4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Ethan

Kayla Reynolds.

Twenty-eight years old, master's degree in social work, recently single. Her socials are private, but I wouldn't be in business if I didn't know how to get around those settings. I even hacked into her recently deleted photo album to see the bastard who broke up with her. He looks like shit. What's worse, he's already posting pictures of himself with some floozy, as if he didn't just pass on the opportunity to be with a literal goddess. What an idiot.

I want to kill him. I won't, of course, but I got the itch. My monster wants out, and if I'm not careful, Nick the Cheating Fuck might find himself facing it.

I need to kill. Soon. I also need to stop obsessing about Kayla Reynolds. She's not a goddess. She's a little bunny. Cute, but insignificant. I have to stop thinking about her. About the beautiful explosion of her curly hair. About the deep black eyes that seemed to see straight into my dark soul. About her supple body pressed against mine.

I groan as I feel my cock getting harder. I've already jerked off twice. Each time, I tell myself it's the last, but her image haunts me, slipping through the cracks in my control. I'm pretty sure I moaned her name like some fucking love-struck teenager. This has to stop.

She's nothing. She's not a goddess. She's a little bunny.

I hate bunnies.

Okay, I don't really hate bunnies. But I do need to hate Kayla Reynolds. I can't afford to fixate on her. My mind has been a reeling mess before I met her, and now? I can't even fucking focus! She's all I can think about.

Forcibly, I return my attention to the tracking app. The dot I'm following hasn't moved in two hours, staying at the dingy motel by the interstate. I've already checked out the security in that place: no guards, no cameras, no nothing. My target has been staying there every Thursday night for the past year, at least. It's like he's asking to get kidnapped.

Of course, the lack of cameras is the reason Gerardo Nash chose this motel. His wife thinks he's working overnight while, in reality, he spends the night jerking off to videos of naked young boys. Some of those videos he bought off the black market. Some he took himself.

You see, Mr. Nash is an upstanding citizen, doting husband, and a caring father. He's also a Boy Scout leader who frequently takes his group to the local swimming pool, where he "teaches them to swim." Three boys have already left the troop after attending one of his "private lessons."

He's not having sex with them yet, but he's already graduated from just watching to touching. It won't be long before he starts wanting more. I won't give him the chance.

I make my way to the window of his room. I expected him to be sleeping by this point, but he's wide awake, sifting through the collection of Polaroid photographs spread on the bed. He's naked and giving me a full view of his fully erect cock, as well as some of the pictures he's looking at.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat. The monster inside me, the one I've kept caged for too long, stirs eagerly. It's time to let it out to play.

A familiar coldness spreads through me, turning my blood to ice, my heart to stone. The last traces of humanity dissolve, leaving only the hunter. I no longer feel nauseous from the sight before me, or nervous about the kill. The last slivers of guilt I might have felt about being the judge, jury, and executioner vanish into thin air. There's no room for feelings anymore, only for action. For revenge.

I couldn't save my best friend all those years ago, but I will save the world from the monster in front of me, who is now jerking off to a picture of a naked child who looks to be around eight years old.

I wait until he's close, then nudge the window open. Thanks to the oil I poured on the hinges last week, it opens soundlessly. I jump inside the room and drop my duffel bag onto the floor. My tools rattle, catching Nash's attention.

His eyes widen in terror, his pathetic cock still twitching in his trembling hand. He knows what's coming. I relish the fear in his eyes, the way his glee crumbles into pure, undiluted panic as he scrambles to hide the photos.

"You forgot the video, Gerardo," I tease, pointing to the laptop playing hidden camera footage from the swimming pool locker room on repeat. The boys arrive, laughing and joking with each other, then begin undressing.

Gerardo lunges over and snaps the laptop shut. "It's not…I'm not…" he blabbers before finally composing himself. "Who the fuck are you?!"

I think I'm smiling but it must be the bad kind of smile because Gerardo blanches even further. "Children are incredible," I note, stepping closer to him. "Resilient. They're able to bounce off trauma that would leave adults shattered. However, in order to do that, they need the cause of that trauma removed from their lives."

He takes a swing at me. Predictable. I dodge and round-kick his stomach, sending him flying into a wall. The room behind it is empty, the same as the one on the other side, so I don't have to be too careful about the noise we're making.

I watch him struggle, savoring every pitiful movement. But mercy isn't in my vocabulary. Not for him. Before he can pick himself off the floor, I grab the little hair he has left and slam his head against the wall a few times to make sure he will stay nice and put until I'm ready for him.

Killing is messy work, as I discovered during my first kill. At fifteen, I was careless—half-burying a body in the woods, leaving a blood trail for the cops. It's a miracle I wasn't caught.

Maybe there was a god protecting me. Or a goddess? My thoughts drift to Kayla again, and I curse myself. How can she be affecting me like that?! When I hunt, I'm always focused on the task at hand. Torture, kill, clean up, get rid of the body. It's simple and efficient, and I never stray from that. Never. Until today.

The ice around my heart tightens its grip, battling against the fiery pull of Kayla in my mind. I need to focus, to let the cold take over completely—yet she lingers, a warmth I can't afford.

