Serpentine Desires

The predator

Judas Romanovski

The door slammed shut and it didn't do a damn thing to cage the storm raging inside me. My hands trembled—rage or something darker that I couldn't fucking name—and I loathed it with everything I had. My fingers curled around the edge of the fucking desk I had her slammed and knuckles whitened, and then—snap. The desk splintered under my grip, the wood cracking like her voice cracked my sanity.

Fuck. Her.

I swept my arm across the surface, sending everything flying—papers, glass, the laptop I'd replaced three times this year. It shattered, pieces scattering across the floor. She couldn't see it, of course. Couldn't see me. The real me—the monster that thrived in shadows, bathed in blood, and smiled while snapping necks. But she... she looked at me as if I were someone else. As if I were no better than any man.

A laugh ripped from my throat, sharp and bitter. "Stupid little girl."

I shut my eyes and her face stared back at me, defiant even in stillness, those soft eyes holding secrets that made me burn with something I couldn't name. My fingers itched to crush it, to break her like she was breaking me. But my hands stilled like an fucking pathetic idiot. Why? Why the fuck couldn't I finish it?

I was done holding myself back. And I had no idea why.

If she hadn't looked at me like that tonight, with that maddening mix of defiance and vulnerability, I wouldn't be losing my goddamn mind.

Why does she fucking matter?

Why did every other goddamn thing in this circus of a world was pale next to her?

I snarled like a cornered animal. She was the anomaly, the crack in the mirror, the fucking reason I was unravelling. She makes me weak. And I hated her for it.

Or maybe I didn't.

Was it guilt? No, I wasn't capable of guilt. Not anymore. But when it came to her... I wasn't sure.

I told myself I didn't want her tears, but maybe I did. Maybe I wanted to drown in them.

I grabbed a chair and hurled it at the window. Glass exploded outward, scattering into the night, fragments catching the cold. Just like I was indifferent to the rest of the world. Except with her. With her, it was different. And I hated her for that too.

She shouldn't matter for fuck's sake. I had no trouble burning the bastard, I had no remorse when I slice skins, but one tear of hers and I didn't know what was right and not.

My eyes caught the sight of the shard of glass, and for a moment, I imagined pressing it to her skin. Would she bleed like I did when she cut too deep with her words?

She would never understand. Never. Her world was soft, wrapped in illusions of love and fucking loyalty. Mine? Rot. Fire. Blood. I dragged my hands through my hair, pulling hard enough to sting, but it wasn't enough. The chaos in my head wouldn't quiet.

Fuck her.

But I couldn't. Not literally, not metaphorically. Not without breaking apart what little restraint I had left. I'd promised myself I wouldn't touch her again, wouldn't let her drag me deeper into this madness. But promises were for better men, and I wasn't one of them.

Her phantom was still here—her scent, her voice, the memory of her. My chest tightened, an ache bloomed where there should have been nothing. I didn't want to hurt her. Not really. But she made it so fucking hard not to.