The first thing you did after the breakup was book a hotel. After being kicked out of the house that you both shared, you had nowhere else to go, so a hotel was the only option. Specifically, a hotel in downtown Los Angeles called the Hotel Cortez. It was outdated, certainly, but the price was right and they had availability, despite your late notice.

The second thing you did was cut all your hair off — a short, very fashionable bob. You'd heard it said that hair held memories. Your boyfriend had always loved your long hair. So, naturally, it had to go.

As you breathlessly lug your two suitcases down the hallway, a rich and heady smell fills your nostrils — some cologne, paired with the smokiness of cigarettes. It's strong enough that you feel you must be sharing the space with someone else. You sniff, inhaling it, and gaze down the hall. First in front of you, then behind you. There's no one there, forcing you to assume that it's just years of lingering remnants of occupants — all of which have either retired to their rooms or checked out. Somewhere further down the hall, jazz music drifts towards you, creating an odd, liminal feeling. You furrow your brow, listening to the melange of music and crackling — it sounds like it's coming from an old gramophone.

"Weird."

You fish the key out of the pocket of your jeans and insert it into the slot, turning it carefully. Most hotels these days have key cards — not this one. The lady at the front desk made no apologies for the state of the hotel, only took your money, handed you your key, and sent you on your way.

That night, you call your best friend, Victoria. With your phone pressed against your ear, you stand in front of the open window, curtains fluttering on either side of you like ghosts. The streets of Los Angeles hum beneath you, while the city goes on living without you. You run your finger along the hemmed edge of one of the curtains and heave a sigh.

"Yeah," you say, bringing your hand to your hair to absentmindedly wind a piece of hair around your finger. "I know… but how was I supposed to know that I didn't matter to him?" You pause. "I loved him."

A cold breeze rushes in, sending an uncontrollable shiver down your spine. Your flesh prickles at the feeling, when suddenly, a shadow whizzes by in the corner of your vision. You turn sharply to face it — but are met only with your empty room. "What the fuck?"

On the line, your friend asks what's wrong and if you're okay.

"Yeah… yeah, I'm just… I thought I saw something. It's fine. Anyway…. yeah, well, it still hurts. I can't stop crying about it."

You feel the tears well up as you voice that, and hurriedly chew on the corner of your lip as she speaks, advising you that you need something or someone to get your mind off of him. The idea of a rebound sounds less than ideal, but truthfully, you're up to numbing the pain in whatever way you can.

"I guess so."

You meander over to your baby blue suitcase sitting on the edge of the bed and unzip it, flipping the lid over onto the mattress. With one hand, you rifle through the clothes until you find your pajamas — a matching set of sleep shorts and a button-up top. There are cherries and bows printed all over the fabric.

"I'm going to go to sleep. Maybe order room service, drink a few bottles of champagne, and cry some more."

You hold the phone away from your ear, muffling the shouts of protests from your bestie.

"I'm joking, I'm joking! Fuck, relax…. okay, bye. Love you too."

Ending the call with a tap of your thumb, you toss your phone onto the mattress. With your pajamas draped over your forearm, you head towards the bathroom. As you pass the front door, however, a folded piece of ivory paper slides underneath the door. There's no signature, but it reads:

"Early to bed, and you'll miss all the fun."

You furrow your brow, looking at the penmanship with a peaked curiosity. It looks old-fashioned, the sort of handwriting that you'd see on a vintage French postcard, with lines of unimaginable romance and tenderness. Still, you're unmoved by the invitation. Perhaps someone made a mistake with your room number. You toss the letter in the trash as you enter the bathroom.

After washing your face, you shed your clothes. You'd shower in the morning — you were too tired tonight. As you change, you pause, staring at your naked body, letting your eyes fall over the gentle swell of your breasts, the soft curve of your hips. You wonder passively when you'll be touched again, if ever. You heave a mournful sigh and button the shirt over your breasts before flipping off the light. Every bit of you aches with longing, but there's nothing you can do.

You'd promised Victoria that you wouldn't cry anymore, but as you sit on the velvet seat in front of the mirror to brush your hair, the tears well up in the corners of your eyes again. This would be the first night you had slept alone in years — and the thought terrified you. You'd given up so much for him, done so much for him, only to be tossed away like garbage when something new came along — years of your life, wasted. You reach up and wipe away the hot tears with the backs of your hands, trying to swallow the pitiful sobs that echo against the walls.

