Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 24966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 83(@300wpm)
That fire inside her… it was something I hadn’t expected to… desire.
And when I left the diner, I immediately went to her apartment and broke in. I lay beside her nightly, barely touching her at first but always ending the night with me jerking off over her because my dark and twisted need was too ferocious to ignore.
Nothing would change the pull I felt, the way my obsession with her grew each day.
And I’d just left her apartment with one focus in mind… to cut off that motherfucker’s hands before I killed him. For her.
For the last two days—when I wasn't stalking Isla—I followed that asshole’s every step. Hell, I counted every breath he took.
His name was Zack Sherman. But it didn’t matter. The dead didn’t need names.
His routine was like clockwork. It wasn’t hard to slip into the shadows of his mundane life. He was as predictable as they came—work, home, sleep, repeat.
The hunt was intoxicating. The thrill of knowing that, at any second, I could be right behind him before he even knew it and slit his throat made my cock hard. Hell, I could snap his neck while he slept.
There was no point in killing impulsively. But I withheld killing his worthless ass until the time was just right.
And that time was tonight.
This kill was specifically for Isla. I wanted to give her something special—something that no one else could give her. And what better gift than taking a life for her? And as far as treasures went, giving her a bloody bouquet made up of the fingers from the hand of the bastard who touched her? Priceless.
I wanted to give her something personal, something I knew she'd appreciate once she saw it.
The thrill of anticipation coursed through my veins as I moved toward his house. I blended into the darkened street like a shadow. He lived in a shitty, rundown house on the edge of town, a place that reflected his existence.
It was three in the morning. The lights were off. I knew he was already passed out from downing half the contents of a plastic vodka bottle he got from the gas station.
His neighborhood was even worse off than the housing in the city. These houses had been converted into trap houses, and although there were people outside at this hour, they were high and drunk and couldn't tell their asshole from the sky.
I slipped inside, silent and unnoticed. Every movement was calculated because I'd done this many times. The thrill of the hunt—the kill—was the one thing that made me feel alive.
That and stalking Isla…and jerking off on her while she slept.
I reached to the small of my back and pulled out my weapon of choice for tonight. I walked past the window, and admired my knife as the moonlight grazed the weapon.
Zack lay in the center of his ratty mattress, snoring lightly, and completely unaware of the evil standing over him.
For a moment, I just basked in the knowledge I was about to kill him, about to feel his blood spray out of his jugular and cover my face and chest. My cock jerked in anticipation.
I leaned in and inhaled deeply. I didn’t scent the usual terror that poured off my victims. Instead, Zack gave off sweat, unwashed body, and booze. I would have prolonged this, but I wanted to get back to Isla before she woke up. I wanted to leave behind her presents so she could awaken to them.
And so, I did what I did best.
The first slash was clean, a deep cut to the throat, severing his windpipe. His lids snapped open, terror painting his face as we locked eyes. I slowly grinned and ran my hand over the gaping wound on his neck, gathering his blood and bringing it to my nose to inhale deeply.
He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t scream. He jerked violently, his whole body awakening as his hands instinctively went to his throat. He was a fucking mess with blood pouring out from between his fingers.
I thought about going in on his jugular with the blade, just sawing away at his neck, but I changed my mind and moved back, letting him drown in his own fluids.
I watched him die slowly, savoring the way his life ebbed out of him in sputtering gasps and sprays of blood. There was something beautiful, very poetic about a human dying. The way their body struggled to survive was something that never got old to observe.
Once his body stilled and he let out a wet, gurgled breath, I got to work.
I grabbed his left limp wrist, and although I thought about bringing my cleaver, I opted to travel light. I held up the bloody knife and smiled as the viscus liquid dripped off the blade.
The knife was sharp and went through skin and muscle easily. Getting through the bone was harder, but I sawed at it with the serrated edge.