Predator. Prey.

Power.

Joker's POV

I had no intention to save her.

Twice.

In one fucking night.

She was a means for survival. I've seen a million girls like her before: pretty face, open heart, naive mind. Nothing more to them than a dim, usually feigned sense of humor. I played her, I won, and I broke her.

And yet she was still here.

And I was taking her home. In my expensive ass car.

I growled in frustration, hitting my head against the side of the leather interior, wishing I could do it all over again. There had to have been another way out of the Asylum; there always is. But when I saw her, I knew I had an opportunity to escape and cause chaos and utter destruction inside that blonde little head, and I went head first into making sure she cracked.

And she did. But not in the way I was expecting.

Without moving my head, I glanced over at her in the passenger's seat: glowing skin, snow white hair dyed from ACE chemicals, her slim body rocking the hell out of my clothes. She was leaning back in her seat, entranced by the colors emanating from the lights of my interior. She acted as if they truly were painting her skin, grazing her fingers over the reflections as she smiled to herself. And then she was broke out of her trance as she looked up at me through batted lashes, a look so full of obsession and desire my eyes darted away, eager to not give her the satisfaction that I was paying any attention to her.

Why was I paying any attention to her?

No one, not even my most trusted henchman, have lived for me the way she has. When I brought her to the chemical plant, and I had watched in sheer awe as she dived headfirst into her possible death, I shook any feelings of guilt, and had even turned around, making the decision to let her die. I didn't need a hopelessly romantic doctor following me around any more than I needed a hole in my head.

And yet something had stopped me. A primal urge, something I couldn't even describe. It halted me dead in my tracks, and overcame my senses. And as if it was against my will, I had jumped off the edge and dived in after her. Holding her in my arms, her seemingly unconscious body totally at my will, it had awoken a feeling in me that was normally hidden away inside my head: desire.

I wanted her, and I would leave it at that. I felt nothing more, nothing less. I simply wanted her. She would be mine, and I could teach her how to act and what to say, and how to make me happy. She could be like a loyal bloodhound, ready to follow my every command.

A nagging voice in my head noted,

'She already knows how to make you happy.'

And it was true: it was as if she was born with the answers already. She knew I craved endless power and dominance in every aspect of my life. I've always been that way. Being in control is what makes me feel most secure, in a world I've created that is so full of chaos and danger, it's me who stands as my own rock. Knowing I hold all the power is what keeps me floating in this beautiful sea of unknown recklessness.

She knows what to say, how to say it, and when to make the right move. She's so innocent and submissive, yet there was a power in that, that unsettled me. I've been playing her since the beginning, yet in a way, she was playing me. She was evoking these emotions inside me from the shadows of the darkest parts of my brain, toying with them, and forcing them to come into my consciousness. She fed off making me happy, and it was a genuine desire of hers, something she knew brilliantly how to do.

She gave herself to me entirely, and yet there was still a power in that. It was a nonsensical contradiction that made complete sense. Physically, I was in control. Psychologically, I wasn't sure.

She was a bad idea. I should've let her die. She is nothing but problems for me.

And yet she was fucking intoxicating.

Her words, always charged with lust and desire, were like a drug to me, feeding my ego and my desire. Her actions, her movements, her eyes, everything about her made me want to overpower her and lock her away, somewhere where only I could touch her. I didn't need her, but I wanted her.

I wanted her to be mine.

And only mine.

The thought of anyone else using my things always caused a rush of adrenaline and fury to override my senses, but the thought of anyone using her made me want to fucking kill anything in my path. At the thought of this, a smile formed on my face.

She added to the recklessness; she added to the rage, the fire, the anger. She made me more dangerous. She made me more unpredictable.

I wanted her. And she was going to make me stronger.

Her accented voice cut through the silence in the air,

"Whatcha smilin' at, puddin'?"


I took one hand off the steering wheel and let it hang outside the window,

"A good joke."