What was the sense in crying? Despite that thought, you couldn't help it, and more tears fell.

After a few moments, you lift your wet eyes to the mirror. At first, you think it's some mascara floating amongst the tears, creating imagery that isn't there. Next to your own reflection, a man in a navy pin-stripe suit stands beside you. Although you can't see his face, you suddenly hear his voice as he speaks.

"Exquisite. Your beauty is wasted in sadness, my dear."

You whirl around, searching the room behind you. It's empty. As empty as it had been all night, as empty as you felt. Apprehensively, you turn back around, facing the vanity again. The man still stands beside you. You should scream, but the way that his hand is ghosting over the curve of your shoulder is — not quite touching you, but there's a tenderness in the gesture that sends a shiver down your spine and quiets you. He leans down, hinging at the waist to bring his mouth close to your ear. It's then that you see his features. He's handsome; dark-haired, has a perfectly groomed pencil mustache, and his eyes are so dark, so intense that they're almost black. The longer he stares at you, the heavier his gaze feels, and you shiver.

"Do not waste your sorrows on the undeserving."

You blink hard, forcing a few heavy tears out. When you open your eyes again, the reflection next to you is gone. The room feels colder than before, and smells faintly of smoke — of smoke and that same cologne that you smelled in the corridor. Again, you inhale the rich smell, letting it stain your lungs. It's both comforting and unsettling, you decide.

You sit, stunned, at the vanity. Had you just actually hallucinated? Surely, you weren't going to accept the possibility that you'd just seen a ghost — those didn't exist. Hallucinations, on the other hand, were far more plausible. Especially in your distressed state. You reach underneath the fringed lampshade and turn the light off before straightening up.

You thought you'd dream of your boyfriend — ex boyfriend. Nightmares. But, instead, your dreams are strange. Very strange. Even erotic. They're filled with imagery of that man you saw in the mirror. He's naked, proudly, in front of you. You feel the crushing weight of his desire even as he stands near you, cock rigid and begging for somewhere to sheath itself. He ardently pursues you, touches your face, your neck, your breasts, and grazes over the soft, warm flesh of your thighs. A wet tongue laves over your cunt, parting her and tasting the sweetness that lies within. You arch your back, calling out a name you don't remember upon waking. At one point, you feel the mattress give way to weight. When you open your eyes, there's an indentation in the shape of a body next to you.

As the morning sun filters in through the curtains, you stretch until your muscles shake. Your hands lazily rub the sleep from your eyes, rousing you from your slumber. Surprisingly, you'd slept well. The bed was comfortable, the room was cold all night, and you slept soundly. You're grateful for it.

You blink the fuzziness from your vision, and that's when you notice that the chair is no longer facing the vanity, but instead, angled towards the bed, like someone had been sitting in it, watching you. You're certain that you hadn't left it like that.

Your eyes drift naturally to the mirror — your own reflection meets you, but as your eyes fall, you notice a single red rose rests on the vanity, next to your makeup bag. Your stomach tightens and drops to the floor.

Someone had been in your room.

Someone had been watching you sleep. You knew it. More than that, you felt it.

You push the covers down from your body and crawl over to the edge of the bed, scraping at the vanity until you claw the rose towards you. With a pitiful sigh, you bring it to your nose and inhale its sweet fragrance deeply. Though it has started wilting, the petals are velvet soft and pliable, drooping ever so slightly, the fragrance it holds still fills your lungs.

Romance.

To be longed for… you'd forgotten what that felt like. It had only been a day, but you'd completely forgotten what that felt like.

You drop the rose on the mussed-up sheets and head to the bathroom to ready yourself. Victoria had said that you should explore — and while she'll probably meant downtown LA — you were going to do just that. This aging hotel held secrets, and you were going to find them. After a drink. It didn't matter that it was nearing noon. It was four o'clock somewhere, right?

After showering, albeit nervously, for you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched the entire time, you dress yourself in a simple summer dress and head downstairs and directly to the bar. There was no shame in a little drink, you decide. That's exactly what a blossoming alcoholic would say, Jesus Christ.

The bartender, a very fashionably dressed woman, makes your drink and carries it carefully across to you, setting a napkin beneath it before lowering it down. The black and gold napkins are printed with "Hotel Cortez". Although clearly not the most popular hotel on this stretch of LA street, the branding was on point. The first sip of your martini goes down smooth.

