Annabel's Abduction Pt. 02

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

*****

(12 Hours Later - Apartment interior lit by afternoon light)

LUCAS

Bitch knows how to cook. Lowering my fork back into the Tupperware container, I jab it forward, forcing a carrot and a beef chunk against the plastic sidewall. I swipe them to my mouth.

Chewing, my bent elbow propped over the open door of Annabel's refrigerator, I look around me. Leafy vines droop down from perfectly aligned flower pots on a shelf above the kitchen sink. Ivory taffeta curtains, the same shade as her skin, line the single living room window, surreptitiously taking notice away from the cracked sills below them. Narrow doorframes, a product of her apartment's older construction, lead to her bedroom. I've learned to turn sideways to fit through them. The bedroom is a tribute to understated femininity, with its iron bedposts and antique wooden desk.

"Delicate" is the first word that her living space brings to mind.

I snort and spear a potato with my fork. A pussy word.

"Weak" is a better description for the haven that she thinks she's built around herself. All the wingback chairs and matching ottomans in the world won't save her from the grisly fucking hell her life is about to become.

Courtesy of me.

My cock twitches a little bit at that thought, the knowledge that her misery will be crafted at my hands. Fair is fair, I judge.

The necessity of her suffering is inescapable. Years before I knew her name, or the curves of her body, or the plumpness of her lips, I knew that someone had to pay for the misfortunes of my family.

Her father is dead. Her mother holds no value. She is the singular option. And in the two decades it's taken me to find her, she's racked up a fuck-ton of interest.

Payment will be exclusively on my terms. Last night was just the beginning. I haven't stopped thinking of her since.

How lucky for me that the only one capable of paying up is a pale-skinned goddess, whose pouty lips and heavy breasts make my cock thicken every time I think of her. That's quite the feat; he's never been easy to impress.

I can't count the number of times I've run into a woman who swears I gave her the night of her life, and all I can do is say, "Shame you didn't return the favor."

The truth hurts.

Annabel, though, I can't forget. And tonight she will finally learn just how unforgettable I am as well.

Sticking to my plan for her has not been easy. Taking control of her space when she's not home has been one way that I control my urge to collect what's due. I move things. I eat her food. I get high off of her scent.

Is it uncivilized? Yes. But it reigns in my urges. This undertaking has been too long in the making for me to ruin it by acting on impulses. Instead, I watch and I wait.

Waiting for things, decidedly, is not my strong suit. But I am the Michael-fucking-Angelo of destroying things. She will be my greatest work of art.

When I bring her down, it will be on my terms, with my plan, and utterly to my benefit. Some people call that egotistical.

I call it fucking poetic.

Her entire existence is built on the ruin of others. The universe requires balance, and who better to give it than the first-born son of the whore that her son-of-a-bitch father betrayed?

No one.

Her virginity coating my cock, the moans I force from her lips, the orgasms that steal the word "no" from her breath will all be the icing on the motherfucking cake that is my revenge.

I put the cover on the beef stew container and set it back in the fridge. The dirty fork is tossed into her sink.

Will she notice? Probably. Do I give a fuck? No.

Out of habit, I glance at the door that leads to the hallway. I know her schedule. She'll be here soon.

Exasperated, I drag my fingers through unruly dark hair, raking my nails across my scalp. One of them runs over an indentation, a scar from my not-too-long-ago days as an enforcer. I trace it lazily, reliving the way I punished the man who caused it.

Did I mention I'm not good at waiting?

Maybe the problem is that I lack practice. Where I come from, no one has ever been stupid enough to make me wait on purpose.

When you know the kind of men I know, and you do the kind of shit I do, it's hard to meet people who aren't willing to give their left nut for the chance to please you. Everyone gets two options: have their neck under my boot, or their corpse under my lawn...my warehouse...my boat dock. You get the idea.

Most people pick the first option. A pity, really. The second one is more enjoyable.

For me, I mean.

I finish making my rounds through her house, subtly shifting the things she's left out. Every day this week I've been here, and every day I've watched her come home, turn on the lamp by the living room window, open the window, and poke her head outside, as if the threat she feels within her walls can be miraculously cast out.

She doesn't understand that an exorcism is meant to work on demons.

Me? I'm a monster.

They call me Behemoth.

Walking over to her curtains, I tangle a hand in them. So soft. So compliant. Beautiful, really.

I yank, hard.

The fabric tumbles to the floor. Light streams in, and I take a step back. I stare, just for a moment, at the rumpled pile of loveliness that lies, ruined, on the wooden floorboards.

She, too, will lie in pitiful ruins at my feet.