Monster Of Ruin: A Dark Serial Killer Romance (The Dark Angels Book 4)
Monster Of Ruin: Chapter 11

I haven’t spoken to Elliott since last night when he told me about his sister. There was real pain behind his voice, and it made me feel something.

I’ve been trying all morning to decipher my feelings. Figure out what happened between us last night.

He opened up to me.

He told me something he probably doesn’t tell many people.

Why?

He told me once that there are people in this world that don’t deserve to live. That there are real victims that deserve justice. I think he was talking about his father and sister.

My heart breaks for him. I’m not even really sure why. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. After my mother died, I didn’t know what would happen to me. She showed me love, comfort, and happiness. The day she died; all those feelings died with her.

Elliott not only had to deal with the grief but with the reality of what his father did.

That would change anyone.

I knew something happened to him as a kid from our conversations, but I never imagined it was something so horrific.

Does it justify him killing people, though?

I understand anger and pain. I understand hopelessness.

I’m just not sure I understand taking a life.

But they do say an eye for an eye. That’s what he’s doing.

Right?

I groan and flop down on the bed. I’m trying to make it acceptable that this man is killing people. Am I falling for him?

No.

I’m not.

“Clara.”

Chills skate over my skin at the sound of his deep voice. I know he’s speaking to me through the camera, so I don’t bother moving off the bed. I’ve been curious as to when he’d be back.

“What?”

“What’s your favorite dinner?” he asks.

I shake my head, trying to hide a grin. He’s so random.

“Chicken Francese. What’s yours?”

He doesn’t answer. A moment goes by and I think he’s gone until his voice booms through the speakers. “Favorite alcoholic drink?”

“Anything with vodka,” I reply, staring at the ceiling.

“Is there anything you want or need?”

I sit up, crossing my arms as I look around the room. “My own fucking bed,” I say, shaking my head.

“Is that bed not to your liking?”

I close my eyes, pushing my hair off my face as I sigh. “No, it’s not uncomfortable. It’s not my bed, it’s not my house. These aren’t my belongings. You’re keeping me hostage, Elliott. I need to leave. I want to leave.”

Silence.

A few minutes pass by and I flop back down onto the bed. What did he expect me to say? I’ve been here for so long that I don’t even know exactly how much time has passed. The days all blend together. The nights are longer and lonelier than ever. I miss the smell of my things. I miss the comfort of my surroundings. I miss Adele.

I may not have felt love or acceptance, but I was free and that’s what I miss the most.

A few hours later, I hear Elliott’s tires crunching against the stones outside. It’s dusk out and as much as I want to look out the window, I don’t. He could have another victim and I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to imagine what torture he is inflicting.

I look out the window of the bedroom instead, hoping I don’t hear any screams. I push my freshly washed hair out of my face and sigh, missing the smell of my shampoo. The clothes Elliott has provided for me are nothing I would have ever bought myself. They are mostly leggings and T-shirts. Which I guess is fine because it’s not like I’m going anywhere.

I hear the door open and spin around. Fear takes over and I’m unable to move as I hear his footsteps.

“Clara?”

His voice is so close, and I hate that my pulse races. The thought that maybe for a few minutes, I will have human interaction is exciting. Even if it is with my serial killer captor.

“What?” I ask, still unsure if I should leave the bedroom.

“Come to the kitchen.”

My heart races with fear as I take a few small, tentative steps. I wipe my hands on my black leggings as I step into the hallway. He’s in the kitchen, I can hear him, but I have no idea what the hell his plan is. He doesn’t seem angry like the last time he came up here, but I don’t trust anything.

I get to the kitchen and stand in the doorway. His back is turned to me and I watch as his muscles flex as he puts food onto paper plates.

I swallow nervously, intrigued as to what he’s doing.

“Elliott?”

He turns his head, and his dark eyes collide with mine. My breath is stolen from me, and I fight to get it back. Elliott keeps stealing pieces of me and I keep allowing it. But, fuck, he’s so damn sexy. The black shirt he has on is tight against his muscular arms. He has on that baseball hat that sits low over his eyes, but somehow it makes them more intense.

“Sit down.” His deep voice snaps me out of my eye fucking and I sit down at the small table. He gets back to whatever he’s doing, and I suddenly smell the sweet scent of lemon.

I glance back at him and realize he is dishing out Chicken Francese, on two plates.

My hands shake as I rest them on my lap. Is he going to eat dinner with me?

“I can cook, but Chicken Francese is not something I’ve attempted before. So, instead of fucking it up, I ordered some from a small Italian restaurant,” he says, putting a paper plate in front of me.

He puts down another paper plate and goes back to the counter. He grabs two red plastic disposable cups and places one in front of me before taking his seat.

He takes a sip of his drink before lifting his eyes to me. “It’s vodka and Limeade.”

I just continue to stare at him. I can’t tell if I’m more shocked or scared right now. What the hell is this all about?

He sighs and puts his cup down. “What?” he asks, folding his hands on the table.

I search his face and try to push down the nerves I’m feeling. “What are you doing?” I ask.

He looks around at the food and back at me. “I thought we were gonna eat dinner.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Why? Well, I’m fucking starving and I figured you might enjoy your favorite meal,” he says, staring at me like I’m crazy.

He makes me feel crazy. The only other time he’s allowed me to see him is when he stole my orgasm from me and now, he’s acting like we are some kind of couple that eats dinner together every night.

“You suddenly want to eat with me. Why?”

