me. “What did you just ask me?”
“You know what I asked.”
I do. I don't want to answer. Instead, I ask her the same thing. “Did they come for you, Marissa Augustine?” I ask in a voice that barely manages to be heard over the purring roar of the Audi's engine.
We stare at each other for a heartbeat's pause. I face the road.
“Yes.” Her voice is tight—hurt.
I jerk my face back, seeking her gaze. “Then you are no virgin.” I know this. Men who use children take the most tender morsel first.
Perfect recognition pierces us at the same moment. This young woman might be many things, but she is the same animal as I. From the same zoo of horrors.
Better hidden, but surfaced by la famille , all the same.
“Oh, I am, Shepard.” She enunciates my name sarcastically. “Technically.”
I shut my eyes, realize I'll crash the car, and they fly open, concentrating on the winding black ribbon of asphalt seeming to stretch endlessly in front of us.
In my peripheral vision, I watch Marissa resolutely straighten, facing forward once again. “Pedophiles are so much more careful now.” Her words fill the car like repressed agony.
I know the melody of her pain. Intimately.
Concentrating only on the road, I speed forward. The silence has weight, pulling us together like warm taffy, tearing our sameness away like unveiled gouges of flesh.
“Orphanage?” Marissa asks for clarification, flicking her finger at the wetness on her face.
“Yes,” I admit for the first time. “That is the least of why I do not return to their service. The orphanage where I came to find myself was no ordinary orphanage but one with the specific design to fashion Handlers for Roi.”
Marissa hides her shudder badly. After a few seconds, she asks softly, “Who is Roi?”
“Roi is dead.”
More silence. There is no radio, no cell phones. Nothing to distract the two of us but the misery standing between our words.
“Who is he?” she asks again.
“The abuser of many.”
“Okay, I can't stand the riddles anymore. Just speak. Talk to me like a normal guy.”
Normal. “I am not a normal man.”
“Fuck this.” Marissa engages the door handle, and I reach out with my right hand. My training is so much a part of me that I don't even think about it kicking in, as the Americans say.
My fingers wrap her wrist, and my thumb slides to the central nerve that feeds her hand. I apply pressure.
Marissa screams.
I clench my teeth against the once-familiar sound.
I applied the lightest touch. And I am a master of touch, both violent and tender. Though the latter took me by surprise the first time I thought to employ it with my onetime wife, Juliette Marcel.
I slow the vehicle and toss the gear into park with my left hand at the floor shifter.
Marissa twists, chopping the wrist that holds her own. Pain spikes, radiating to my shoulder as she got the nerve exactly right, weakening my hold.
I seize her hair as she flings the passenger door open.
Marissa yelps, throwing her arms back, attempting to plug her thumbs into my eyes. I fling my head backward, and she comes with me, falling into my lap.
“Let me go, you pig!”
I sink my fingers deeper into her mane of hair. It's as soft as I knew it would be. I yank her head back. Our mouths line up like planets seeking the same orbit, and I wrap her throat with my free hand.
“Fucker!”
“Yes,” I hiss in low threat and agreement.
Her gray eyes meet mine. “I promise not to try to get away again.”
I bend my head over hers, my lips hovering over her own.
Marissa's pupils dilate, and her breaths come faster. Arousal. Fear.
Chemistry.
I'm trained to see it—know it.
“Then go,” I say in the barest whisper. Only the sound of the open door alarm chimes between us.
I release her, and she falls forward, catching herself on the dashboard.
Leaning back, I drape my throbbing wrist over the back of the seat. “However, my exotic flower, if they find you—and make no
“You know what I asked.”
I do. I don't want to answer. Instead, I ask her the same thing. “Did they come for you, Marissa Augustine?” I ask in a voice that barely manages to be heard over the purring roar of the Audi's engine.
We stare at each other for a heartbeat's pause. I face the road.
“Yes.” Her voice is tight—hurt.
I jerk my face back, seeking her gaze. “Then you are no virgin.” I know this. Men who use children take the most tender morsel first.
Perfect recognition pierces us at the same moment. This young woman might be many things, but she is the same animal as I. From the same zoo of horrors.
Better hidden, but surfaced by la famille , all the same.
“Oh, I am, Shepard.” She enunciates my name sarcastically. “Technically.”
I shut my eyes, realize I'll crash the car, and they fly open, concentrating on the winding black ribbon of asphalt seeming to stretch endlessly in front of us.
In my peripheral vision, I watch Marissa resolutely straighten, facing forward once again. “Pedophiles are so much more careful now.” Her words fill the car like repressed agony.
I know the melody of her pain. Intimately.
Concentrating only on the road, I speed forward. The silence has weight, pulling us together like warm taffy, tearing our sameness away like unveiled gouges of flesh.
“Orphanage?” Marissa asks for clarification, flicking her finger at the wetness on her face.
“Yes,” I admit for the first time. “That is the least of why I do not return to their service. The orphanage where I came to find myself was no ordinary orphanage but one with the specific design to fashion Handlers for Roi.”
Marissa hides her shudder badly. After a few seconds, she asks softly, “Who is Roi?”
“Roi is dead.”
More silence. There is no radio, no cell phones. Nothing to distract the two of us but the misery standing between our words.
“Who is he?” she asks again.
“The abuser of many.”
“Okay, I can't stand the riddles anymore. Just speak. Talk to me like a normal guy.”
Normal. “I am not a normal man.”
“Fuck this.” Marissa engages the door handle, and I reach out with my right hand. My training is so much a part of me that I don't even think about it kicking in, as the Americans say.
My fingers wrap her wrist, and my thumb slides to the central nerve that feeds her hand. I apply pressure.
Marissa screams.
I clench my teeth against the once-familiar sound.
I applied the lightest touch. And I am a master of touch, both violent and tender. Though the latter took me by surprise the first time I thought to employ it with my onetime wife, Juliette Marcel.
I slow the vehicle and toss the gear into park with my left hand at the floor shifter.
Marissa twists, chopping the wrist that holds her own. Pain spikes, radiating to my shoulder as she got the nerve exactly right, weakening my hold.
I seize her hair as she flings the passenger door open.
Marissa yelps, throwing her arms back, attempting to plug her thumbs into my eyes. I fling my head backward, and she comes with me, falling into my lap.
“Let me go, you pig!”
I sink my fingers deeper into her mane of hair. It's as soft as I knew it would be. I yank her head back. Our mouths line up like planets seeking the same orbit, and I wrap her throat with my free hand.
“Fucker!”
“Yes,” I hiss in low threat and agreement.
Her gray eyes meet mine. “I promise not to try to get away again.”
I bend my head over hers, my lips hovering over her own.
Marissa's pupils dilate, and her breaths come faster. Arousal. Fear.
Chemistry.
I'm trained to see it—know it.
“Then go,” I say in the barest whisper. Only the sound of the open door alarm chimes between us.
I release her, and she falls forward, catching herself on the dashboard.
Leaning back, I drape my throbbing wrist over the back of the seat. “However, my exotic flower, if they find you—and make no
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