Page 67 of Overcast

“I like the latter better,” I continue, allowing my fingers to trail up her spine. “I don’t think you’d mind it much either.”

“If you call raping women your cup of tea,” she fumes, shoving at my shoulders.

“Mhm, you might enjoy it.”

“Doubt it.”

“Then tell me who those men were.” She clamps her mouth shut, literally bites down on both of her lips to keep from speaking.

Like a fucking child.

I flick the lighter inches away from her nose. “I don’t want to fuck your pretty face up, remember?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she states. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”

“You want to make a deal?” She perks a brow at me. “Death is still on the table for you, sweetheart.”

Her face falls.

She’s shutting down, and I’m just making it worse by speaking.

This is why I never talk much to my victims, but something about Stormi makes me have diarrhea of the mouth, apparently.

“Just kill me now,” she recites. “Because I’m done. I’m tired of this.”

The corner of my lips curl. “Sorry to say, I’m not yet.” Lies. “And until I know for sure you’re worthless to me, I’ll keep trying. Now, give me your hand.”

She doesn’t comply—shocker—so I pry it off my body myself. Flicking the lighter, I watch her eyes pinch closed, and I almost feel bad.

Almost. Focusing on her palms, I flick the lighter again, bringing it closer to her flesh. And before I can hover it for more than a second, a stabbing pain lands in my back.

Stormi’s frame wrenches from my hold as I glance over to see what the fuck she just did before I’m blasted on the right side of my head.

My ears ring as my jaw pops open from the shock of it. Encased in my shoulderblade is a fucking knife—my knife—that I kept in the same spot in Hollis’s body.

Looking back to Stormi, she’s not there. I quickly blink to make sure my vision is correct, and it is, as my body clenches between twinges of pain hitting not only the spot she stabbed me at but in my chest.

Peering over the knife, I see Stormi at the stairs before sprinting up them. Fuck. I force my feet to move, each step sending a fresh wave of discomfort. Sunlight drifts through the bunker, hitting the wall, and she’s fucking gone through the door.

Then it closes and locks. Adrenaline courses through my body as the animal instincts of a hunter flood through me. She doesn’t know where she is, but if she sees Reagan’s house, I’m fucked.

And she’s locked me down here. Slamming my now bad shoulder into the door, I cry out in pain.

All the things I haven’t done to her yet come to light. I should’ve gone harder on her. I should’ve ended this a long time ago because she has caused me nothing but trouble.

Now I have a fucking stab wound, locked in my own damn bomb shelter, and she’s off in God knows what direction right now.

I hit the door, again and again, knowing there is no fucking way I’m getting through the steel.

Then my dumbass remembers that I have a key in the bedroom. Quickly I run to grab it and back up the steps. On click and the door opens, the sun blinding me for a moment as I scout the wooded area for her.

Nothing but trees meet me, and I should’ve microchipped her for all the inconvenience I’ve gone through, but it was never supposed to be this way.

Taking off towards my sister’s house, it’s the only place that I want to make sure she’s not at.

I don’t want to explain shit to Reagan. I don’t want to try and make her understand that I’m more fucked up than she believed. That I haven’t calmed down at all since she had Huck.

That I’m not worth saving at all.

---