In his mind she was the
‘pretty little college whore', and the very strength of his desire
for her only intensified his wish to wound her, as he had been wounded,
to punish and destroy her, as his love had been destroyed. He hated her
with a malice so deep it could fain love without detection, and wallow
in thoughts of sexual violence without remorse. The spirit had been
charred to ash inside him, leaving only the bestial desires of the
twisted animal: lust and hate and vengeance.
But his plans were not yet ripe, and like the cat, he would play with
his victim before killing it. And perhaps too, though the chance was
faint, the smallest part of his conscience remained, and needed further
goading before ceasing to rebel.
For her own part, though she might have wished it otherwise, Sylviana
could feel nothing for him but pity and a kind of awe. At times the
obsidian hardness of his eyes would push her senses toward the
protective realm of fear; but always his words, and her own twisted
purpose called them back. She was neither attracted nor repulsed, only
determined.
In truth she thought little during those final days, following out the
treadmill of her plan in a kind of dull stupor, unable, for the pain it
cost her, to listen to her heart and turn aside.
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