Page 2 of Savagely Scarred

Scars fade, but I don’t.

I’m in her bloodstream.

Her bones.

Her nightmares.

Every time she hears footsteps behind her, every time the wind rattles a windowpane, every time he touches her and she flinches—I’m there.

I’m there.

As I enter my rundown, sorry excuse for an apartment building, the smell of mold and decay hit me in the face with such force that I flinch and throw my head back.

You’d think I’d be used to this shit by now.

The white and black checkered floors have seen better days. The white is now a shade of putrid brown, and they’re cracked and chipped everywhere. I cross them and ascend the dilapidated staircase that most certainly isn’t up to code.

Muffled sounds come from behind each door as I pass them to reach mine. I’ve barely seen my neighbors, but I already have them figured out.

Domestic abuse to my left.

Drugs to my right.

Possible dead body across from me…

Because Goddamn! What the fuck is that SMELL?

I quickly hurry into my apartment and lock all five locks behind me. These doors are shit and could be kicked in with or without the locks, but I don’t think the tenants that live here have enough brawn or brain cells to accomplish such a feat.

Turning around in the studio apartment, I face the wall of monitors set up above my desk. The only valuable thing in this dump. I flop down into the chair and hit a button on the keyboard. They flicker before coming to life and their glow illuminates the shadows in the room.

Ten years is a long time. An insufferable amount of time when your entire day is meticulously planned out, locked behind stone walls and barbed wire. I had nothing to do with my never-ending free time other than workout and read. And I did both. A lot.

Mostly, I thought about Olivia.

I prop my feet up on the CPU under the desk and lean back in my chair, my eyes bouncing back and forth between the screens. The left monitor switches between a view of the front of her perfect little house and the back of it.

The middle screen cycles through the views inside her home. That was the tricky one. As much as I had learned about computers during my time in jail, I didn’t exactly have the resources to learn something illegal like hacking. However, I made a lot of connections over the years. When you are hell bent on revenge, prison is the best place to network. Her security system is top of the line, but nothing my newfound friend couldn’t work around for me.

The other two monitors cycle through the city’s street cameras along the routes she frequents. I have alerts set up with facial recognition, so I don’t need to watch those unless she’s on them.

I zoom in on Olivia dancing around the kitchen in nothing but a tight white tank and her black panties. She does this a lot but…

Jesus Christ.

I unfasten my jeans to relieve the pressure of my aching cock. Sliding my hand down my briefs, I fist it hard and a bead of precum leaks out. Catching a glimpse of the scar I gave her on her thigh, I groan with satisfaction and start pumping my dick.

People call me a narcissist. A sadist. They say I’m sick. Twisted. Evil. And you know what? They’re right.

I love the sound of a woman breaking. I crave control. Deserve it. There’s something pure in pain. Something honest. I never lied to her about who I was. Not once. She just pretended not to see it. Until I cracked her open and made her look.

But she never appreciated me. I gave her discipline when she was weak. Silence when she whined. Obedience when she defied. That’s not abuse—that’s structure. Love without structure is chaos. I gave her a home, rules and a purpose. And she spit in my face.

Now she’s rebuilding her pathetic life with that overgrown boy scout who thinks he can save her.

SWAT. Ha.

A man with a gun and a hero complex. How quaint. He doesn’t know her like I do. He doesn’t know the way her lips quiver when she lies. Or how she curls in on herself when she’s afraid. Or the way she tastes when she cries.