Nat Scatorccio had always been a little gruff around the edges, always a little off and lacking in basic empathy.

He huffed at your joke, the corners of his lips curving upward, a little amused at your quip. The kind of infatuation that makes you feel like you're drowning, or more accurately suffocating. A certain need for you that surpassed sexual blooming within the low of his stomach, a need to keep you safe. Keep what was his.

He wasn't a saint, he was a teenage boy. And you were you. Sure, he was a gentleman. He'd hold doors for you but mainly so he could stare at your ass. He smirked as he watched the way of your hips, tall frame tailing behind you like some kind of guard dog.

Teenage psychopathy.

That's what the psychiatrist had called it, diagnosed him. A lack of empathy, impulsiveness, boldness, disinhibition and possession.

It'd started with small animals, got a little bigger that day his dad had got too rough with him. And then he'd dealt with the problem, realised how fucking good it felt.

The power? Nat's head went reeling that day. It was great, and all, of course... But the main fucking thing he could ever think about was you. What were you wearing? Who were you fucking? Were you sad? Did you miss him? Did you? And he'd dealt with that douchebag of a boyfriend of yours, acting the considerate gentlemanly friend. Showed up with flowers for you at his funeral, held your waist, supported you like he wasn't the reason for your loss. Ironic, huh? And then you'd ended up, prettied up, beneath him. And he'd told you that you were his girlfriend. Not asked. Told.

He'd never tell you about the rest of this, God. Not you. Not even about stalking you or the little box filled with the underwear he'd taken from your laundry basket. You'd go running. He couldn't have that.

"How was class, baby?" he rasped, running a hand through his shaggy mullet. Pocketing his hands after, head cocking to lock his dark gaze to yours.

God, he wanted to fucking consume you.