For a brief moment, I hate Kayla Reynolds. I hate how she waltzed into my life and shattered my precariously kept balance. I hate that she's making me feel things I shouldn't be feeling. I hate that she's so fucking perfect. I should kill her for messing me up like this. Except I'd rather kill myself than hurt my little bunny.

The stray thought finally brings me some clarity. My little bunny. Not a goddess to rule over me, but a toy to play with. To posses. Because that's what this fixation is about. I need to have Kayla Reynolds. I need to own every part of her. Her body, her mind, her soul. Her heart.

Gerardo's pained groan interrupts my thoughts. I glare at him. "Dude, shut the fuck up. I'm having a revelation here," I growl. I can growl here. I don't have to pretend to be a normal person in front of a guy I'm about to kill.

He mumbles something, probably trying to call for help or ask for mercy. That's what they usually go for at this point. I've heard it all before.

There's a comfort in routine. The plastic sheets, the syringe, the blade—it's all part of the ritual, a dance that keeps my monster satisfied. Keeps me in control.

I smile as I drag a faintly struggling Gerardo onto the large sheet of plastic. I'm excited to return home now, but I won't rush the job because of that. Gerardo deserves my full attention and utmost care.

His struggles grow stronger when he sees the syringe in my hand, but I easily overpower him. Seconds after I depress the plunger into his thigh, his body goes limp, the only motions the slow rise and fall of his chest and frantic movement of his eyes.

"Don't worry, it won't knock you out," I assure him in a voice that makes his eyes bulge out. "This drug will merely paralyze you. I think the effects are only temporary, but it doesn't matter, anyway. Before it wears out, you'll be dead."

As the drug takes hold, Gerardo's eyes betray the only freedom left to him—his mind, now trapped in a silent, paralyzed scream. He can't move, can't scream, but I see the terror clearly. It's delicious.

"You don't get to speak," I say, the last vestiges of humanity vanishing from my voice as my monster takes over completely. "The victims never get to speak. They're silenced, ignored. By the ones hurting them and by the ones supposed to be helping them. You're a victim now, Gerardo. And there's no one to help you."

I bring more plastic sheets and soak pads, because there's so much blood in a human body it's simply ridiculous. I could paint this entire room with his blood and still have half a bucket to spare.

I pull on gloves. Not because of the prints and DNA traces, but because I'm about to cut off Gerardo's cock, and there's no fucking way I'm touching that disgusting thing without gloves.

"You know," I start as I grab my knife and squeamishly reach for his limp organ. "You're lucky I'm not a sadist. This"—I poke the tip of the blade into the base of his cock—"is the only thing I do. Aside from putting it into your mouth and sewing it shut, of course, but that's hardly torture. You should be grateful. I could torture you for days straight. Cut a piece here"—I run the blade over his skin, just deep enough to draw blood—"and there." I squeeze his balls, resting the tip of the knife against them. "Keep cutting until you're nothing but a bleeding torso, still alive to feel the pain. But the truth is, my time is too valuable. I'm not about to waste it on such a piece of shit like you."

Gerardo whimpers and makes an unintelligible sound in the back of his throat.

"Why am I cutting off your cock, you ask?" I continue. "Well, call me superstitious, but this way, you won't be able to hurt anyone wherever you're going after you die."

Blood coats my gloves, making them slippery as I make more shallow cuts, my monster toying with its prey. Gerardo is making desperate noises, his muscles twitching occasionally as he tries to move, but there's no fighting the paralytic drug. He'll die here, unable to move, unable to scream, unable to beg.

I understand some killers love the begging, and I'm not about to yuck someone's yum, but it's just not for me. I tried it once, but I found the constant stream of "please, let me go" annoying. I just like to look into their eyes as life slowly leaves them. That's what feeds my monster and helps me control it.

This time is no different. I make the cut, then hold Gerardo's eyes open to feast on his terror. As his blood soaks the large absorbent pads, I watch his eyes grow dimmer until the last spark is gone.

I make quick work of stuffing his severed cock into his mouth and sewing it shut. I could skip this part. I'm not leaving bodies behind to be discovered. There's no message, no "behave or end like this guy" threat to the rest of the pedophiles and child abusers in the world.

Gerardo's body will disappear without a trace, never to be found again. Doing something like this to him when he's already dead might seem pointless, but it's a routine that soothes me. When you spend your days trying to keep your mind from falling apart, you appreciate every little thing that soothes you.

Cutting people's cocks off. Sewing their mouths shut with their cocks inside. Playing with bunnies…

I smile as I look at my handiwork. I'll spend a few more hours here to clean up the place, then drop the body for a dark web contractor to pick up. He's precise, reliable, and never asks questions.

I don't know what he does with the bodies. The rumor around the dark web bulletin boards is that he's eating them. I hope he does. That way, dear Gerardo would truly become a piece of shit, and wouldn't that be just poetic?

I wonder if my little bunny has a poetic soul, too. Perhaps I should bring her a gift. A heart? I grimace at the body at my feet. Gerardo's heart?

No, that won't do. It's evidence. Besides, she wouldn't like it.

I smile at the thought of Kayla receiving a gift from me. Definitely not a heart, but something just as intimate. Something to remind her that she's mine—whether she knows it or not.