Page 210 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

My jacket hits the floor.

My boots pound a reckless path through the hall.

I’m not thinking.

I’m hunting.

I want to look the motherfucker in the eye—the arrogant, selfish bastard who took what was supposed to be mine.

Who kissed her.

Who stole the first fucking taste of her lips.

Mine.

That was supposed to be mine.

I shove the bathroom door open so hard it nearly tears off the hinges.

The light flickers on, and my target stares back at me.

Smirking.

Mocking.

Daring me.

My fist is already swinging before I realize it—rage burning so hot it blinds me.

Something cracks, but I don’t even fucking feel it. A sharp, brutal impact as the bathroom mirror shatters.

Glass rains down in glittering shards, the spiderweb of fractures splintering my own reflection into a thousand broken pieces.

I stand there, chest heaving, staring at the blood blooming across my knuckles, dripping onto the floor.

The man staring back at me is wrecked.

Wild-eyed.

Haunted.

Not the brooding detective everyone sees.

Not the man who plays by rules he wrote for himself.

This?

This is the monster she kissed.

I brace both palms on the sink, the porcelain cold under my hands, and lean in until my forehead almost touches the glass.

“You kissed her,” I snarl at my reflection. “Youkissed her. Not me.”

The words crack the air between us.

Me and the man that looks back at me from the cracked mirror.

I shove off the sink, pacing a savage line across the tiny room.

---