Chapter 2
Gideonn Silvermist’s POV
There were other monsters in the world.
Monsters like me.
The only difference?
I was the biggest one. And the bigger the
beast, the harder it was to control. Life was a cycle—a cycle I didn’t want. A cycle I refused to follow.
So, I made my own. Buy a wife. Get too
carried away. She ends up dead in my arms.
Every time, the same.
"This one will last longer," I told
myself.
Two days.
I ignored her. I ignored everyone. I tried
to. But the pattern never changed.
They die. I live.
I get new people.
They die.
I live…
A deliberate throat-clearing snapped me from
my thoughts.
Monica.
Her presence yanked me away from the voices
in my head—except my voices weren’t mere thoughts. They were something else.
Another monster, serrating beneath my skin, a four-legged beast threatening to
break free.
I smirked, masking the catastrophe beneath.
"How do you find your new wife?"
she asked.
I scoffed, tucking my hands into my pockets,
leaning back in my chair.
"You already know." My voice,
detached. "Another pathetic man owes me money. He can’t pay. So, he offers
me his best asset—his daughter."
Never the wife.
Always the daughter. Their precious, innocent
little daughters.
Monica wrote something down, her silence
thick with judgment.
"And do you find that unethical?"
she asked.
"Yeah," I answered curtly.
If I ever had a daughter, I’d sell my wife
before I’d sell her.
Not that it mattered. A monster like me would
never fall into that trap.
"Then stop," she said simply.
A growl rumbled in my chest.
She didn’t even flinch.
Dr. Monica Vapor. A woman of class. A woman
with no fear.
She gestured casually to my face. "Your
eyes are changing color. Contain yourself. You wouldn’t want your new wife
seeing what you are just yet… or ever."
I clenched my jaw. My nails—long, sharp—dug
into my desk, carving deep gouges into the wood.
"Breathing exercises," she
prompted.
I exhaled sharply.
In. Out.
In. Out.
Steady. Controlled.
I opened my eyes and glared at her.
"Thanks a lot," I muttered.
She grinned, amused. She loved patronizing
me.
"You don’t look thankful."
"Well, at least your head still
attached," I shot back.
She shrugged, unbothered.
"If you knew better," she said,
smirking, "you’d marry me."
I smirked. "You're already married,
Doctor."
Monica’s brown eyes sparkled with mischief as
she winked. "There's a thing called divorce."
I chuckled darkly. "Don't tell me you
can tame a hundred-year-old beast inside me, but you can't handle your damn
human husband."
"Well, there's a monster and a beast in
every human," she mused. "I’d say you're easy to control but
impossible to understand."
She jotted something down in her notepad.
I leaned back, studying the dark-skinned
woman before me. "Did you write that down to tell your husband
later?"
Her lips curled into a smile, betraying the
faintest blush. I could hear her heartbeat quicken. My words had enthralled
her.
"I'm the therapist here," she
teased. "Stop observing me and sizing me up."
"Maybe you’re my next meal,
Doctor."
She arched a brow. "Mhm. But you still
won’t marry me?"
"Your husband needs you more than I
do."
"Maybe." Her voice softened.
"When I get tired," I murmured,
"I’ll come for you."
"Counting on it," she said.
Then, her face turned serious. She tucked her
notepad into her handbag.
"Find a woman who understands you, Mr.
Silvermist," she advised.
For a moment, I almost laughed. I had
forgotten—I was married.
Two days ago.
My wives always ended up dead. But I was
always married.
"I’ll try," I said, though we both
knew I wouldn’t.
A soft knock interrupted our moment.
"Mrs. Silvermist." My assistant’s
voice was gentle, careful.
Monica took that as her cue. "Same time,
same place next Friday?" she asked, smiling.
"Of course," I said, inclining my
head slightly. A rare show of respect.
I always respected Monica.
She was the only woman who understood me—even
if she was paid to do it.
We both stood, and I escorted her to the
door. As I opened it, a familiar scent filled my lungs.
My wife.
She stood behind my assistant, waiting.
"Go inside," I ordered them,
dismissing them without a glance.
I wasn’t done with Monica yet.
The walk to her car. The quiet conversation
we always shared on the way. That was where things became more personal.
"She doesn't look too bad," Monica
mused.
"Her looks don’t matter," I replied
dismissively.
She smirked. "Your beast always has a
way of showing itself."
I arched a brow. "And how is that?"
She tilted her head, amusement dancing in her
eyes. "Your fangs, Mr. Silvermist."