A young, cute guy across the bar smiles at you, raising his glass to you. You return the gesture, and smile softly. Perhaps he was going through a breakup, too. No, you thought. That was silly. He was probably on a business trip. Had a wife to go back to. Something normal. Something sweet. The thought deters you from moving seats to go talk to him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a well-dressed man as he crosses the room swiftly, heading straight for you. You can't explain why, but you're suddenly feeling like a rabbit caught in the sight of a rifle. As he approaches, it takes you all of those few seconds to realize it's the man you hallucinated last night — a fact that you wouldn't dare admit to him, even as he boldly takes a seat next to you, sliding into it as though he belongs there. Somewhere in your gut, you feel he does.

"Good afternoon," he says.

"Hi." You swirl the liquid in your glass around nonchalantly, like you aren't trembling deep within your core. "Can I help you?"

"I am James March, owner of the hotel in which you so graciously sit." He speaks with such proud diction, enunciating each word carefully. He must be well educated or something. Maybe one of those history buffs.

"Okay…"

For a fleeting second, you see his brow furrow, almost as if he's frustrated that the title didn't immediately grab your attention. You presume that it had so many times before. The expression is gone in an instant and replaced by the cool, collected one he approached you with.

"Though you denied my initial attempts at meeting you, may I be so forward as to say that you, my dear, have taken my breath away by simply existing."

You swallow. That was forward. Your brain stuttered on the first part of that sentence — his initial attempts? What did that mean?

You roll your eyes. "Existing? Is that what I'm doing? I thought I was trying to drown it all out."

You take another sip of your drink, savoring the taste of the alcohol as it bites you back. Next to you, James leans forward, desperately trying to get your attention. He cranes his neck into your line of sight until you turn slightly, bringing your gaze to him, an eyebrow lifted on your forehead.

"Ah, the world can be so loud." Every word from his lips is as smooth as whiskey, dripping with refinement and elegance. You cross one leg over the other, disguising it as a casual movement.

"My dear," he starts, reaching for your hand. You resist, but only briefly. The minute he exerts any force in pulling your fingers from the stem of the glass, you succumb, drowning in the feeling of a man's hand on you again. "I offer relief from it all… from the grating echoes of misery."

"What… what are you talking about?" Your hand is limp in his grasp, allowing him to entangle his fingers with yours.

"In losing him, you have gained me. A true lover, a husband. Love should be rapturous! Fierce! Eternal! I can offer you all that and more!"

You choke on nothing. A husband? In losing him? Had he been listening to your conversation with Victoria?

"Excuse me? I… I don't understand."

"Oh, but you do." He nods earnestly. "You do. The rose enamored you, did it not? Enchanted by your dreams last night? It was destiny, my little turtle dove, that we met."

The world around you feels like it tilts off its axis, though still spinning haphazardly. The feeling is terrifying, and you yank your hand away from him to hold onto the bar with both hands. Your breaths come out in frightened little gasps, and you stare at the remaining liquid in your glass. It's only then that you wonder if your drink was spiked. Or perhaps you were hallucinating again.

"There, there. The realization of destiny is always a crushing feeling, my love. I was foolish in thinking I felt it with my first wife. It doesn't hold a candle to the sensations I feel now! Ardent! Demanding!"

…first wife…

"Say yes, my dear, say yes, and all your troubles will drift away." You turn to look at him, just for a moment. You stand up from the stool and open your mouth to decline his offer politely, but nothing comes out. Instead, the world tilts the other way, and your body goes limp, crumpling forward into his waiting arms. The last thing you remember is the feeling of your cheek pressing up against his suit jacket, inhaling the intoxicating scent of him, paired with something so antique you couldn't name if you tried. As your lids droop once, twice, three times, you're vaguely aware of the guy at the other end of the bar standing up as you droop into the iron support of James' arms.

You say something — a single word before the world drifts away entirely. You, unfortunately, don't remember what it is.

In your unconscious state, you dream of strange things again. You dream of being woozy and bright and relaxed. You dream of holding his hands briefly, before holding out your own hand. You dream of kissing him tenderly on the mouth and taking hold of his shoulders and dancing with him in an empty ballroom.

