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into the crack before dripping to the floor from her swollen pussy lips,
while she sucked her own filth from his dick, never stopping until she had it
erect enough so he could do it all over again. No, she could never tell him
that.
    “I want you to tell me
you’re not disappointed in me,” she managed, barely keeping the tears inside.

 
 
    CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
    Tom Tinkerton leaned
against the doorway of the bedroom, lost in thought. He had dodged a bullet in
this very room, but he still wondered if a ricochet was still spinning around
somewhere with his name on it. He had walked in that day in the nick of time,
finding Daniel standing over the girl with a fucking knife. If she had died,
Tom held no doubt that he might have found himself in jail. He knew Daniel was
off his rocker. Hell, deep down, he had known he would go after the girl. There
was no way he could have done anything at that point, but when she went
missing, he should have come here first. God only knew the depths of hell he
had put her through.
    But he had arrived in
time to save her, and everyone had seemed to focus on that more than anything.
Even the girl called him a hero at the arraignment. Some
hero. If she only knew he could have saved her weeks earlier, she would
probably be singing a completely different tune altogether. But she didn’t
know. No one did. No one but him. And try as he might,
he couldn’t get the image of that night out of his head. She was beat to shit.
    He pulled his hands
from his face and looked around the room again. The carpets had been replaced
because of the blood. Everything had been painted too, but when he ran his
fingers along the edge of the bedroom door, he could still feel the indentions
where the locks had been. Daniel had never intended to let the girl go; he knew
that all too well. What the fuck was he thinking?
    But he knew the answer
to that question; the fucker hadn’t been thinking. He was the perfect
definition of fucktard. Of course, his lawyer had called it insane, and the
idiot judge had agreed, so instead of prison, the son of a bitch was painting
self portraits in The Westville Asylum.
    The girl hadn’t come to
the trial and he could understand that completely. The way she explained it,
she had never managed to get a good look at his face and never wanted to. That
made sense on some way, but it had still surprised him that she hadn’t wanted
to be there to ask the judge to send him to prison. Just wanted to get it all
behind her, she had said. Well, good luck.
    He walked out of the
room and headed for the front door. The furniture, the dark paneling, all gone,
the room stood empty. All the paint in the world couldn’t hide the bullshit of
this place. Tinkerton wouldn’t be surprised if they never rented the house
again as he closed the front door behind him.

 
 
    CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
    Lana sat on the side of
the bed, staring at the darkness under the front of the dresser. Why get it
out? All she ever did was stare at it and cry. She hadn’t ever dared to put it
on. But the hood, tucked so neatly out of sight in the darkness beneath the
cherry wood dresser, was calling to her again. Its call was darker than the
shadows it hid in, darker than the thoughts in her own head, begging for her
acceptance.
    That prick had awakened
something inside her that scared her more than he had. The very demons in hell
held no horrors like the deepest crevices inside her mind. Rational thought
found no place within her when she thought of the hood, of what it represented.
She should hate him, should want him dead, but she didn’t. There was an
appreciation of sorts, for the birthing of the nightmares which offered her the
faintest hint of some sort of harmony with her own essence. He had been a
monster; there was no denying that, but he had awakened something even darker
inside her, with an irrefutably ravenous nature, though she doubted nature held
nothing of similar.
    Steadying herself
against the dresser, Lana