I eyed her, taking in the way her pulse
quickened just slightly. "One day, they’ll be in you."
"Sure," she drawled, a teasing
smirk playing on her lips. "That’ll be the only thing you’ll have in
me."
I chuckled darkly. "Your way with words
always hits the spot."
Monica’s gaze flickered toward the house.
"She looks so..."
"Innocent?" I finished for her. They always did.
She shook her head. "Broken."
I snorted. "And what makes you say
that?"
Monica’s expression was crabbed as she
listed, "Fading scars on her wrists. The emptiness in her eyes. She looks
like she’s waiting for death."
I didn’t like the sound of that.
She shouldn’t be waiting for death. She
should be terrified—terrified that one day, I’d wrap my hands around her
fragile little neck and snap it. Probably before Sunday.
"I hate broken girls," I muttered.
"Because their blood isn’t seasoned with
fear?"
I leaned in, my face just threads from hers.
Monica didn’t flinch. Her eyes held mine, her irises reflecting something I
wasn’t sure I wanted to name.
"I love how well you know me,
Monica," I murmured.
My hand came up beside her, palm pressing
against the car. Her back rested against the door, and her breath hitched—just
for a moment.
"Look at you," I mused.
"Already ready to cheat on your husband."
"He’s doing it," she shot back,
voice smooth.
I exhaled sharply, then pulled back and
opened the car door instead. "Are you sure you’re not the broken
one?"
"Maybe," she admitted, biting her
lip.
Then, as if snapping out of it, she sighed
and slipped into her seat. Placing her bag on the passenger side, she turned
back to me, her flirtatious facade fading.
"I hope I come back to see her still
alive," she said softly.
I didn’t respond.
I just shut the door.
"Maybe."
"See you Friday."
"It's our little date session."
"When you say it like that, you’ll have
me thinking about it every day until our time comes."
"Hmm. Are you sure you’re not thinking
about the other clients?"
"What other clients?"
I chuckled. "The ones you had before you
met me."
I met Monica in desperation—the first woman I
ever talked about my disease. Because that’s what it was, a disease. A curse
that plagued me every waking moment. I had control—just barely. Enough to keep
from ripping everyone’s head off. Just mostly my wives'.
Hunting them down took different forms.
Sometimes, I chased them through these very halls. Other times, I let them run
into the forest, thinking they had a chance. The end was always the same. A
fate worse than death.
What was I going to do with this one? Wife
number twenty-five? Or was it fifty-six?
"Try to let her understand you,"
Monica advised.
I shrugged. "I’ll try."
"Good. Trying is better than nothing.
See you."
I bowed as she shut her car door and drove
off. Monica should really consider herself lucky.
**********
I prowled back into my office, my brows
frowning when I found it empty—no assistant in sight. Just my newest wife,
hopping on pencil-thin legs, arms stretched as she struggled to pull down a
book.
I watched her, silent. The long, tattered
dress obscured most of her body, but what little skin I could see was in bad
condition. Fresh cuts marred her arms, raw and jagged, as if she’d clawed at
herself with her own nails.
Was she a wounded bird? Plucking her own
feathers?
I shut the door quietly behind me.
She had long, pretty champagne blonde hair
with a golden undertone. Well, if I was going to rip her neck from her body, I
might as well enjoy the view while I took her in.
My eyes narrowed as her grunting and strained
sounds grinded against my nerves. I wanted her to be quiet. If she didn’t get
the book on the first jump, she wasn’t getting it at all.
"Do you like touching things that aren’t
yours?"
A sharp scream escaped her.
Hmm. She had a cute little scream. I wondered
how much louder she could get. Maybe I should test that theory. My eyes shifted
to my desk. Work wasn’t going to get done by itself. But I could put it on
pause. A little hunt with her wouldn’t hurt.
"I’m sorry—"
"I like your scream. I often enjoy
screams," I said, walking past her.
She smelled musty, with just a hint of cheap
perfume, and the unmistakable stench of her father lingered on her. I glared at
her, and she glared back. She could have a sassy attitude if given the chance.
How sassy could she be? I wouldn’t know. I
was going to end her.
I imagined tying her intestines in knots and
using her head as a ball, my fangs sinking into her soft scalp until I felt the
hard pressure of her skull beneath. But what skull was ever too hard for my
teeth to break? I loved the crunch.
She needed to smell better, though, if she
was going to be anywhere near me for even a second.
Her hand waved at her side, and she flashed a
brief smile. "I’m sorry. I was trying to get the book."
I glanced at the book.
"Ask for it."
"I’ll do that when the man comes."
