“No. You’re the one who served the information up on a plate for me.”
“What the fuck do you mean by this?” she asks, her loud voice not matching the composure she is trying to embrace.
I laugh. This is getting ridiculous.
“Your brain created fake scenarios that you still don’t understand are not real. You really thought you were untouchable, that I’d do whatever the fuck you want, and just take it without question? Get over yourself, Victoria. All it took was five seconds and your unprepared obsession and I was in.”
Instinctively, I look at her mouth. I want to see those lips shouting out insults, and whatever pathetic little comebacks she has. But apparently the image of her mouth, lips slightly parted, is enough to entertain both my brain and my cock. This is not a good sign.
I mean, is she a beautiful woman? I’m not blind. Is her twisted mind attractive?Abso-fucking-lutelynot. She is the prime example why my relationship with any vagina-holder should remain strictly at a physical level. The girl is nuts.
Maybe once I’m done with her, once she is nothing but a shell of what she used to be, I’ll release my tension, just once. Or maybe I will make her beg for it, allowing her a brief second of pleasure in the entirety of the pain I will inflict. Yes, this is what I will do.
“Stay the fuck away from them,” she snaps venomously, pulling me back from my thoughts.
“What did I tell you?” I lean in, my mouth closer to hers this time. “Control the variables to control the outcome.”
Her hands clench into fists, and I see the rage in her stance. She is ready to fight me. Another stupid mistake. But maybe a short, useless physical lesson is exactly what she needs to finally understand who is in charge here.
“And you?” I continue. “You didn’t even control yourself. Move in front of the mirror.”
But can she do what she’s told? No. She has to fight me.
The punch lands on my left cheek, and motherfucking lord, what is she eating? Her body needs a reminder that she’s more than a foot closer to the ground than me and one hundred pounds easier to throw into the wall. My little subject knows how to fight, that’s for sure. Luckily, so do I, and I play just as dirty as she does. One hand is on her throat, and I pick her up off the ground. I’m sure she has it in her to fight more, but even she cansee it’s a waste of time, so she stops after kicking me a few times and just exhales while rolling her eyes.
“Stop being a brat,” I say as I place her back on the ground. “And stand right here.”
The old mirror is cracked at the top, distorting the reflection.
In reality, she is the image of pure perfection: five-foot-three tops, slim, the marks from our little show visible on her neck and an expression that should make you fear her. She is beautiful, but not the soft type of way. There is nothing delicate in the way she moves her body, nothing docile in the way she looks at me. She is the embodiment of someone too strong for their own good.
But in the mirror? She looks like a broken woman, one who will lose it if you scream loud enough in her ear.
I step behind her, every extra inch of my height dwarfing hers. She looks small, a fragile thing in front of me. It makes me wonder how many bones those hands have broken before, how many times she’s wrapped them around someone’s neck.
Neck…her neck, my hands wrapped around it, feeling her pulse under my fingers, touching her skin, so soft. It felt so good.
Fuck.
“You walked into this building pretending you were in control,” I whisper, regaining some composure. My lips are so close to her ear that I breathe in her perfume—another mistake. I decide to completely ignore what is happening in my pants. “Now look at yourself. Look how insignificant you are.”
She flinches but gives nothing away—almost nothing, besides that burning stare.
“You picked your outfit thinking it would make you look like the strongest person in the room. Didn’t I just prove you wrong?”
She might be, but now is not the time nor the place to praise her. It’s time to play with her and her mind.
My eyes move from top to bottom: black everywhere—leather jacket, blouse underneath, jeans, and heeled boots. Everything black. Even her black hair is let down, reaching her waist. In all that sea of darkness, the only drop of color are her icy-blue eyes, and now, those eyes are looking at me like they are trying to penetrate my skull.
“You are not strong,” I add. “You’re just a pathetic, useless girl in a costume—pretending to be in control, and hoping no one notices how bad you’re trembling under it. And at the first sign of things not going as you planned? You lost it.”
She tries to turn around—defiance kicking in—but I keep her in position with one of my hands holding her shoulder while the other catches her jaw with two fingers.
“Eyes forward.”
The mirror takes her in again. She is stripped of poise, of posture, of whatever mask she tried to tape on this morning.
Victoria opens her mouth, but all that comes out is silence and the sound of her own breath catching on humiliation. She straightens her spine like the last act of bravery of a queen about to be crowned in ash.