Tormentor Mine(23)
“Are you sure he’s gone?” I ask as the agent gets to his feet. “Are you certain he’s nowhere near here?”
“Nobody can be certain of anything when it comes to this psychopath, but for what it’s worth, a little over six weeks ago, he killed another person on his list—this one in South Africa,” Ryson says bleakly. “And before that, he took out two more in Canada despite our best attempts to safeguard them. So yes, as far as we know, he’s far from US soil.”
I stare at him, rendered mute by horror. Three more victims in the last six months. Three more lives lost while I’ve been battling nightmares and paranoia.
“Good luck, Dr. Cobakis,” Ryson says, not unkindly, and places a few dollar bills on the table. “Time really does heal, and one day, you’ll move past this too. I’m sure of that.”
“Thank you,” I say in a choked voice, but he’s already walking away, his stocky figure disappearing through the glass doors of the cafe.
* * *
That night, I dream of Peter Sokolov’s attack again, and the nightmare takes the turn I dread the most. Instead of him holding me under the faucet, he has me pinned under him on a bed, his steely fingers shackling my wrists. I feel him moving inside me, his cock long and thick as he invades my body, and heat thrums under my skin, my nipples taut and aching as they rub against his muscled chest.
“Please,” I beg, wrapping my legs around his hips as his metallic eyes stare into mine. “Harder, please. I need you.”
I’m slick with that need; it burns inside me, hot and dark, and he knows it. He feels it. I can see it in the coldness of his silver gaze, in the cruel set of his sensuous mouth. His fingers tighten around my wrists, cutting into my skin like a zip tie, and his cock turns into a blade, slicing me open, making me bleed.
“Harder,” I plead, my hips rising up to meet his knife-like thrusts. “Don’t leave me. Take me harder.”
He does exactly that, each stroke ripping me open, and I scream with pain and twisted pleasure, with relief and sweet agony.
I scream as I die in his arms, and it’s the best death I can imagine.
* * *
I wake up with my sex slick and throbbing and my stomach churning with nausea. Out of all the tricks my brain’s been playing on me, these perverted dreams are the worst. I can understand the panic attacks and the paranoia—they’re a natural result of what I’ve been through—but there’s nothing natural about the sexual slant of these nightmares. Just thinking about them makes me physically ill with shame.
Getting up, I pull on a robe over my pajamas and go down to the kitchen. My breathing is unsteady and my heart is racing, but this time, it’s not from fear. I feel flushed and agitated, my body aching with frustrated arousal.
I almost came during that dream. Another few seconds, and I would’ve orgasmed—like I’ve orgasmed during these dreams twice before.
Self-disgust is a heavy brick in my stomach as I make my decaf tea. What kind of twisted person has sexual dreams about her husband’s killer? How messed up does one have to be to enjoy dying in said killer’s arms?
I’ve considered discussing this with Dr. Evans, but whenever I try to bring up the topic in our sessions, I shut down. I simply can’t bring myself to form the words. Verbalizing the dreams would give them substance, transforming them from a nebulous product of my sleeping subconscious to something I think and talk about when I’m awake, and I can’t have that.
In any case, I know what the therapist would tell me. He’d say that I’m a young, healthy woman who hasn’t had sex in a long time, and that it’s normal to feel those types of urges. That it’s my guilt and self-loathing that are transforming my sexual fantasies into something dark and twisted, and the dreams don’t mean I’m actually attracted to the man who tortured me and killed George.
Dr. Evans would try to alleviate my guilt and shame, and that’s not something I deserve.
When the tea is ready, I carry it over to the kitchen table and sit down. I’m about to take my first sip when I get the watched feeling again. Rationally, I know I’m alone, but my heart rate speeds up, and my palms dampen with sweat.
My pepper spray container is upstairs, so I get up and, as calmly as I can, make my way to the knife rack on the counter. I select the biggest, sharpest knife and bring it back to the table with me. I know it would be useless against someone like Peter Sokolov, but it’s better than nothing. After a few deep breaths, I calm down enough to drink my tea, but the unsettling sensation of invisible eyes persists.
If the house doesn’t sell soon, I’ll just move out, I decide as I go back to bed.