Page 77 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

As the wave of sensation recedes, reality seeps back in.

I lean forward, forearm braced on the fogged glass, breathing hard. My chest rises and falls with the lingering echo of her.

Countless nights I’ve watched her sleep—silent, still—listening to those soft moans as she dreams. Waiting. Wanting.

Aching for the moment she whispers my name in the dark, breathless and needy.

Wanting me. Needing me.

“One day soon, sunshine,” I murmur, breath fogging the glass. I trace the ghost of her handprint, down the imagined curve of her silhouette. “You’ll know I’ve been here all along.”

I exhale, the last sparks of pleasure still humming through me.

“Well, that was therapeutic,” I say, voice flat and dry.

Cheaper than any shrink I’ve ever wasted money on.

But fantasies—no matter how vivid—always end.

I sigh and refocus, focusing on the cleaning to center me. Every swipe wipes her slate clean—our slate.

As I repack my supplies, a twisted pride curls in my chest. One last look around the bathroom, and I zip the bag shut.

Not a speck of DNA left. No hair. No fingerprints.

Pristine. Better than new. A masterpiece.

Too bad no one will appreciate it.

But I will.

Because it was for her. Always her.

The slam of a car door outside slices through the silence.

Fuck.

I lost track of time. Got too caught up in her. Didn’t check her location.

I move fast to the upstairs landing, dropping low into the shadows. My pulse pounds as I ease toward the window.

And there she is—my beautiful, oblivious problem. Stepping out of a rideshare. Graceful. Unaware.

Jealousy flares, hot and irrational.

A rideshare.

Some stranger drove her home.

My jaw tightens. Rage curls slow and low in my chest.

The thought of anyone else near her, even casually, lights a fuse behind my ribs.

Easy, Romeo.

I breathe deep, tempering it. Soon,I’llbe the one driving her. Taking care of everything. She won’t even remember what freedom felt like.

She’s heading for the door.

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