It was Al.

Her, though… Being with Dahlia over the last week has made me believe things could be better.

That said, I'm not well.

I'm afraid I might do the worst. Tear her apart. Eat her flesh. Suck on her bone marrow until every part of her is here with me. I'm not a cannibal. It's her. She makes me want things. Crave the sickest things .

I could hurt her.

I'll have to be mindful. I'll have to take small steps.

Footfalls of sneakers on concrete alert me that someone's approaching. I pocket my phone. The scent of vanilla, chocolate, and murder reaches my nose before my eyes make out her face in the dark.

Dressed in a bright purple sweater and black jeans that hug her curves, Dahlia Valentine is everything I could've ever wanted. Her blonde locks are tamed in a high ponytail at the top of her head.

Her blue eyes gleam. At me. Her stare is as wicked as she is.

"What do you want, Tyler?" She seethes. Snarling. Flashing me her tiny canines.

Six feet separate us. Almost close enough for me to reach for her and take her black shoulder bag for her. Be a gentleman.

I am not a gentleman.

When I write my blog, words flow, no problem.

Here, with Dahlia, my emotions are a mess. They're all over the fucking place.

"You," is the one word I offer.

"To eat me out and leave me hanging again?" A dark blonde eyebrow raises. Her blue eyes are predatory. "Thanks, I'll pass."

She's baiting me again.

Two can play this game.

"Was it too much for your pretty pussy?" I prowl forward, grabbing her waist. Pulling her back toward the building. Into the darkness .

"Don't flatter yourself."

Her hand clutches at the front of my hoodie. Right over my chest. She could always tell where I hurt the most. It makes me angry, realizing what an open book I am to her.

Doesn't matter that we've been apart for years. She still knows me better than I know my own damn self.

"Lying won't get you anywhere. Your clit was hard. You were soaking my chin. Those little desperate moans you made." There's a taunting edge to my voice. Lust, as well. And a need. A never-ending need for her. "It was too much. You finished yourself off later, didn't you?"

Right after you slaughtered and disposed of the middle-aged woman who walked into Sweet DeNights.

"Went to the nearest bar straight after." Her nails dig deeper, trying to scratch my chest beyond my hoodie and my T-shirt. "Had a guy finish the job you wouldn't do. The job you couldn't get done."

I spin us fast, slamming her back into the glass door of the apartment building. It rattles with the force of the blow.

"The fuck you did."

Our faces are close. Her breaths are sweet. Her glare is homicidal. The teasing smirk on her red lips has me second-guessing myself.

I can't afford to second-guess myself. Not around her.

My woman. My deadly python.

"Of course I did. I was so needy…" Dahlia's voice turns into one of a spoiled child. Her smirk changes into a sexy pout. "Daddy. "

"You weren't with anyone else." I lean in, licking her red lipstick off her lips. Sucking on them. She moans. Growls. "You'll never be with anyone else." I grab her breast, brushing my thumb on the hardened nipple through her clothes. "Tell me why that is."

"Because you're my Daddy. You took his place years ago. Remember?" Psychotic little thing tilts her head to bite my cheek. "Back then, you didn't touch me. Didn't so much as look at my breasts until I turned seventeen. Now this. You stalk me. Make sure the boys in school don't come anywhere near me. Leave me sad and unsatisfied and a virgin. Such a Daddy, aren't you, Tyler?"

"Want me to be your Daddy?"

She's begging to be punished. I squeeze my hand around her slender neck. Grind my erection against her belly. Dry hump her right there, near the rusty mailboxes. The door rattles with how hard I push and how easily her body gives in to me.

"Would your Daddy do this?"

When I tighten my grip around her neck, Dahlia cries out. Her pleasure turns into a scream reverberating through her lungs. Pleasure so loud I have to release her breast and clamp my hand around her mouth.

Her screams belong to me. If I see anyone else getting off on them, I'm slashing their throats.

It won't be the first time I killed a person.

Bad guys. Episodes of rage so overwhelming I'm unable to hold back. Some, you even forget. Some, you remember. How you claim the revenge that was stolen from me .

Not now. I have her here, and I don't want anything to come between us.

"You didn't answer me, little savage," I taunt her, since she obviously can't answer with my hand on her mouth. "You want me to be your Daddy?" Push. Thrust. The door will cave under my violent pounding if I'm not careful. "I won't be that for you. I'll do better. I'll be your everything. And we'll both live to regret it."

Her teeth scrape the inside of my palm. She stomps on my boot with her sneakers.

"Feisty. Always the feisty one." With my hand still on her mouth, I wrench open the door to the building, dragging her to the elevator. "Feisty. Trapped. And mine."