When you wake up again, the bar is gone. In fact, the entire scenery has changed. Above you, ornate light fixtures are turned down low, casting a golden hue over the entire room. You're lying horizontal on silk sheets; you can feel them beneath your naked back as you writhe back and forth. You look down at your body fearfully. You'd been undressed without permission. Your ankles are tied to the bedposts, spreading your legs slightly. Similarly, your hands are bound tightly above you.

"Ah, there you are."

Your head snaps in the direction of his voice. He stands at your bedside, his nimble fingers undressing himself steadily. He wears a white, sleeveless undershirt and his trousers, which are quickly pushed down his legs.

"Where… Wh-what… what are you doing?"

"My dear," he starts, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. "Consecrating our beloved union!"

"What?"

James takes another calculated step, nearing the bed. He leans over you, looking deep into your wet eyes with a poignant reverence. He reaches above you, to your right hand, and carefully twists the ring on your finger. You feel the sensation of something there, something substantial that wasn't there before.

Your heart sinks. The dreams were anything but. "N-no, I didn't… I wasn't…. you can't do this… I never… said! Wait, please… oh my god, please…" Your lower lip starts to quiver as you speak, while confused, hot tears stream down your cheeks.

With a small, low vocalization, he kisses your trembling frown. "Now, now. No more of that. My little one, your tears are senseless — you mustn't be ungrateful!"

His cool hands trail down your naked stomach, the middle finger ghosting over the dips and curves of your abdomen. Still hinged at the waist, James allows his mouth to pepper the most darling of kisses in the wake of his fingers, like he's savoring each spot. For a moment before reality slaps you across the face again, you revel in the feeling of being touched, of being treasured. He reaches your mound and continues downwards confidently.

"W-wait wait!"

"Ah." He clicks his tongue. Your cunt, which is on display for him, has betrayed you in ways you'd never imagine. He draws a single finger up between your folds, and you feel no resistance to the action. In fact, you feel quite the opposite of resistance. Arousal that shouldn't be there — hot, sticky arousal.

"You see, my little darling, even you cannot fight love's truest natures."

You want to scream — but what would that do? Your own body has turned any future cries into a joke, into a useless persistence that he'd not believe.

He continues to savor your body. Kisses it, touches it, bites it. Tenderizing it until you're practically coming undone from that alone — and only then does he climb atop of you. His cock head nudges your entrance like a hound's nose in a rabbit's burrow, determined and predatory. You look into his eyes, and find nothing but the indescribable coldness of a mausoleum. You also notice the frightening gash that lines his neck like a collar. The flayed skin opens as he stretches his neck upwards, revealing deep, crimson gore that makes your stomach turn. Surely, a laceration like that would've killed a man.

The thought disappears with a new pressure.

"You were fashioned for me," he says before sliding himself into your wet, aching center. Once inside, he wastes no time. The savoring is over, and his purpose is clear. His thrusts are bullying, and with the intoxicating way he uses you, your body quickly feels like mush in his grip.

He picks up speed suddenly, his cock sliding in and out of your slick, swollen cunt at a dizzying pace. In turn, your moans match his thrusts, coming out in quick, shrill cries as his hips slam against your ass with a vigor that rocks your entire body like a rag doll. Above you, James clenches his jaw and growls deeply. "Mm, how delightfully vulgar you sound! Louder! I want every room in this hotel to hear your cries!"

Your orgasm erupts within seconds, clenching around his cock like a steel vice. Your voice echoes off the walls and rings in your ears. Perhaps marriage isn't so bad — not if it feels like this. With a deep, throaty moan, he loses himself inside of you, and his once-perfect rhythm falls apart.

"Now," he starts. "To finalize our marriage."

You're woozy again, gazing up into his cold, black eyes with a lust-blown softness. His hands trail up the warm column of your still-sweaty throat. They graze the sides of it, lovingly. Your chest heaves with labored breaths.

"I thought about all the ways I could do it, you know…" he continues, not letting you speak. "But strangulation, you see, is the most intimate." Suddenly, his strong hands clamp down on the front of your throat, tightly. Too tightly. Your body lurches upwards, but the weight of his is too much to fight. "Quite literally taking one's last breath from them… Ah, what could be more romantic than that, hm?"

You flail, gripping his bare forearms desperately. The pressure on your throat increases, and the smallest of stars circle your vision. He's going to kill you if he doesn't stop.

Oh god.

He's not going to stop.

