God and Monsters

Chapter 35

Usually, when I finish murdering someone, I feel all the tension release from my body. It can be an aphrodisiac sometimes. It's so rare not to be strung tight that when my muscles are loose and languid, it's fucking orgasmic. Another reason why I'm addicted to Rosie and all the ways I melt beneath her fingertips. But this time, I'm just fucking annoyed. Liv did what she always does and took shit a step too far. She decided it would be fun to play fucking frisbee with body parts or some shit, so we spent an hour alone trying to locate every piece of Francesca so we could bury them.
By the time I picked up all ten of her fingers, I didn't fucking care anymore. Didn't help that Liv decided to have an imaginary orgy directly after, forcing Rosie and I to leave until she finished. Literally.

And of course, during the two hours it took to dig and bury the bodies, she felt inclined to tell me every sordid detail of what her henchmen did to her. Or rather, what she did to herself.
I let her talk and tuned out the parts I didn't care to hear. Liv's never had real friends before, and despite how badly I don't want to hear how she got railed up the ass, I refuse to set an example of friendship by silencing her. Sighing, I tiredly make my way up the steps, my movements heavy and lethargic. I'm covered in dirt and blood, and probably a few other things I don't care to know.

When I trudge into Rosie's bedroom, I find steam spilling from the depths of her bathroom. I roll my head back, immediately overcome with images of her standing beneath the shower head, water sluicing down her naked curves. My cock hardens instantly, the tension in my muscles bracketing my muscles into stone. Pushing the door open gently, I'm surprised to see her standing in front of the vanity mirror, eyes tracing her bare skin. There's a frown pulling down her lips, and she stares at her reflection with a mixture of abhorrence and curiosity.
She tenses, hearing my intrusion, yet she doesn't take her eyes off of herself. She's completely naked, and the sight nearly sends me to my knees.
Both in worship and sorrow.

Two long, jagged scars slice across her back. The sight of them makes me viscerally angry, and it reignites my desire to kill the man who caused them. I vividly remember watching Dr. Garrison stitch those wounds through the camera footage. Learning to accept my own scars was a process, and one I faced alone. But Rosie will never face anything alone again. Soon, I'll trace my tongue across each one and show her that she's still beautiful with or without them.
Scars only serve as reminders of what we've survived, not what killed us. Blood and dirt coat her pale skin, flaking from her body and onto the heated rock floor. She runs her hand across her flat stomach, drawing my eyes to her fingers. Slowly, I move closer until what she's doing becomes clearer. Like plucking a string on a guitar, her nails claw at a tiny white scar.

"I had hoped these would fade," she murmurs, keeping her voice low in an attempt to hide the wobble. "They're more tragic when it's another carving sorrowful memories into your skin."

She flicks her gaze to me. "I hate them."

I grit my teeth, fury building in my chest. I would've loved to have killed Xavier myself. Take my time with him as I did with Max. But it wasn't my revenge to take. Though the satisfaction of getting her off before him is something I'll cherish.

"Every time I look at them, I think of him," she continues in a hushed tone. "I don't want to look at my body and see anyone else but me and you."

I stay silent and pull my t-shirt and sports bra over my head in one go. She doesn't even glance my way, too lost in the memories that gave her those scars.

"Do they still hurt, baby?" I ask, unfastening my belt and jeans before removing those, too.
By the time she answers, I've completely undressed.

"Sometimes," she whispers. "Sometimes they burn. As if the blade never stopped cutting through my skin."