His hands tighten into fists as his jaw ticks. “So, you aren’t lonely, goddamnit,” he says through clenched teeth.

Holy shit, he’s trying to be nice. It really shouldn’t excite me, but the fact that he actually listens to me is something I’m not used to. As confusing as it is, it feels good.

The smell of dinner causes my stomach to growl. Embarrassed, I glance down, wrapping my arm around myself.

“Clara, just eat. I’ll leave if you’d rather,” he says, staring at me, waiting for my answer.

I shake my head quickly, not willing to feel the loneliness. “No, don’t leave,” I rush out.

“Then eat.”

I reach for my plastic fork as my hand shakes. My stomach growls again as I look at the cut-up chicken.

Plastic cups and forks. Paper plates with my food already cut up. Even now he’s careful to make sure there’s nothing I can use against him or maybe myself at this point.

“You don’t trust me, do you?” I wave at everything in front of me.

He smirks as he takes a bite of his chicken.

“I don’t trust anyone.” He looks at my plate before lifting his eyes to me. “Just eat, Clara.” Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I don’t argue it because really do I trust him sitting across from me with a knife? No, I definitely don’t.

When I put it into my mouth, I can’t help the soft sigh that I release. He leaves me food, mostly things I just heat up in the microwave, but it’s been so long since I tasted something so delicious.

Something that makes me feel normal.

Which is saying a lot considering I’m sharing a meal with the man holding me hostage.

“I make you nervous, don’t I?” he asks, his dark eyes watching my every move.

I slowly lift my eyes to him, holding my fork that has a piece of chicken on it. His eyes are soft, almost like he’s sorry, and I sigh.

“Elliott, it’s not just that I’m nervous. You scare me,” I admit.

He leans back in his chair and nods his head. “Why?”

A sarcastic laugh escapes me as I put my fork down. “Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“You took me while I was drunk. You locked me away, hiding my purse and my phone. You watch me on some hidden cameras that are placed in my prison. You not only want to kill my father, but I know you will because I’ve seen you out the window. I’ve seen what you are capable of. I’ve experienced your anger firsthand. I sit here waiting every single day for you to decide that you’ve had your fun with me. I’m waiting for the inevitable of you ending my life,” I say, quickly wiping my tears away.

“Fuck,” he whispers, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. “Every guy I’ve killed deserved what he had coming. They believe they can get away with these horrific things because of judges like your father who do nothing. Justice needs to be served and I have no regrets being the one who serves it. Every victim deserves peace. I don’t just go grab random people. There is an extensive process each and every time.” He searches my watery eyes as he lifts an eyebrow. “Have you done something you think you deserve to be punished for?”

My eyes widen as I shake my head. He asked me something similar once, asking what I thought I deserved. “I should not be punished for my father’s sins. I’ve suffered enough because of them.” I wave my arms around at my surroundings. “Clearly.”

“You think that’s what this is? I’m punishing you for your father’s sins?”

“Of course, I do,” I say.

He lifts his eyes to mine. “I’m punishing myself, Clara.”

I rest my face in my hands and groan. “You are so fucking confusing. How you see this as a punishment to you makes no sense. I’m the one locked away. I’m the one waiting on death row. You’re living your damn life.”

I hear his fork scrap against his plate and glance up at him. He’s eating. What the hell?

It’s like nothing I say means anything to him. He never gives a straight answer and it’s all probably part of the way he’s fucking with my mind.

I could rush out the door right now. I could push away from the table and make it out of this kitchen in seconds flat. I glance around, and his fork clatters to his plate.

“Don’t even think about it,” he warns.

“What?” I ask as innocently as possible.

“I can run faster.”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t thinking about running.” I’m so busted.

We eat in an awkward silence and even though my stomach is in knots, I will admit that this meal is amazing.

“How old were you when you lost your mom?” he randomly asks me.

I don’t want to drink, but the ache I still feel is fresh. I sip my vodka and limeade, grinning because it tastes as good as dinner.

“I was seven,” I whisper.

He nods, crossing his arms. “It never gets easier. You always feel that loss.”

“Yes, you do.” I swallow nervously as I search his ridiculously handsome face. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I whisper.

“I don’t want your sympathy. I should’ve been here to protect her,” he says.

“Elliott, it’s not your fault.”

The pain I see in his eyes is very familiar to me.

“Tell me something, Clara. Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

I can’t help but giggle. It’s becoming clear to me that when he’s avoiding one thing, he brings up another. Typical guy, which is strange considering he’s anything but typical.

“Of course. Have you?”

He laughs. A real laugh and damn if it doesn’t do things to me.

“No, I’m not into guys,” he says with this dazzling smile that makes me want to see more of it.

He looks so carefree and dare I say innocent when he has that smile on his face. It makes him even more attractive if that’s possible.

Realizing my mistake, I shake my head. “I meant have you ever had a girlfriend?”

“More like fuck buddies,” he says.

I tilt my head as I sip my drink. “Not into romance, huh?”

He smirks and I can’t fight my smile.

“I’m into a lot of things, Clara,” he says as his voice deepens.

My damn body reacts to his sexy voice normally, but seeing his eyes darken and his muscles flex as he moves, damn, it makes me wish he’d show me what he’s into.

“So, no romantic dinners and heart-to-heart conversations for you?” I ask.

The sexiest half-grin I’ve ever seen hits his face and I melt a little more.

“For the right girl.”

There’s something wrong with me. I’m losing all sense of reality. I’ve officially lost my fucking mind as I wish I was his right girl.

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