β Scribed by L.A. Detwiler
No coin nor oath required. For personal study only.
Scarlet thought sheβd found forever when they went on their first date. However, when the fast-burning romance with him turned cold, her passion quickly turned to a need for something else: revenge.
As she acts on her obsession and begins to stalk her old lover, Scarlet is about to reveal a dangerous secret that heβs desperately hiding.
Will Scarletβs thirst for revenge set things right, or lead to her darkest hour?
He doesnβt even sense me as I stand over him, watching him sleep. Thereβs not a rustle, not a solitary goose bump, not a stirring at all. Iβm not even a blip on his radar, a memory in his haunted dreams. Instead, he cuddles up to the pillow, a hint of a smile plastered on his stubbled face.
I want to choke him, watch the life relentlessly exit his perfectly tanned body, watch him beg for it with his eyes as I stare into them. Things have changed so much, but donβt they always? I used to like how the stubble scratched against the smoothness of my cheek when we kissed, how it burned just enough to feel good, to make me feel alive.
He sleeps peacefully, calmly, like a man off to dreamland after an honest dayβs work. I want to shriek, to stab his eyes with my black fingernails. I want to hop in bed and make love to him, our bodies moving as one before I reach into my back pocket, extricate the knife, and make him bleed. I want to watch the life exhaled from his lips as I kiss him one last time. These days, my wants are of a darker variety than they used to be. My unbridled passion is the thing of nightmares, of malevolent lust.
No matter how much I crave to do him harm, I know I canβt. It pains me. Rips me to shreds again and again and again. All I can do is lurk in the darkness, huddle in the corner, a silent observer of the man who cast me aside for his next toy. All I can do is study him, watch him, peruse him from a distance with my eyes and not my hands. At least for now. At least until I figure out how to get my revenge.
I shift my weight, subconsciously careful not to step on the board thatβs a bit squeaky in the corner of the room, avoiding the pock mark in the hardwood as I tiptoe closer, closer, closer. He still doesnβt move. Did I mean so little to him that he canβt even feel me here? Because even with the distance between us, the scorned relationship, my desecrated heart, I still feel him. And that pisses me off. I donβt want to feel anything for him. Fuck.
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