This girl was confusing. She got a reaction
out of me. I sniffed the air from where I sat. She made my stomach churn. Why
did it irritate me that she smelled like Thane Darkfire? Just... why?
"The man," I said, prowling closer
to her—no, she was coming closer to me. "What man?"
"Uhm," she nervously chuckled.
"I don’t remember his name. Sometimes I remember, sometimes not."
I glanced at my nameplate. Worth a try.
"This man?" I tapped the golden plate with my name.
She whispered my name softly. "Gideonn
Silvermist."
She nodded slowly. "That man. I’m
married to him." She flashed the ring—the one that had been on many
fingers. How much was it? Two hundred? Five hundred? I wasn’t counting. A
hundred years felt like a lifetime, and I had my own never-ending cycle.
"I saw the ring this morning on the dresser. Where is he?"
I smirked. "That man... is me,
wife?"
She took a step back in fear. I grinned.
"You don’t look like you want to meet me."
"I just thought... the name."
"I know the name. It’s mine. My father
gave it to me. He gave me everything. Doesn’t your father give you everything,
wife?"
She looked down shyly, fiddling with a strand
of her long hair. She wasn’t much to look at. I hadn’t seen her clearly the
other night when I took her. But she was worth the most. Her father sure
gambled a lot.
Her bony shoulder shrugged, and I could hear
her heart racing, her bones rattling. She was all bone. I liked a little meat
on my prey. But she was just bones. It wasn’t satisfying. I preferred when a father
handed over his fattest daughter. My teeth loved sinking deep into bloodied
flesh.
I growled, frustrated. But she was just bones.
She giggled softly.
"What's so funny?" I asked.
"You're like a dog. Plus, Simba doesn’t
like you, so you’ve got a dog-like aura."
A dog? She confused me first, then crushed my
ego. A dog? I was a monster. A beast who would tear her to pieces, and she
calls me a dog?
Her smile faded. "I’m sorry. It’s
just—"
"Who’s Simba?"
"The hissing cat," she answered
softly. Her eyes drifted to my desk, lingering on a spot that seemed to
unsettle her. My beast stirred, so I reached for some paperwork and covered it.
"You like cats?" I asked.
"Yeah," she stuttered.
"Well, I hate cats, wife."
"They hate you too."
I scoffed. "You need a shower."
"Well, if my husband hadn’t left me
locked in a room without a shower for two days, I would’ve showered," she
shot back, her tone surprisingly sharp.
"I'll have my assistant show you the
way."
I heard her stomach growl.
"Did you eat?"
Why did I ask that? I really didn’t care
whether they ate. I cared about feeding my own hunger. But maybe I could put
some weight on her.
"No."
"My assistant will show you the
way."
She hesitated before asking, "Are you
going to kill me?"
I pressed the intercom, summoning my
assistant, and looked back at her. Her heart had slowed. "Maybe."
I stood up and walked over to the built-in
shelf, pulling out a book with ease.
"When?" she asked, her voice tense.
"Soon. When I want to."
"You have a husky voice."
I smirked. I was oddly fascinated by how calm
her heart beat. She really was waiting for death.
I slowly turned and handed her the book.
"Read it."
She took it from me. "Thanks."
Her high cheekbones lifted in a smile that
was a bit too wide, revealing a crooked tooth. It wasn’t a perfect smile, but
there was something oddly beautiful about it. Instead of giving a good
commenting on that, I said, "You're ugly."
Her smile faltered, and her lanky arms
dropped, the book seeming to weigh a ton. Death didn’t seem to faze her, but
being called ugly did.
"I know," she whispered softly, a
quiet sniffle escaping her. I didn’t see any tears, though. She was good at
masking her emotions. Truly broken.
"I'm ugly too."
She looked up at me, a small smile curving
her plump lower lip, the fullest part of her body. "I know."
I quickly turned away, feeling the urge to
crack a small smile myself.
There was a knock at the door before my
assistant entered, looking a little puzzled by the scene. I quickly masked my
expression with a pointed glance.
"Have her shower. She smells. And get
something in her stomach. I need to work."
"Yes, Mrs. Silvermist." She walked
briskly over to take the girl by the arm. I noticed her steel-blue eyes, a hint
of silver-gray in them, perhaps the prettiest feature she had.
I couldn’t stop staring at her, and she
couldn’t tear her gaze away from me. We both kept our eyes locked until she was
out of the room, out of my sight.
I probably should kill her tonight.
I’d feel better if I did. She chipped at my
ego just enough. She deserved it for that.
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