Page 46 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

His fingers clamp around my wrists and slam them into the ground. The back of my head scrapes concrete. The ceiling spins.

“Always so mouthy,” he sneers, straddling my hips. “But I like ’em mouthy. Makes the screaming more fun.”

His fingers claw at my shoulder, yanking at the fabric of my bodysuit. I hear the seam give way—a sickening rip that echoesin the dark. One sleeve tears free, baring my arm to the cold air and his filthy touch. He grins like he’s proud of it. Like this is a game he’s already won.

“Scream for me—let’s see if it’s as sweet as hers.”

He’s so close to my ear, I turn my head and I bite.

Hard.

Then harder.

I bite until my jaw aches. Until he’s the one screaming. Trying to jab at my torso, but he can’t get a good shot.

When I taste blood, I let go, and he jerks back with a roar, hand flying to his cheek where blood’s running through his fingers.

“You fucking bitch.”

I twist, shove, wriggle free enough to get one leg up and kick with everything I’ve got. He stumbles, off balance for a breath.

That’s all I need.

I scramble, dragging myself until my hand closes around the hilt of the knife.

My mom’s knife.

I roll, just as he lunges again—and this time, this time—I’m ready.

I drive the blade up into his side with a cry that doesn’t sound like me. It sounds feral. Unhinged.

He screams, but not from fear. From rage.

His hand clamps around my neck and he squeezes. His eyes are wild now. Panicked. Inhuman. If they ever were.

His lips move, muttering something—maybe threats, maybe prayers—but I can’t hear over the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my skull.

His hand fumbles for the knife.

Even as he tightens the grip around my throat, his other hand scrapes the floor, blindly searching for the weapon still clutched in my fist.

He’s trying to choke me out and disarm me at the same time.

But I won’t let him.

Every time his fingers graze the handle, I twist, wrenching my arm just out of reach. He growls in frustration, and I feel the vibration of it against my skin—hot breath against my ear, his forearm crushing down harder. My lungs scream. My eyes burn. But I don’t loosen my hold.

I shift again, draw back as far as I can.

Then I slash.

The blade bites into the tender flesh beneath his arm, just where the muscle thins and the vein pulses thick beneath it.

Warm blood sprays across my face, hot and wet and violent. It covers my throat, my arms, the wall behind me. I gasp, flinching at the sensation—but I don’t stop.

I’ll be dead if I do.

His grip falters and he sputters. But still, he fights.

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