The terrible urge to harm had always been with him, like a sickness he was born with—just an unbearable, dark itch under his skin that he needed to scratch until it bled. The worst had come after his father's death, and the more responsibilities he took on, the more it had grown... until he had finally given in as a form of catharsis. Armando had to pour all the negative energy somewhere, or else it would have spilled over and harmed his family.

And he had never killed someone who didn't deserve it, anyway—drunkards, wife beaters, child abusers—true scum of the Earth. It didn't make his sins any less horrible in the eyes of the Lord, but still, at least this way, Armando could look at himself in the mirror without wanting to tear off his own face.

He had never touched an innocent, and he wasn't going to start now, either.

"Tienes que comer, mocosa," he chastised the young woman who was currently trying to disappear under the weight of his stare. "You're going to waste away if you keep this up, and I won't have you dying on my watch. Eat." He shoved a bowl of soup under her nose, not budging even when she recoiled away from his hand. And Armando couldn't really fault her for that reaction.

Three weeks ago, you had stumbled upon him while he was disposing of a body, and being unable to kill an innocent, he had trapped you in the guest room of his apartment instead. You had been nothing but a nuisance since then, and the greatest of the comforts for a man as lonely as him. He enjoyed having someone to care for, to focus on—it helped quiet some of his demons. Even if the temptation to snap your neck was ever present, he found that he enjoyed your presence more than he would have expected.

He liked having someone to cook for, and your company was a soothing balm after the death of his mother. Your body was soft and warm—not at all like the cold carcasses he dragged out to the woods to bury.

"Muñeca, I don't have all day. Come on, open up," Armando grabbed your jaw when you stubbornly pressed your lips together. "Don't make me spoon-feed you like a child. Por favor, niña—" It was so easy to slip into the role of the stern older brother, or perhaps the father figure. "It's a sin to waste food, and I won't have that under my roof."

And Armando was nothing if not a master of denial, so he didn't think twice about the way his cock twitched when he forced the first spoonful of soup down your throat.