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She’s something else entirely, something dark and hungry. And now, nothing is stopping me from doing every sick and depraved thing I’ve been dreaming about for years to their precious little Tatum.
The thought sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine, cutting through the haze of alcohol like a blade. I down another shot, savoring the burn, and let my mind drift to her. Tatum. Even her name feels good on my tongue, like a secret I’m not supposed to say out loud, forbidden and cherished. She’s most likely hiding away in her room at home right now. She's probably crying to sleep in that big, empty bed she’s spent the last few days in. Thinking about and mourning them.
But not me.
Shit, I won’t mourn them. They were nothing to me. Just obstacles. Things that loved to tell me what a disappointment I was. Or how I should be more like her. Doing whatever they could to get in my way. To keep me from doing any of the shit I want to fucking do. And now, they’re gone.
What the fuck is there to mourn?
The whiskey makes everything easier to think about. Like somehow it’s clearer, and as I let the thoughts swirl around in my head, dark and dangerous things slowly feel like they’re falling into place. I’ve always been good at keeping things under control, at hiding the truth behind a mask of indifference. But with them gone, I don’t have to hide anymore. I can finally take what’s mine.
And she is mine.
As the alcohol works its way through my bloodstream, I imagine her face when she finds out about my plan. About the lengths I’m willing to go to to ensure I finally get what I want. She thinks she knows me. She knows how cruel and dark I can be, but she has no fucking idea. Tatum has no clue about the level of fucked up we are and what we’re about to become together. She’ll fight it at first, try to cling to that pathetic little shred of goodness she thinks she has left.
But that will just make things more fun. For me, anyway.
I’ll strip it away, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left but the darkness that lurks underneath. The real her. The one she’s been hiding from all this time. And when she finally gives in, when she finally lets go and becomes what she’s meant to be...fuck, that’s a sight I can’t wait to fucking see.
The bartender glances at me, probably wondering if I’m going to pass out or if she’ll have to throw me out. I give her a crooked smile that perhaps doesn’t reach my eyes and push the empty glass toward her. “Another,” I say, my voice rough and slurred around the edges.
She hesitates, her hand hovering over the bottle, but then she sighs and pours the shot. I like her. She knows how to keep her mouth shut and just do her fucking job. Tatum could learn a thing or two from her. If Tatum were here right now, I’d teach her to shut up like the bartender. But that can wait. I’ve got all the time in the world now.
I lift the glass, staring into the amber liquid as if it holds the answers to all the fucked-up questions swirling in my head. It doesn’t, of course. Nothing does. But it helps. It dulls the ache, the twisted need gnawing at me for so long. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want her. When I didn’t want to ruin her. Forbidden or not, I’ve spent years dreaming about how one day I would twist her. Form her into the glorious fucking dark queen she was always meant to be. The nights I spent stroking my fucking cock while thoughts of fucking her into submission while she laid naked beneath me, wearing nothing but one of those stupid fucking flower crowns she used to make, filled my head. She acts like this perfect little angel, like the ideal fucking daughter, but I know differently. I fucking know what’s inside her. I can feel it.
And I’m going to bring it out.
The whiskey slides down my throat, smoother now, with less burn and more heat. I close my eyes, letting the warmth spread through me, letting the alcohol do its job. The bar fades away, as does the noise, the lights, and the people, until it’s just me and my thoughts.
And her. Always fucking her.
She’s all I can think about, even when I’m supposed to be mourning, supposed to be grieving the loss of my father and her mother. The thought brings a smile to my face. I wonder if they’re looking down on us or if they know all the thoughts I have planned for their favorite child.
The jokes on you, Dad. I’m going to break down and ruin every single part of her that you two cherished, and then, I’m going to fuck every single tiny piece until every fiber of hers is tainted with me. And there isn’t a single fucking thing you two can do about it.
The path is clear. And all I have to do is take that final step.
The thought makes me smile, a slow, wicked curve of my lips that probably looks as twisted as I feel. I open my eyes, the room coming back into focus, and toss a few crumpled bills onto the bar. The bartender doesn’t say anything as I stand, just watches me with those tired eyes, probably relieved I’m finally leaving. She doesn’t know what’s coming, doesn’t know what I’m planning.
But she’ll see. They’ll all see.
The night air is cool against my skin as I step outside, the dim light of the bar fading behind me. The street is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re the last person on earth. I like it, though. I like the stillness, the way it lets me think without interruptions. It makes it easier for me to plan.
Our house isn’t far, just a few blocks away. I can walk it in minutes, even in this state. And when I get there...well, that’s when the real fun begins. I take my time, letting the anticipation build with each step, savoring the thought of what’s to come. She’s probably asleep by now, exhausted from all the crying and the grieving. But she won’t be asleep for long, not after what I have planned for her.
The house looms in the distance, a dark silhouette against the night sky. It looks different now, without them in it. Colder, emptier. But that’s okay. I like it better this way. I like knowing that it’s just the two of us now, that there’s no one left to get in the way.
It gives a different meaning to our house. Now, it’s just hers and mine.
When I reach the front door, I pause for a moment, letting the silence wash over me. The world feels different tonight, like something has shifted, like something dark and inevitable is coming. And I’m so fucking ready for it. I’ve been ready for a long time, and regardless of the bullshit people have told me over the years, I fucking deserve this. Every goddamn second of it.
I deserve her.
The door creaks as I push it open, the sound echoing through the empty house. Inside, it’s dark and quiet, the only light coming from the small lamp Tatum left on in the living room. The same room where she fell apart the other day after, no doubt the same phone call I received. The call that caused her to break down like a fucking child. I can still see her there, her face buried in her hands, her body shaking with sobs.
It was pathetic, really. But also...enticing.
I close the door behind me, locking it with a soft click. The house feels even colder now, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there. I like it. It matches the way I feel inside, the way I’ve always felt. I take a deep breath, her scent still lingering in the air, mixed with the faint, fading scent of her mother’s perfume. It makes my blood pulse, the anticipation growing stronger, more insistent. She’s upstairs, just a few steps away, sound asleep in her bed, and all I have to do is take her.