You look up at him with pleading eyes and try to choke out words, promises, anything to make him cease his actions, but instead, he tightens his lips into a reassuring smile and softens his gaze for a moment.

Pity? No. Adoration.

Your head is swimmy, your face feels hot. You can feel the blood throbbing in your veins as he continues to strangle you, mercilessly. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air, and all he does is hum above you.

"You're confused, my darling. I know." He presses down harder. Your voice cracks in agony.

"Marriage, delightful fornication, and now I'm killing you?" He clicks his tongue once more. "Seems so contradictory, but I assure you… this is the only way we'll be together, as we are now, until the end."

Your muscles go weak, and your grip on his arms drops off. Your

Your consciousness fades into the cool, looming darkness that surrounds you.

As the light fades from your eyes, he knows that he'll see you again and you him. But you don't.

Not yet.

March 12th, 1928

It has come to my attention that my husband is not who he appears to be.

Behind the charming facade of a distinguished gentleman lies an equally cunning and disturbed individual that harbors an inhumane craving for carnage, far beyond a sane mind's comprehension.

Your husband dropped the book like he was burned by that latest entry, dated from just the night before. His personal housekeeper, Miss Evers, had found your journal 'by accident' while snooping around, and he had spent the entire afternoon flipping through the pages while you ran errands in the city.

It was a small, thick booklet, bound in crimson leather and held together by a pitch black ribbon. Random papers and other keepsakes were sticking out loosely from between the pages, a perfect symbol for a mind as shambolic as yours can be.

James picked it up from the carpet, once again tempted by the suspense of presentiment. He admired your handwriting, letting his fingers run over some blurred words where your tears had stained the ink.

Each page was filled with words you never dared speaking, raw and deep emotions he wasn't aware of until now. Truth be told, he was under the impression that you had aggreed to marry him solely because of his wealth, and he was fine with that arrangement if it meant to have you all for himself...

...however this book was filled to the brim with evidence of your genuine affection for a man as utterly undeserving as him.

You had always been an enigma to James, a revelation he wasn't ready to receive just yet because of your sheer overwhelming divinity. In no way an angelic being like you was a fitting match for a wretch like him, and yet he couldn't help being drawn to you like a vermin to the light.

Last night I found myself restless once again, since my husband has yet to join me in our designated chambers, let alone consummate this marriage at all. His absence in the life we are supposed to share drives me mad, the loneliness is threatening to consume me with every passing day he chooses to spend apart.

If only I knew this was by far not the worst method of torture he was proficient in...

...because I found out about his true passion, how he prefers to spend his time instead.

James slammed the book onto the tabletop, jumping up to pour himself something strong to numb the inevitable pain that was your written rejection. Invested nonetheless, he paced around the room erratically, holding your diary with one hand while sipping on a whole bottle he had settled on.

As I was aimlessly wandering those ghastly hallways, almost as if driven by otherworldly forces even more tormented than myself, I discovered a room that seemed to be intentionally hidden. Whatever possessed me to overstep this far, I dared clancing through the keyhole in the quiet hope of answers that would bring salvation to my yearning.

...what I witnessed however was sheer heinous acts of violence, horrors I wasn't aware existed in this world - or rather in people's minds.

Never would I have imagined my James, that sophisticated philanthropist, to be capable of such atrocities.

This was probably the first moment in his life that this sociopath felt a glimpse of panic rising in his chest. Not even death itself he feared, neither the well-deserved place in hell he knew was reserved for him...but losing you to his inferior instincts was nothing short of a nightmare.

Surely you'd ruin him - and he would thankfully take whatever punishment you offered.

...it was an exhilarating sight.

Your husband almost choked upon reading this sentence, repeating it again and again and again.

There had to be a catch, a mistake, a cruel joke he wasn't understanding.

It was simply too good to be true.

Even just writing those thoughts down, despite knowing no one ever will ever read it, feels so incredibly wrong...but I simply cannot change how I feel about this experience. It awoke something inside of me that's both as frightening as it is delightful, in a twisted sense that I am unable to elaborate.

Maybe I've always been harboring this darkness inside of me, lurking there unknowingly, waiting to be freed by a soul just as corrupted as mine own.

Only one thing I am sure of: Seeing my husband like this, it arouses me.

That last sentence made him actually whimmer, a bloodthirsty lunatic feeling completely at your mercy without you even being physically present.

James brought the paper closer to his face, making out the feeble scent of your perfume, soon palming through his pants where his cock needily demands attention.

