A MAN NEEDS a release from time to time. Needs to feel the full brute force of his power. Needs to untap all his potential and see the result. In Marcus’s younger days, it was done in a fight, leaning over a younger opponent. Punching then kicking, till the boy was a broken mess of a coward. Life changes as you grow up. As everyone else keeps growing and you stay the same, a five-foot-seven midget. Forced to look up. A man’s head shouldn’t turn up. Not a real man. And his fists could no longer win respect—not against a larger man. So Marcus found new weapons. Clawed his way to new heights. Gained power. Money. Money can create all manner of intimidation. And in that intimidation, he regained his footing. His confidence. But he still needed confirmation. That was where the girls had come in. The girls had given him the feeling of power and masculinity he missed from his youth.
On November 11, three years prior, he had finished in four hours. Turned away from the girl, zipping his pants as he walked to the cottage’s round table, gathering his keys and wallet and returning them to his pocket. He examined the front of his pants for blood. Nothing. Lifting the white dress shirt from the far chair, he shrugged into it.
Silence in the space. He glanced back. The whimpering had been good while it lasted, her gasps and screams silenced, first by his belt, then by his cock. But total silence was a problem. He walked to the bed, pulling up her head, her eyes closed, the muscles of her face slack. He swung the back of his hand and slapped her, the snap of her face satisfying, the brief start of her eyes reassuring. Still breathing. Good. He wasn’t an animal for Christ’s sake. Killing was for animals. He was a man of control.
He left her tied, his eyes sweeping appreciably over her outstretched arms, the marks of his fingers visible in the bruising. Her legs, still spread open, the twitch of his cock affirming his virility.
Shutting and locking the door behind him, he dialed his phone as he walked to the car, his lungs expanding and contracting, the axis of the world righted, his confidence regained, masculinity intact.
“Thorat. I’m done. Get her back.”
It had been November 11. Less than twenty-four hours before Katie McLaughlin had ruined his life.