Miranda had been … uncooperative. She had hated him. He had the bruise on his left cheek to prove it, too, and it stung as he rubbed it with a finger.
Miranda had been a fighter. But the more he’d forbidden her food the less of a tigress she had been; more controllable.
They had Chinese food as their final meal. He’d eaten beside her. One egg-roll at a time, and she had looked at him with eyes of longing. Just before he’d snapped her neck. As her life ebbed from her body, she’d given him one last rapturous shudder before her life quit her.
Not only had the experience been exciting, arousing even, it had been moving to him. As he lay her head limply sideways he wept.
Oh not for her loss of life; he was finished with her anyways. No he wept for joy. Joy for himself. For this discovery. Taking her life had given him purpose; for he allowed her to die just as he had given her hope that she would ever eat again.
He wiped away a tear with the remembrance just as he found his next victim.
A red-head.
Juliette.