Page 251 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

“You don’t get to touch me again!”

“No?”

His voice slices through the dark—low and rough, thick with something that sends a shiver through me.

“Then why,” he growls, closer now, “are you running just slow enough for me to catch you?”

I stumble, heart lurching.

Because he’s right.

Somewhere deep down, some traitorous part of me isn’t running to get away.

I’m running to be caught.

And he does.

Catches me mid-stride—one brutal, effortless motion—and spins me into the side of an old, rusted truck half-eaten by vines and time.

The metal kisses my back with a cold slap.

I thrash. Kick.

“Don’t—don’t—” I pant, but it’s useless.

He captures my wrists, pinning them above my head like it’s nothing, his body flush against mine, every hard line of him a cage.

His voice is steady. Dark. A slow bleed of heat over my skin.

“Say it. Say what you are.”

“I’m nothing,” I choke out, my voice cracking on the lie.

His laugh is low. Dangerous.

“No. You’re lying, Sunny.”

I squeeze my mouth shut, shaking my head.

His thigh wedges between mine, pressing into the ache I’m desperate to ignore. His size—immovable. A fortress of hunger.

“Say another lie out of that slut mouth,” he growls, “and I’ll fill it for you.”

I press my lips tighter, biting back the flood clawing at my insides.

But the words tumble out anyway.

“I’m not lying. Let me go,” I hiss, thrashing with a useless surge of adrenaline. “I’m not anything.”

He doesn’t budge.

Leans in, mouth brushing my ear.

“Wrong fucking answer.”

He drags me to the ground so fast I gasp.

Rough hands in my hair.

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