Page 263 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

Then down to the vibrator still buzzing weakly on the bed.

I drag my bloodstained fingers across the silicone head. Marking it. Claiming it.

Turning it from something mundane into something mine.

I don’t realize I’m crying until I taste the salt and blood together on my lips.

But it’s not sadness.

It’s worship.

Surrender.

I lie back on the bed, the knife still gripped in one hand, the vibrator in the other.

And for the first time in days, I don’t feel hollow.

I feel claimed.

Even if he’s not here.

Even if I told him I hated him.

Even if I don’t know how to forgive him . . . or myself.

He still owns me.

Maybe that’s what I was always waiting for.

I spread my legs wider, my breath hitching, thighs trembling as I press the blood-slicked vibrator against my clit.

The jolt of pleasure is violent. Sharp.

My hips buck instinctively, chasing it even when my mind screams to pull away.

I ride the edge, dragging the toy lower, pressing it against the fresh, angry letter.

Pain slices through the haze—white-hot and exquisite.

I whimper, rolling my hips in tiny, desperate circles.

The sting, the heat—it sharpens everything. Makes it real in a way nothing else can.

“You wanted me to hurt,” I whisper. “You wanted me ruined.”

And I am.

I picture it so vividly I can almost see it.

Declan in the doorway. My stalker in the shadows.

Watching. Letting me fall apart because he made me this way.

I imagine him crossing the floor. Pinning me down. Tying my wrists so tight the ropes bite.

Blade in hand, carving more letters into my trembling body.

His hands roaming. His mouth devouring. Filling me until there’s no part left untouched.

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