To know that despite his true nature, he had yet to lay a single finger on me.

When James was courting me, his affection seemed so pure, so genuine. But looking back, this might as well be the act of a high-functioning sociopath.

What did he truly choose me for? A social obligation? An alibi? Another victim?

Who knows.

Oh, how sorry he feels to unknowingly have subjected you to this kind of isolation, thinking you'd be better off without him. After all, it stemmed from the thought that marriage would clash with his unusual 'lifestyle', and that he could never truly have both.

But then he met you, and his avoidance was the result of a naive wish to protect you from the truth while simultaneously being unable to live without you either way. Just knowing you were close was enough, no matter how much temptation was gnawing on him each day spent apart.

Yet it was also James who saved me from my old existence of sheer neverending abuse, who wouldn't ever judge me for my past, who turned days of anguish into ones of happiness I'd never deemed possible.

I owe my husband everything... he holds my heart already, and can do however he pleases with it. If he was to decide he'd delve his blade inside, then so be it.

He yelped in pain on your stead, dramatically clutching the fabric in front of hiw own sternum, pained by your doubts. "No, my love, my petal, my dearest...don't ever question my unyielding love for you" he utters to himself.

Addendum March 13th, 1928

After long consideration, I decided to conduct my own inquiries which led me deep into secret layers of this hotel, and caused me to have more than one supernatural encounter with his former victims.

What a shame that he chooses to kill randomly, while there's so many scoundrels littering these streets and destroying innocent lives. Yes, James is no less guilty himself, but those people would at least be deserving of his treatment.

Oh, how thrilled would I be to be present during one of his 'sessions'...but he treats me like a porcellain doll, so precious and fragile that he doesn't even allow himself to be in my vincinity, only ever admiring me from afar when he thinks I am not looking.

And I am dreadfully afraid that his opinion of me would cease if he was to ever find out about any of this.

Maybe I should burn this book after all...this could also become potential evidence in the near future, would it not?

After all, I need to protect my beloved husband.

Oh, what a sweet, feisty thing you are. It's endearing in such a refreshing way, he finally understands what 'normal' people feel when they are amongst their kin.

Though his newfound knowledge about the extent of corruption in your soul may delve him even further over the ledge of his own insanity.

Evening arrived at the hotel sooner than you did, yearning for nothing more but a bath to wash away the sorrows of the day.

Your muscles ached from being on your feet this whole time - and truth be told, ever since you unveiled your husband's fascinating new side, there was an odd sensation of filth clinging to you no matter what you tried to erase it.

Maybe that is because you are rotten from the inside, who knows.

Yet before you could surrender your fatigued self to sleep, there was still one last obligation to fulfill that you wouldn't miss for the world: Dinner with your spouse - a rare occasion of proximity, even if not nearly enough.

When you arrived at the dining room however, the wide table where you'd share meals way too far apart from each other was completely empty. A maid informed you that your husband was awaiting you in your chambers, which piqued your interest.

It did not occur to you in the slightest that whatever was happening might have something to do with you in particular, thinking you're too insignificant to matter for that to be the case...

...but when you rounded the corner, an abundance of candles was tinting the hallway towards your bedroom in an almost crimson glow.

You enter with tentative steps, and as soon as you're past the doorway you're greeted by being scooped up from the ground and gently spun around.

"There you are, my love!" March cheers with almost innocent felicity, practically crushing you against him with unrestrained passion.

"James..." you stammer, taken aback since you were not used to him being this openly affectionate. "What's all this about?"

"A celebration" the man answers promptly, one arm still firmly wrapped around your waist, his free hand raising a glass of champaign. "Here's to us - and especially you, my darling, who proved you're full of surprises."

There's no time to ask further questions, as he already takes your hand, leading you deeper inside the extravagantly decorated bedroom.

"I want to offer my sincerest apologies for being rather inadequate at fulfilling my marital duties. But be assured, none of it had anything to do with my earnest fondness for you, my dear." James declares this while bowing to place a tender kiss to your knuckles - and the sheer adoration in his gaze pulls on your heartstrings like it was a violin.

"Anyways" he suddenly leaps away from you, visibly excited as he hurries over to something conceiled in a corner of the room. "While I am very skilled with my words, I'm more of a gesture kind of person when it counts, so..."

