Prologue
He zipped up his jeans with slow, deliberate movements, letting the hem of his shirt fall casually back over his waist. Trisha Garcia lay naked on the bed—restrained, silent, and very much awake. Her arms were stretched above her head, wrists bound tightly to the metal frame. Her ankles mirrored the same fate at the foot of the bed. Her skin, a flawless caramel tone, was flushed with tension. A white bandana pressed between her lips, her black hair fanned in disarray across the mattress. She watched him with wide, almond-shaped eyes. She was afraid now.
He had wanted her for months.
Unlike the others, Trisha had invited the attention—or so she liked to think. She flirted freely, leveraged her charm like a weapon, rose in the company ranks by aligning herself with the right men behind closed doors. She was hungry for power. Reckless with it.
But she had been careful, too. Smarter than Nina. Harder to pin down than Ashley. She kept her distance—until she couldn’t.
The setup was simple. Two punctured tires. A late exit from the office. He offered her a ride. She hesitated. He insisted. Eventually, she got in the car.
He followed her into the building. Watched the elevator climb. When it returned, he stepped in, selected the same floor. Another resident got off with him. Convenient. Trisha’s apartment number was easy to spot.
A knock. A pause. One step too close to the door.
He struck before she could scream—just like with Nina. The syringe hit her neck, the sedative working fast. He had perfected the dosage this time. Ashley taught him that.
Once inside, he left her crumpled by the entrance and searched the apartment without urgency. Pulled cords from behind the stereo system. Moved her body to the bedroom. Bound her exactly as he envisioned.
It wasn’t about sex.
It was about compliance. The silence. The stillness. The way their breathing changed when they realized there was no one coming to save them.
For the last hour, he had explored every inch of her. Not in frenzy—but with precision. Calculation. Purpose.
Now, he sat beside her, letting his fingers trail slowly along her thigh. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with practiced tenderness, brushed his knuckle over the bandana, and leaned in to press a kiss against her cheek.
He wasn’t finished.
Not yet.
He stayed with her a while longer—watching. Breathing. His pulse had slowed, but not his thoughts. The high didn’t last as long anymore.
She made a sound—muffled and pitiful. That raw sound, that loss of composure, always came before the breaking point. He wasn’t ready for her to break. Not yet.
He stood, pulled the curtain slightly aside, watching the empty street below. No headlights. No footsteps. No interruptions.
Time to begin the next phase.
Crossing the room, he let his fingers trail over her leg as he retrieved the Glock 19 from the nightstand. He returned to the bed, sat beside her, and brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered on the edge of the bandana that kept her silent. Then, as if it were a goodbye, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her skin.
Trisha didn’t flinch.
She just stared at him—wide-eyed and frozen, her breaths coming in quick, shallow pulls.
He climbed over her, straddling her torso, and took one of the pillows from behind her head. There was no hesitation. No change of mind. Just the inevitability of what came next.
When the pillow came down over her face, her body fought back—hard. Arms strained against the restraints, legs kicked beneath the knots, her voice muffled in panic against cotton and gag. He pressed the gun into the pillow, steady and deliberate.
One pull of the trigger.
A single jolt.
Then silence.
The room held its breath. Crimson began to bloom slowly through the white linen.
