Page 180 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

The distance feels colder than the air leaking through the window.

“Go get it.” he orders.

I stand frozen for a beat, body shaking under the weight of what he’s asking.

Then—because defying him feels impossible—I obey.

Each step downstairs feels like a mile.

I grab the burner from the coffee table and hurry back upstairs.

He’s already turned down the bed. Covers folded. Pillows fluffed. Sheets cool and inviting.

He sits at the edge, legs spread, hands resting on his thighs like he has all the time in the world, and nods at the phone.

UNKNOWN: Lose the panties, bad girl.

I hesitate, meeting his gaze through the slits of the mask.

My body screams at me to do what he says.

My pride—the tiny, stubborn bit I have left—wants to fight.

But I want more of what happened last night. The way he made me feel. It’s unlike anything.

Slowly, I climb onto the bed, sliding under the covers like a shield. I square my shoulders, tilt my chin in the smallest act of defiance.

“What if I don’t?” I whisper.

His answer is clipped.

“Off.”

This is a standoff—a challenge—I have no hope of winning.

The tension snaps tight.

He fists the blanket and yanks it off me in one sharp jerk.

I gasp at the chill, skin pebbling, but stay still.

He slides my shorts down my legs and tosses them aside. Then, with a vicious rip, he tears the panties off.

The fabric gives way with a sound that splits the quiet, my yelp echoing after it.

He lifts the scrap to his face, inhales, gaze locked on mine.

I feel it everywhere.

The ownership. The promise that he’s just getting started.

The panties slip from his fingers, forgotten.

I’m bare from the waist down, thighs together, air brushing against skin that feels too raw, too exposed.

My nipples are hard beneath my cami, and when his gaze drops to them, I feel it like a brand.

He lifts a hand and pinches one peak, rolling it slow and deliberate, watching me react with no mercy.

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