Page 67 of Lessons in Cruelty

“You know, Haven,” I say, letting my voice drop to that tone that makes students lean in so they won’t miss the nugget of wisdom I’m about to drop. “There’s no shame in finding pain pleasurable.”

She tenses, prey recognizing a shift in her predator’s demeanor.

“Why would you think—” But she cuts off when I make a point of staring at her jaw. Her laugh is forced, uneasy. “I told you, I tripped.”

I ignore the pathetic lie. “The body can’t distinguish between intense pleasure and intense pain. Both flood the nervous system with the same electrical impulses.”

Her breathing changes, becomes shallow. Glassy blue eyes dart to the door, calculating escape routes, weighing her options. But she’s already made the mistake of getting comfortable in my territory, of letting the bourbon lower her defenses.

“It’s the mind that assigns meaning. During my research, I’ve found that those who’ve experienced early trauma often seek to recreate those patterns. They mistake familiarity for desire, violence for passion.”

Her breathing hitches.

Good girl.

She’s starting to understand.

“Often their decision to embrace or resist, to break the wheel or continue the cycle, is so biased it’s laughable.”

My gentle approach isn’t working fast enough. She’s too good at deflection. Too practiced at hiding her secrets.

Time to stop playing the concerned professor.

I shift closer, close enough that she has nowhere to retreat unless she wants to climb over the back of the couch. Close enough that she can smell my cologne, feel my heat.

“Whose pain are you embracing, Haven? Yours or theirs?”

The way she shrinks into the couch cushions, the way her pulse hammers in her throat, makes my cock harden even more.

I can smell her fear now. Its sweetness mingles with the bourbon on her breath. Her pupils are dilated, whether from alcohol or adrenaline, I can’t tell. Don’t particularly care.

Forget her curves. Her soft lips. How she’d sound, moaning my name.

This is what I’ve been craving.

I used to collect butterflies, but that grew old fast.

Now I collect broken things.

And the first step of trapping something as flighty as Haven Lee is building trust.

I pull out my phone, making a show of checking the time. In reality, I begin recording.

For my research.

For my shrine.

For myself.

“Tell me about him, Haven.” I lay my hand on her knee, and the stunned girl doesn’t even try to shake me off. “Tell me about the boy who hurt you.”

The way she flinches tells me everything.

My cock throbs, imagining all the ways that boy must have broken her.

The ways I’m going to break her.

Chapter 19