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5: Intermezzo

Victor had waited two days before contacting Elsa.

During that time, he had worked fervently on the case that was proving more difficult to solve than he or any of his fellow detectives had initially expected. Not that solving any murder case was easy, but the killer’s methods were sloppy; inexperienced… yet, somehow, he was eluding them time and time again. Like he was getting help.

The thought lingered in his mind. The perpetrator was emulating his nemesis and he knew Anthony well enough to know that if that man could have a hand in wreaking more havoc, he would.

Thus, the reason for their upcoming reunion.

He had faked some of his notes about Chapter Nine, seeing as he had nothing really to offer as collateral for the information he was going to try to get from him.

This face-to-face meeting would be different than the others and he knew it. It felt different. With his bitter resentment for his fucked up life pointed squarely at the sociopath in maximum security, they hadn’t spoken after he moved to California. Anthony had tried only twice to get in contact with him, but after being rebuffed, he seemed to lose interest. Anyway, Anthony was well aware that he would always be back. Eventually. Though not for the same reasons that Victor knew he would be back.

Within forty-five minutes of his text to Elsa, he heard her key in the front door and a spark of excitement ignited within him. She was proving this time around that she could follow his rules. Speaking of which, he would present her with the official list after their little intermezzo. He would make this little encounter a pleasurable one in order to dull her defenses; mixed in with his brand of lesson teaching, of course.

The lesson: never turn her back on him again.

As she stepped into the entryway and her scent tickled his nose, he wondered what she had kept herself busy with the past forty-eight hours. No doubt, fucking her fiancé and putting that perfect mouth all over him. He bristled at the thought.

Two days previous, he had contemplated whether or not to keep surveillance on her, but opted not to. Seeing her with that piece of shit would completely ruin the game for him. He would simply have to try his best to put it out of his mind. Though, he knew that would be impossible to do. Mr. Black was too adept at pointing out his failures to allow that to happen, and there would be no escaping his constant reminders that she was spending her free time with the very man he was responsible for having sent her way.

Without anything said, he slipped the strap of her bag off her shoulder, set it aside and led her by the hand up the stairs, making a pit stop in the office to turn the cameras on. As he punched a few buttons on the console, Elsa stood in the doorway watching him, obviously surprised that he wasn’t hiding his voyeuristic tendencies anymore. What was the point?

If he was honest with himself, it was liberating to be able to indulge in his devious proclivities without having the nuisance or pretense of normality.

“You’re still recording everything?” he heard over his shoulder as he focused the lens of the bedroom camera on the spot of their upcoming scene.

“Of course,” he touched a knob and twisted slowly, “my methods haven’t change all that much. I still intend on learning from you.”

Next he heard an irritated sigh and paused to glance in her direction and see a look of agitation being thrown his way. Being more open was definitely paying off, he smiled. “If you’re a good girl, maybe I’ll let you watch our interactions with me later.”

“No thanks. Seeing myself get fucked isn’t on any of my to-do lists,” she wrinkled her nose.

With the lens now properly focused, he moved towards her, gripping her by the elbow and leading her toward the master suite. “How presumptuous of you to think I’m going to fuck you. Is that really what you think I have you here for? Just sex?”

“That and to torture me.”

“I wouldn’t consider what I plan on doing to you, torture. Your pain and discomfort will just be a pleasant side effect of my actions.”

“Pleasant?” she huffed, then whispered under her breath, “I doubt that.”

Her tone irritated him – bold, brave, bitchy. “No more speaking unless you’re asked a question, Eight,” he growled.

His statement made her wince. Or maybe it wasn’t the statement so much as it was the fact that he called her Eight. She hated that, but she brought it on herself. If she would simply do as she was told, he wouldn’t have to resort to name calling.

Swiftly, he undressed her, still irritated with her smart-ass attitude. When she was naked before him, he stepped back to take all of her in, reaching a hand out to glide his fingers over the lines of her curves.

The tattoo. It was different somehow. She had more work done to it, but he couldn’t quite place it. When he skimmed the details, she cringed and her pale complexion flushed.

Gazing into her eyes, he expected to see fear, but instead saw concern. But for what? Childlike, she wrapped her arms around her body, suddenly abashed and stared at the floor. It was heartbreaking and a voice that had been suppressed long ago screamed inside his head that something was wrong and to show her some compassion.

Backing up two steps, he gave her room to breathe. He had seen her nude before, had taken her in ways that most people only read or fantasized about. She stated she had expected to be fucked, so what was her hesitation?

“I thought you wanted this?” he whispered, confused by her physical withdrawal.

“I’m only here because of your promise,” her voice cracked.

“Is this because of your fiancé?” his words came out contemptuously.

She glared up at him and dropped her arms to her sides. “No,” she gritted her teeth, “It’s because of this,” she turned away from him, exposing her bare back that bore the scars of a masochist.

But she was no masochist.

Victor felt the blood drain from his face while he stumbled backwards to the bed and sank onto it. As his eyes roamed over her once flawless form, a wave of regret crashed against him when he saw three raised welts across her shoulder blades, bright pink in comparison to her milky flesh. By brutally wielding his belt against her, he had marred her perfect physique.

It was no wonder she loathed him. He hated himself for being the failure that his mother always said he was; abhorred himself for not being able to restrain Mr. Black; detested himself torturing her the way his father had done to his victims before killing them. Most of all, he despised himself for having become a monster like his parents.

Sitting silently for nearly a minute, Elsa hugged her body once more before turning to face him, revealing her glassy eyes.

“Elsa,” he croaked out, his dismal apology on the tip of his tongue, “I’m…”

“Don’t,” she snapped, straightening up and pushing her chin out. “Let’s get this over with.”

The unfamiliarity of remorse made him vacillate. He wanted her, but… he met her eyes once again and saw a fierce sparkling in her eyes that made him unable to resist. She was here. Playing his game. There would be no regret today; he would save that for later – when she couldn’t bear witness to his grief.