Page 262 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I’ve been picking at them without realizing, worrying the flesh until it bleeds.

It hurts.

But not enough.

Nothing feels like enough anymore.

Not the way my body throbs between my thighs.

Not the weak vibration buzzing against my skin.

Not the frantic press of my hand, desperate for some tiny relief from the emptiness clawing through my chest.

I whisper it out loud—maybe to myself, maybe to the dark:

“I want to feel it. The way you do.”

I want to understand what he saw when he looked at me. I want to see it too.

My hand slips away from the vibrator. It falls to the mattress with a soft, pathetic thud.

I open the nightstand. The small switch knife inside gleams under the low light.

I pick it up.

The handle fits my palm like it was made for me.

Breathing shallow, I shift, pulling my leg up until the tender skin of my inner thigh is exposed.

My pulse thrashes in my ears.

But my hand is steady as I press the tip of the blade into my skin—just deep enough to drag a letter there. Slow. Deliberate.

D.

For Declan.

For Devil.

For Destruction.

For Don’t forget who you belong to.

Blood beads up immediately—bright, hot, beautiful.

It doesn’t hurt the way I thought it would.

It’s sharper. Cleaner.

It cuts through the noise screaming in my head.

I exhale, feeling the first true breath I’ve taken in days.

The crimson welling from the letter is hypnotic.

I dip a fingertip into it, smearing the warmth in a slow, reverent stroke.

First across my tongue—just a swipe, a taste, something primal and broken clawing forward.

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