Page 149 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

A slow shake of my head. No words. Just that. Calm. Final.

No.

That’s not who I am.

I don’t take what’s mine.

I make it give in.

When I finally speak, my voice is low. A promise she won’t forget.

“Not unless you beg me to, Sunshine.”

Because when she begs, when she asks, then she’ll understand:

She was mine long before I touched her.

Her heart pounds. I see it in her pulse. The way her chest rises too fast.

My hand slides down her thigh—not to grope, but to soothe. Pressure. Steady.

The other threads through her fingers. She lets me.

I lift her leg, guide her foot toward the bath.

My palm curves around her calf. For a second, I wonder if she feels it too—that hum between us. Divine. Profane.

The water rushes over her toes, steam curling up.

“Hot enough?” I ask, though I already know it’s not.

“No,” she breathes. Soft and raw.

I adjust the water without a word, without looking away, and help her into the tub.

She folds in on herself, arms wrapping tight over her chest like armor.

I lean down, bracing my palm on the tub’s edge. Close enough she can hear me over the water.

“Don’t come out until the water runs clear.”

There’s blood on her skin. Her hair. Her soul. But it won’t be there for long.

My eyes drink her in—every bruise, every tremble.

“Can you do that?” I murmur, voice low, meant only for her. “Can you be my good girl?”

A veil drops over her face. Lust flickers in her eyes as she stays locked in that trance.

Oh, my little Sunshine liked that.

She nods. Barely. But she does.

“Good,” I whisper.

And it’s not just praise—it’s a benediction.

I let my thumb brush her lip, soft and reverent.

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