Page 58 of Shy Girl

I’m in,I wrote.

The messages—he has all of them. I know what they say. The careful narrative he’s constructed, the story he’s been curating for years, each piece designed to paint me as complicit.

Am I allowed to leave whenever I want?

Yes.

A woman who agreed to act like a dog for cash. They’ll eat it up. They’ll see his clean-cut face, his steady demeanor, the messages, and they’ll believe him. They always do.

But then, something cuts through the panic, a thought sharp and clear, slamming into me like a freight train.

No.

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There’s another option.

The idea is sudden, jarring, and it grips me hard, refusing to let go. My eyes dart to the bag of cash on the counter. Then to him, standing there, so confident, so assured in his control, his victory. The open door behind him, sunlight streaming in like it’s taunting me.

I look at him—at his blank expression, his steady stance—and for the first time, I feel something shift. My breath steadies,my muscles coil. The thought sharpens, solidifies, and I don’t let myself question it.

Icouldtake the money. Icouldleave. Or I could make sure he never does this to anyone else again.

I nod slow, lowering my gaze as I whisper, “Woof.”

He smirks, satisfied, and turns away, giving me just enough time to look around the room, to calculate my next move. “I'm sorry I had to keep you for so long. But that was always the plan,” Nathan says, his tone casual, almost conversational, as if he’s explaining a minor inconvenience. His hands are still in his pockets, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable. “Not a lot of women would agree to this if they knew I like to keep my Girl Pets for years until I’m done playing with them, and that little stunt of yours yesterday did it for me. My clients are not happy with what you did last night. I’m done. You're free to go now,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward the door, his voice light and dismissive. “Thank you for your time, Gia. Your car is out front. I made sure to keep up with the maintenance. Even gassed it up for you this morning. You’re good to go.” He smiles.

My mind races, spiraling into an uncontrollable loop of thoughts, each one sharper, louder, more intrusive than the last. The room feels too bright, too loud, too close. My vision begins to blur, not with relief but with something darker, hotter.

Rage.

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The word cuts through my thoughts like a knife. The sound of his voice, the sight of his face, the casual ease with which he dismisses everything he’s done—it fuels the fire inside me until it consumes everything else. I was thirty years old when I first entered this house. Now I am thirty-seven. Valuable years of my life gone. Because of him.

For the last time, I get down on all fours, and lunge.

My body moves on instinct, driven by a force that feels primal. My hands reach for his throat, my fingers digging into his skin with a ferocity that surprises even me. His eyes widen, the calm, detached mask slipping as he stumbles backward, trying to pry my hands away, only to fall, his leg bending the wrong way with a sickening crack, the sound of his leg bone popping out of its socket. He screams—a high, raw sound that echoes through the room—but it only fuels me further. I drive him to the ground, my knees pinning his chest, and I slam his head against the floor with a sickening thud.

The first bite is clumsy, my teeth sinking into the soft flesh of his neck. Blood spurts out in hot, metallic bursts, coating my lips, my tongue, my chin. The taste is intoxicating, the warmth of it filling my mouth.

I bite again, harder this time, tearing away a chunk of skin and muscle. Nathan screams again, his voice hoarse, desperate, but I don’t stop. I rip into his throat with my teeth, eating his vocal chords, the blood pouring out in thick, viscous streams that pool around his head.

His hands claw at me weakly, his strength fading, his movements slowing. I grab his shirt and tear it open, exposing his chest. I tear a hole through his stomach with my claws and then my hands dig into it, my fingers slipping in the blood as I tear through the flesh, the muscle, through sinew.

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I pull his intestines out, the slick, coiled mass warm and heavy in my hands. The smell is overwhelming, a mix of copper and bile and something earthy. I raise them to my mouth and slurp them up like spaghetti, the texture rubbery, the taste metallic and salty.

His screams turn into gurgles, his body twitching beneath me as I work. I sink my teeth into his liver, tearing it free from its cavity, the organ heavy and wet in my hands. I bite into it, the taste rich and iron-filled, the blood dripping down my chin and onto my clothes.

I keep going, driven by an insatiable hunger, a need to consume, to destroy, toerasehim completely. I rip through his chest cavity, my hands slick with blood as I pull out his heart. It is still faintly beating, the rhythm weak and erratic, and I sink my teeth into it, tearing it apart with a savage growl.

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