To Kiss My Enemy

In the end, it was surprisingly easy for him to find the bitch who had taken his family away from him five years earlier. But even if it had been difficult, even very difficult, he’d still have managed it. He’d made up his mind to find her, after all. Finding her was all that he’d thought about during those long days and longer nights in his prison cell, and he was the kind of man who saw things through, one way or the other. Always and every time.

He found her easily because – incredibly, unbelievably – she still practiced clinical psychology under her real name. Even after what she’d done, after how totally she’d destroyed his life, she still had the fucking arrogance to use her real name out there in the world. More than anything, that told him that she stood by what she’d done to him. She wasn’t sorry, or ashamed, or losing sleep, or repentant, for all the harm that she’d inflicted.

More than anything, that told him that she needed to be punished. She needed to be stopped, stopped from doing to any other innocent men what she’d done to him. She needed to pay. She needed to learn a lesson.

And he was the man to make her do exactly that.

He stared at her picture on the clinic website, feeling the all-too-familiar sense of being torn. Yeah, she was the bitch who had convinced his wife to leave him, and to take their daughter with her, and to go into hiding from him. But she was also the most beautiful, desirable, stimulating woman that he’d ever laid eyes on. Still.

Goddamn her.

His baleful glare skimmed over her lustrous honey-blonde hair, stared deep into her sky-blue eyes, fixed on her sexy-as-hell lips. Fuck, her smile was perfect. She was perfect, and as much as he hated her, she was his. She was going to replace every single thing that she’d ever taken away from him. It was her fucking obligation to make it up to him. Over and over again, as often and in as many ways as he wanted. As he demanded.

She’d wrecked his life; it was now his mission to demolish hers. And in so doing, he’d rebuild his own, with her at its center. He’d drag her into his world kicking and screaming, if that’s what he had to do. She’d learn to like it, eventually, but even if she didn’t, she had no choice in the matter. After all, he hadn’t had any.

He threw his cup of takeout coffee away, got back in the car. Pointed his wheels south, hit the Canadian highway at maximum speed, ignored the late-January snow and ice warnings.

If he sacrificed sleep, he’d be in Denver, Colorado in four days.

I’m coming, bitch. I’m coming for you.

Doctor Francine Cabot locked her office door with a sigh. It had been one hell of a day, and she was almost desperately glad that it was over. Clinical psychology was a challenging, demanding job at the best of times, but most days, Francine went home certain that she’d helped someone. On really good days, she knew that she had changed someone’s life for the better. She lived for those days.

Days like today, though. God, they wiped her out. Days like today reminded her of the fragility of the human psyche, and just how badly it could be damaged by another person hell-bent on doing just that. When a monster made it their life’s work to terrorize and harm someone, they could do one hell of a thorough job of it.

She sighed again, thought about Alexandra Mayer, and hoped to Christ that the woman would be at their next session in two days’ time. Considering just how badly things were escalating at home, Francine wasn’t totally sure it was going to happen. If she got a call from the hospital, she wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised.

The hospital… or the morgue.

It had been damn hard to let Alexandra walk out just one hour earlier. The urge to lock the woman into her office and barricade the door had been massive – but that wasn’t Francine’s place. If Alexandra wanted help leaving her violent husband, Francine was ready and able to send her somewhere safe and call the cops… but Alexandra had to ask. Until then, all Francine could do was talk, listen, counsel. Pray and hope.

Weary and worried, she slung her purse over her shoulder, double-checked that her office was locked. Francine walked down the hall to the exit, shutting off lights as she went. She was the last one there again, and she set the code and alarm on her way out.

She stood in the dark parking lot, blinking up at the snow. It was beautiful, to be sure, but it wasn’t the best weather to be driving in when distracted and tired. Francine dug deep, found some reserves of focus and energy. Enough to get to her favorite Chinese restaurant, anyway, where she’d get something hot and substantial. Mei’s spicy wonton soup never failed to revive her, she knew, and tonight also felt like a fried pork with garlic night.

Carefully, Francine crossed the slippery lot, watching her feet. She made it to her car without landing flat on her ample ass, thank God, and she unlocked the door, and slid into the car with a sound of relief. Her exhale was a white puff that floated away on the icy air, and she shivered. Yeah, it was freezing cold, but it’d warm up in five minutes.

As she waited for the car to get above sub-zero, she rubbed her mittened hands together, and listened to the radio. Francine seat-danced to Bon Jovi, no apologies and no witnesses, and that warmed her up even more. She gave the engine a few experimental little revs, and when it turned over smooth and strong, she shifted the car into gear, thinking about nothing but green tea, soup, and garlic pork.

Oh, and about a woman with large brown eyes and delicate wrists. A woman who always smelled of vanilla and sugar. A woman whose husband was, quite possibly at this exact moment, beating her within an inch of her life. Again.

Be safe, Alexandra. As safe as you can be.