The feeling inside you was strange, unlike anything you had ever experienced before. It wasn’t like being used—it was like being loved. Like being wrapped in a genuine warmth, an affection that felt real, bringing you back to the world, back to yourself, without needing low-cut dresses or the empty, calculated words you had learned to use to be accepted.

And that was exactly what made you the perfect victim for him.

Not just because you were the sister of his true obsession, but because, without realizing it, you had handed him your vulnerability. You made everything so easy when, lying under the careful, meticulous touch of his fingers, you broke down in sobs over how much you missed your father. After all, it wasn’t easy being cast aside for an adopted brother, was it?

Brian—or, to you, Rudy—wrapped every piece of that sensitivity around his rough fingers, like fragile threads of a precious toy. And like a little puppet, he moved you exactly how he wanted. He would do anything to please you, to make you smile, to convince you that he was the only one who truly understood you. That he loved you. That he had always been there.

And you believed it.

Now, watching him sway gently at the foot of your bed, taking small sips of wine as he extends his hand toward you, you feel those same familiar tremors. The shiver down your spine. The sensation of being enveloped, consumed.

In these hands, he offers you the same love as always—empty, sadistic, and warm.