Until You’re Mine

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POV: Dane

Caroline.

Long brown hair. Forest green eyes. Thin. Non-muscular. 25 years old. Nurse.

I scrolled through her photographs on the Datetime social dating app and studied each one carefully.

The first photo was of her with a mini labradoodle walking in a nature preserve.

The second photo was of her in her nurses scrubs, pink, clean—too clean for a nurse who worked in an emergency room.

The third photo was of her in a restaurant, two other women on each side of her and she was wearing far too much makeup.

The fourth photo was her at a weighted yoga class in leggings and a sports bra.

But all of the photos seemed…fake.

She was pretty, but too thin to practice yoga daily, especially the class with weights, which she claimed to take regularly. She even went as far to call herself a ‘yogi’, and her nurse’s scrubs looked too clean—too crisp, and what nurse actually sits around during their shifts and takes photos of themselves? Fake. All fake.

Her profile read—-A Yogi Nurse looking for her Prince Charming.

If her photos weren’t fake then that line was.

By just looking at her photographs I could tell one thing—-that she wasn’t the woman I was searching for. She seemed too…fake…too tame…too kept to live the life I wanted.

And I knew the moment that I took her, she’d break.

And what’s the fun in that?

She looked and sounded like the type of woman that needed babysitting, that couldn’t fend for herself—that was weak and false to her own self. The type of woman who probably described herself based on horoscope generated qualities or what the internet labeled as ‘bad bitch qualities’.

So, I swiped left.

Onward to the next option.

Gabrielle.

27 years old. Blonde. Blue eyes. No pets in her photos. Fit. Toned but not muscular and didn’t pretend to like Yoga. That’s a start. Ah and a..journalist.

I swiped through her photos to analyze them for microaggressions, for trauma, for authenticity and for emotional maturity.

I could learn a great deal from a few photographs and a quick blurb.

After all, I had a PHD in neuroscience along with experience as a medical doctor. My brain worked that way. I found patterns and put them together.

And lately my fixation wasn’t on medical study but on finding a suitable companion.

After 38 years, and a lifetime of school, as well as 10 years as a medical doctor for the government. I learned to be good at keeping secrets—military secrets.

And I found that my interests have…broadened.

I studied the first photograph—her blonde hair was loosely braided, a colorful backpack was slung around her shoulder, and a pair of worn hiking shoes on her feet.

By the wear of the backpack, jacket, and shoes, even by the dirt and oil on her face, it seemed genuine, that she enjoyed the outdoors and didn’t mind getting dirty.

I flipped through to the second photograph. She was holding a framed article from the Newspaper where she was a journalist at—The Denver Times.

Then the third photograph was of her wearing a True Killer shirt. The serial killer crime podcast. Hmm. What an unusual photograph to post, she must be a big fan.

The fourth and last photograph was the finest of all—-red silk dress, curled blonde hair, red lipstick, all primed to perfection as she stood by a Christmas tree.

Her profile read:

Looking for someone to watch true crime docs & listen to true crime podcasts with. Checklist musts—6 foot 2 or taller, dry sense of humor, likes long walks in an empty forest at midnight and enjoys sleeping in secluded cabins in the middle of nowhere. Extra points if you can braid hair and make a mean vodka pasta.

Witty. Snarky. Kind of…weird.

She seemed real, genuine, and interesting.

I smiled as I glanced down at her photo—that red dress practically stuck to her skin. Soft blonde locks, smooth pale skin, and a bit of an attitude to boot.

I always liked a challenge.

And she was to be my next one.

She very well might be my last one.

I swiped right, and “It’s a Match” popped up across the screen.

She has no idea what match she is in for.

POV: Gabrielle

“Come on, that one’s cute!” Vic cooed, hovering over my shoulder at my desk, trying to entice me to swipe right on a man who seemed…boring.

“But he’s boring,” I sighed, hovering my finger to swipe left.

“But he’s hot! Who cares if he’s boring?” she scoffed, almost doing it for me.

I let out a heavy sigh and swiveled my chair to face her. “Vic, I’m looking to actually date, not fuck. I mean the fucking that comes with regular dating and not just a one night stand. I won’t be able to listen to more than 5 minutes of finance-bro Todd’s conversation without internally vomiting.”

“Fine, whatever. Your loss,” she shrugged, watching me swipe left on yet another dud.

I wanted to find an actual boyfriend—someone who shared my same interests, who wasn’t dull and just a decent fuck and liked me for my boobs, which let me tell you were all natural and a D cup. Genetics.

But I wasn’t your usual ditzy blonde. I had a Masters degree in Journalism and I read a new book every week. And I actually had real boobs.

“Well what do you plan to do for the next few weeks on your vacation? Not have a hot rando fuck you silly?” she whined.

I knew what she would do.

“No,” I laughed. “Maybe once if I’m lucky but I plan to curl up with a few books, maybe even take a trip out to the mountains, and actually relax. I don’t need to get laid to have a nice vacation,” I shot her a glare.

“Oh, you’re no fun,” she rolled her eyes and looked down at the next man’s profile.

Vic was my coworker at The Denver Times. She was a journalist, too. Though, she didn’t share my same interest in true crime docs or serial killers.

I glanced down at the newest profile and my god, this guy was beautiful, but in a violent sort of way—if that was even possible?

Clark.

Dark hair, almost black, messily placed on his head with dark eyes that were chocolatey brown, and he was tall—by the photos he looked super tall, maybe even 6 ’4 and my god—those muscles, the definition to them was outstanding and not to mention that jawline—sharp, unforgiving, impeccable.

I was practically salivating at this man.

Pull yourself together, Gab. He could be boring.

“My god, this one is hot, too!” Vic clapped from behind me.

I read over his profile: A 38 year old medical doctor, new to Colorado, looking for a woman who can match me in intellect, intensity, and a love for nature.

That interested me.

Questions stirred within my mind.

“A medical doctor?” Vic went all googly eyed.

“That’s the least interesting thing about him,” I murmured, flipping through his photographs.

All of them looked the same, oddly intense. The way he stared at the camera with the same look, even when he smiled his eyes remained the same. Cold. Calculating. Distant. There was something about him that just seemed intriguing.

“Kinda gives serial killer vibes though,” she replied, looking at the next photo. He was propped against a cabin, staring through the camera. “That’s probably why you like him!” she laughed. “If you get kidnapped, it’s not my fault, it’s your own twisted mind that knows how to pick them!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I laughed, swiping right and sealing my fate.

I guess if I was going to get kidnapped, I would like it to be by this guy.