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

Our strange evening ended as I came out of the bathroom and Elliott was gone. I guess he doesn’t understand simple courtesies like goodbye.

I barely slept as I kept thinking about the dinner. How unbelievably sexy Elliott is. The way his scent lingered long after he was gone. The way his body moved and the expressions on his ridiculously handsome face. The thing that kept me awake though, the thing that still haunts me was the pain I saw in his eyes when he talked about losing someone.

I lean against the door jamb, crossing my arms as I look around the kitchen. I’ve never eaten dinner in a home before with the company of another person, aside from my nannies. My father never had dinner with me. Any men I’ve been with we’ve always eaten at a restaurant, never at their home.

It’s such a normal thing that most people take for granted, yet something I’ve craved my entire life.

That’s not completely true. I had it once with my mother.

She ate dinner with me. She asked about my day. She made me feel like I mattered. Because to her, I did.

Elliott was right, the pain of losing someone never goes away.

I think about the pain I saw in his dark eyes, and I push off the door jamb.

“Come on, Clara, let’s see if you’re right,” I say to myself.

Talking out loud to myself because that’s what I do now. That’s how I try to keep my sanity. That is if there is anything left.

I open the door to the little girl’s room and step inside. “This must’ve been her bedroom.”

Elliott mentioned this was his grandparents’ house, so I’m uncertain for sure if he lived here as a child, but something tells me this was his sister’s room. Even if only when they visited.

I’ve looked around each room numerous times, but I never studied anything.

When I was little, I used to go into my closet and draw or write on the walls. The nannies would tell me to stop, but I never did. I guess I thought maybe my father would notice.

Another ridiculous notion.

I open the closet door and squat down, looking at the walls down low. A small grin plays on my lips when I see one simple word—Sara. It’s in a child’s handwriting and my heart squeezes. At some point in time, his sister, Sara, was in this exact same spot I am in right now. In the closet. Was she full of life playing here or was she hiding?

I trace my finger over the writing as a tear rolls down my cheek.

“I’m sorry, Sara. I’m sorry you suffered so tragically. I hope you are at peace now. If you’re still uncertain what it feels like to be loved, look for my Mama. Her hugs were magic.”

I climb out of the closet but leave the door open. Her writing shouldn’t be hidden.

The room appears so full of life and happiness. The bright pink walls with rainbows painted on them. It’s a room I would’ve loved as a little girl.

I pick up the stuffed horse on the bed and pet it gently. I wonder if she liked horses or if this was just a stuffed animal that brought her comfort. It’s soft and I’m sure it made for a great cuddle buddy as a child.

As I place it back on the bed, I move to the dresser and open each drawer, pulling them out completely. Elliott never mentioned how old she was when she died, but as a teenager, I used to hide notes and pictures behind my dresser drawers. It was a guarantee no one would ever find them unless they were looking thoroughly for something.

I pull out every drawer but find nothing, so I decide to check under the bed. Again, I’ve looked under here, but I wasn’t looking for something she may have left behind.

A bit disappointed, I climb out from under the bed, not finding anything.

I look around the room and swallow roughly, feeling the ache of Sara being gone. I didn’t know her but damn I believe she must’ve been someone really special.

As I walk out of her room, I go to the room next door. The room I believe belonged to Elliott as a child.

The forest green walls and animal posters seem like something he would like. He did say he hunted and trapped animals.

I run my fingers along the top of the black dresser and look around the room. It’s as clean as every other room and I briefly wonder if he always kept his room clean or if he had clothes all over the floor and wet towels hanging off the bed.

Shaking my head at my thoughts, I open the closet door and squat down to check if he had written anything. My eyes bounce all around and disappointment floods me when I find nothing. I would’ve thought for sure he’d have cut open the damn walls, or something.

Just like I did in Sara’s room, I pull out all the drawers of the dresser and once again there’s nothing.

Really it shouldn’t surprise me.

I’ve witnessed him get rid of a human being. Keeping anything from his childhood would let on that his black heart may have been a little less evil at one time.

After I get all the drawers put back, I sit down on the bed that he at one time slept in and run my hands on the soft comforter. I wonder if he was older when he was here. Did he ever have any girls in this room? Did he touch them like he touched me? Was he moaning their names while they screamed his?

I close my eyes and drop my face into my hands.

What the hell is wrong with me?

As my head tries to tell my body to get it together, I remember something I saw when I was first here. I slide off the bed and lift the mattress slightly.

I reach under and pull out the Playboy magazine. At the time I couldn’t have cared less, but now I’m curious.

I sit back on the bed and grin as I look at the cover. It’s such a normal thing—finding a Playboy magazine under the mattress. It’s almost hard to believe that he would do something so normal.

I flip it open and it’s not a naked woman I see, it’s a piece of paper with a drawing on it. A knife with blood dripping off of it. Under the knife are the words—Try Me.

“This is the kind of shit I expected to find.”

From the handwriting, I can tell this was done when he was older, not a small child. I wonder if it was before or after he lost his sister.

I put it back between the pages and flip through to see if there’s anything else.

My heart pounds in my chest when I see a handwritten note. I pull it out and take a deep breath before letting my eyes skate over the words.

Grandpa,

You’re gone. Just like everyone else.

Writing a letter to a dead man probably makes me crazy, although I think I’m far past that at this point. 

I found out what my piece of shit father did. I found the video tape of him abusing, rapping, and killing my little sister. A fucking video tape so he could replay what a sick bastard he was. Wanna know why I dug around looking for it? Because you left him a letter. You told him he would never be forgiven for his sins.

So, I did what everyone else was too scared to do.

I killed him. 

You were the only person I ever truly believed in, but that image is gone now. You knew what he did and didn’t do shit about it. You let him walk free. That makes you as guilty as him. 

I’m alone now, which is for the best. The darkness that has taken over isn’t something I’ll ever be able to escape. The shit I saw on the tape that piece of shit had will haunt me forever. 

You always told me that I was meant for big things and that is true. I’m meant to rid the world of evil and I’ll continue doing it until my dying breath. Because no woman or child should ever suffer like my mother and sister did. I refuse to let it happen.

When my time comes, I’ll be going straight to hell, and I won’t regret a fucking thing. I’ll burn for eternity if it means I was able to save one little girl like Sara.

I hope my piece of shit father is burning in hell and I hope you’re haunted by regrets. 

– Your fucked up grandson 

Tears swim in my eyes as I read the letter he has written. He poured his heart out, as fucked up as it is. I think what makes the tears roll down my cheeks is that I can feel the helplessness he was feeling. The loneliness he endures. Knowing not only what his father did, but knowing his grandfather knew is disgusting.

A part of me, a very small part, understands him.

He felt he had no choice. He did what he had to do.

I’m almost jealous because I’ve never done it. I’ve never been able to escape the helplessness and loneliness I feel.

Especially now.

I read the letter over and over, my heart aching more each time.

Before I realize it, it’s dark out and my eyes grow heavy.

I put the letter back in the magazine and slip it back under the mattress. If he knew I read it I’m sure he’d torture me.

He hasn’t been home all night, so I know he’s not watching. If he was, he would’ve spoken through the cameras.

I look around the room and in a strange way, I like being in here. As crazy as it sounds, I feel close to Elliott, and I like that feeling.

I feel less alone.

So, for the first time since I’ve been in this prison, I don’t go back to the big room. I curl up on Elliott’s bed and inhale deeply. It’s as if I can smell him like he’s here with me. It brings me comfort.

My eyes close and for a brief moment, I believe I feel his strong arms around me.