Pulling up the surveillance app on my phone, I check she’s still out cold.
She is. Snoring softly.
Perfect.
I slide the living room window open—silent, careful—and step inside.
Each step towards her bedroom is measured, deliberate.
The door creaks slightly as I slip through.
She doesn’t even stir.
My angel.
She’s naked, as usual. The duvet’s kicked off, her tits on full display as she lies on her side. Dark nipples, hard and begging for attention.
Her hair’s a mess around her face; a little crust of drool dried on the corner of her mouth.
She shifts, rolling onto her back—her breasts fall to either side, soft and heavy.
God, what I’d give for a single taste.
This is my moment.
I don’t want to frighten her too much—just enough.
She needs reminding.
She’smine.
I draw the knife from my rucksack, the handle cool in my grip.
Climbing over her, I brace myself with one hand, pressing the blade gently to her throat with the other.
Her eyes fly open.
She goes to scream.
“Shhh, Angel. It’s just me.”
She relaxes at my words—modulated and distorted, like a low rasping growl. Batman with a fucking obsession. Satisfaction hums inside me. She’s not scared by me. She knows I would never hurt her.
“W-what do you want?” she whispers, her heart pounding so hard I canseeit through her chest.
Her eyes flick down—realising she’s naked—and she scrambles to cover herself.
I kneel back, catch her wrists, and gently pull them away. Then I lower myself over her again.
The knife presses in a little more.
Just enough to break the skin.
A single droplet of blood beads at her throat.
If it wasn’t for the mask, I’d lick it from her skin. Salty, coppery, warm—mine.
“Who is Graham?” I hiss, though it comes out more like a deep snarl.