Taste of revenge

11

Chapter Eleven
Michele

E yes closed, lips parted, he drummed his fingers on the surface of the
polished table, following the sound of the music as it beckoned sweet
victory. It wouldn't be much longer now, and he could finally rest in
peace knowing that the balance had been restored—that revenge had been
served.
Chopin's Prelude in E minor bathed the room as he gave himself to the
melody, satisfaction simmering inside of him just beneath the surface. It
was bubbly and almost out of control, and the need to gloat was eating at
him. But not yet. He wouldn't jeopardize his plans by celebrating too soon.
Not when the pieces had fallen so perfectly in his lap.
The sudden staccato woke him from his reverie, and he turned his
attention to the decanter on the table. Filling the glass to the brim, he gulped
it down in one go, rising from his seat and putting his jacket on.
It was showtime.
He'd tarried long enough as he'd dreamed up all sorts of scenarios, the
anticipation almost killing him.
But it wasn't because of her. It could never be because of her.
She was just a pawn in his albeit flawless game, and she'd be quickly
dismissed once she'd outlive her purpose.
No, this was the allure of the hunt. The knowledge that after months of
dancing attendance at her feet, of pretending to be anything less than the
monster he was, he'd finally get his due.
The beginning of the end.

The fact that he'd get some pleasure from her rather delectable body was
just a side benefit. But he knew that he would be getting more than just
simple, corporeal pleasure. He would be getting the satisfaction of
conquering that which had not yet been conquered—fact that was made
more potent by the power he knew he had over her.
He could sway her mind as he wished. He could command her to do his
absolute bidding and she would not falter. That rapt adoration that dripped
from her eyes whenever she looked at him—that was his undoing. It made
him feel powerful and it provided him with a drug so strong it inundated his
senses in an astounding euphoria.
He hadn't banked on that when he'd first approached her. He hadn't even
given her much thought, if he were honest with himself.
But once he'd introduced himself to her, once he'd insinuated himself in
her life, he'd realized just how potent her brand of hero-worship was.
Because in her eyes, he could do no wrong.
The misguided little chit. A smile probed at his lips at the thought. He'd
given her the one thing she craved—attention—and she'd laid her heart at
his feet, offering to do anything to keep him happy.
She'd turned, one might argue, into the perfect pet—cute, adoring, and
loyal to a fault.
He'd whispered a compliment here, a nicety there, and she'd been putty
in his hands, all sense leaving her.
She'd stopped worrying about their age difference, or about the secrecy
he'd sworn her to, and she'd definitely stopped complaining about the
degrading things he would often make her do. After all, she had one
purpose—to please. And she was nothing if not obliging.
Opening the door to his '63 Benz convertible, he hopped into the driver
seat, pulling a cigarette from a nearby compartment and popping it into his
mouth. Turning the volume up on his stereo, he revved the engine, the car
purring to life as he led it down the highway and towards his destination.
He drove by the school, ready to pull into the parking lot when he saw
her.
She was sitting by the gate, hands in the pockets of her hoodie, her head
down as she tried to ignore the passing stares of her classmates. From his
vantage point, he could only see the profile. But that was enough to make
all the blood pool low in his groin.

He might have an ulterior motive for doing this, but there would never
be any hardship in using her.
High, sharp cheekbones that descended into an equally sharp jaw, her
features looked like they had been sculpted in marble. Her dainty heart
shaped face was only made more striking by pale skin and a pair of hazel
eyes that spoke of hidden fire and unreleased passion. Wavy mahogany
tresses flowed down her back, the color stark against her porcelain pallor
and making her look even more like a real-life doll.
A doll he'd have the pleasure of breaking.
She didn't look happy. But then, she never did. He knew her life was
miserable just like he knew he was the only thing that brought her joy—real
joy. After all, he'd banked on that from the beginning.
With a history like hers, abandoned by everyone in her life and never
given more than a second thought, he'd known she'd be an easy target.
And as he pulled into the parking lot, the sound of the engine drawing
everyone's attention, he watched slyly as her features changed. A lightness
descended upon her face, her lips pulling into a small smile, her eyes wide
and luminous and damn it all to hell if it didn't make him even harder.
He knew that today was the day—the day he'd finally own her, and a
low hum of anticipation escaped him as he watched her trudge her way
towards him.
She still kept her head down, even though the happiness was evident on
her features. And as she reached his car, he noted her flushed cheeks and
dilated pupils and realized he wasn't the only one awaiting their time
together.
"You're here," she said, almost breathless.
He merely let his brows arch in a quiet invitation and she immediately
slid into the passenger seat, swinging the backpack off her shoulder and
throwing it in the back seat.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, pet," he gave her a wink, letting his
palm rest on top of her head in a semi-affectionate gesture. After all, this
was the only tender thing she'd ever get from him. But she didn't mind that.
She was so far gone she'd take any scraps of attention he'd give her.
Proof being the giddiness written all over her face as he drove them off,
heading to the hotel he'd booked for the afternoon.