With a grand motion he reveals what's been hiding beneath the fabric, and the realization robbed all air out of your lungs: Chained to a stool was no one else than your former abuser, gagged and in obvious distress as they mutely attempted to plead for their life.

"My gift to you, dearest. Tightly wrapped." James snickers, playfully wriggles his eyebrows. He lights himself a cigar, puffing the smoke in his- no, your victim's face. "Was thinking about avenging what this scum did to you for quite some time already, but I wanted to save it up for a special occasion."

Your mouth fell open but the shock prevented you from forming any words, watching in mute awe as James circles the chair, muffled screams dringing to your ear as he puts out the cigar on the other's arm. "I have to admit, since I lack a moral compass of mine own, I never cared much about whether my victims possessed one...but if it appeases my dear wife, I am able to accomodate."

"...you read my diary" you finally found your voice, crossing your arms almost scoldingly.

One would think a man like him would be aggravated by your lack of gratitude for his efforts, but no, quite the opposite was the case - it was highly amusing to him how unphazed you seemed by a literal crime happening in front of your very eyes.

You really were a perfect match for him.

"Guilty as charged" he chuckled gleefully, raising his hands in the air in a placating manner. "It wasn't at all my intention to breach your privacy, but curiosity got the better off me. I need to apologize once again."

Just like that he draws a small knife, his movements agonizingly slow as he twists it in the person's gut. You observe his work with an eery calmness until your anger leaves you through an exaggerated sigh.

You pull out a handkerchief, smirking with mischief as he uses it to wipe his blade clean. "Attentive as always, my dear."

James bloodied fingertips trace along your jawline, his thumb settling on your bottom lip before being replaced by his own. He smells of that distinct perfume he uses to cover up the odor of sin that accompanies him everywhere, which from now on you will always associate with the thrill you feel right this instant.

Kissing him tastes like nicotine and liquor, mingled with the bitter iron aftertase of blood - it is both as repulsing as it is addicting.

The two of you were only briefly caught in the heat of the moment before you're disturbed by the temporarily unconscious third person in the room slowly breathing frantically again.

"Do you want the honor of taking this life?" your husband asks a little too enthusiastic, practically shoving the weapon into your palm.

He needs to see it with his own eyes - proof that you're his, irreversibly connected by this transgression.

"I do, but..." You place the knife back into his hand, and for the fraction of a second he fears that maybe his judgement about you was too rushed after all.

"...not that quickly, they don't deserve it." A sadistic spark embers up in your eyes as you speak, and your husband needs to bite his lip to contain his excitement.

"Also..." You let your hands run up and down his chest as you speak, grabbing your husband by the collar as you fall backwards onto the mattress, effectively pulling him with you. "I need to do something else first..."

James stares at you like you were a creature out of myth, something so perfect it can neither be real nor conjured by his twisted mind.

"You have no idea how hard it was for me to be so close yet so far away from my greatest obsession..." he rasps as he climbs on top of you, the cold steel trembling in his hand as he cuts through the straps of your dress. "Every night I could only think of ravishing you until you wouldn't be able to remember anything but my name, yet...I was merely afraid you'd condemn me if you'd ever find out, so I kept my distance. But now, knowing what I do..."

You moan when you feel the tip of the blade ghost across your bare skin, leaving faint marks that would disappear by dawn. "My love, my world, the last remnant of humanity left in my soul...you must know I have a...peculiar taste, and I am not well acquainted with being gentle."

"Shh...it's alright, I can take it." Your voice was barely above a whisper, yet it was full of conviction, not the slightest hint of doubt or fear in your voice. "I want it. I want you! I've been waiting for so long already...please..."

James shudders at the implication, a whine escaping his throat as he impatiently ruts his hips against yours. "Oh, little dove, I could never bring myself to harm you..." He eagerly grips every inch of you he could get his hands on, leaving stains of blood in his wake. "Your body will be my canvas, and I'll be painting masterpieces with the blood of the guilty..."

You wordlessly entangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him close enough to rake your teeth across his pulse point, licking off the splatters of blood that dried there. He groans at the sensation, digging the knife into the mattress just inches away from your waist in a desperate attempt to ground himself - before he either gives in to the urge to actually hurt you, or cums right away.

Your husband is trembling with anticipation and barely held back vigor as he adores your naked form, now stained with sweat and blood and tears he wasn't aware he had shed out of pure bliss.