“Ty,” she pleads against my hand in response, a tear slipping down her flushed cheek. “Please don’t do this.”
“Oh, freckles, I’d do anything for you. But one thing I won’t do is have you stop me from doing what the fuck is right. You’ll learn the hard way, my beautiful girl.”
I slip my knife into my pocket and push her forward, guiding her to where he lies—his body limp. I pull him aggressively from the toilet, dragging him by his scruff, the sickening sound of his body scraping against the floor echoing in the cold, sterile silence of the bathroom. He lands with a soft thud, his face a grotesque mask of blue.
I lean down, forcing her to do the same, making her witness what I’m about to do. Her chest heaves with each breath until my fingers dive into his eye socket with a brutality that makes her stop inhaling all together. Instead, she screams into my palm, struggling against me, but I hold onto her tight, blood squirting from his eye as I try to dig further inside, attempting to get a good grasp to wrench it out.
Just as I yank it free, she strikes, her fist plunging toward me with cruel accuracy and smashing into my balls. A sickening groan escapes my throat as the pain sears through me. My hold loosens, just enough for her to wriggle free. I collapse to my knees, clutching my nuts, my vision blurring at the edges. From the corner of my eye, I watch her flee, her footsteps heavy with desperation as she bolts out the door, the faint scent of her fear still lingering in the air.
I wait for the pain to ebb away and when it finally starts to dull, a twisted smile pulls at the corners of my mouth. I rise slowly, eyes shifting to the gruesome sight before me. The eyeball, still fresh and glistening in the blood-soaked ground. I scoop it up, holding it in my hand like a fucking trophy before shoving it into my pocket.
Chapter Six
Raven
I burst through the side door, the relentless downpour soaking me in seconds. I dash across the desolate, rocky parking lot, hyperventilating, my hair and long, open jacket blowing in all directions. The alcohol begins to cloud my senses, my vision spinning as I try to keep my balance, every step growing heavier. I struggle to walk in a straight line, my speed increasing despite my wobbling. As I tug the middle of my coat around myself, I glance over my shoulder—and that's when I see him exiting the side door.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” The words escape in a panicked rush, but they do nothing to steady my heart. I push myself harder, my strides lengthening, but the damn heels slow me down.
I stop dead in my tracks, kicking them off and grabbing them in one hand with my bag in the other, my bare feet sinking into the wet, jagged stones beneath me. The pain is sharp, but it’s nothing compared to the terror gnawing at my insides. I keep glancing back, each time seeing him closer. His hands are casually tucked in his pockets, his hood shadowing his face, but I know those eyes are fixed on me. His long legs eat up the distance between us, and with every step, I feel smaller, weaker.
The moment my bare feet hit the cold, flat pavement, I pick up speed, sprinting down my street toward my house. All I canthink about is locking myself away from him. I fumble with the zipper on my bag, fingers shaking as I dig for my keys and phone. I glance back, heart pounding, and there he is—still following, still relaxed, his unhurried steps in chilling opposite to my panicked scramble. It’s as if he’s relishing every frantic move I make, and that only deepens the anxiety I feel.
I can’t believe he did it—no, I can. I knew Ty wasn’t afraid of death or violence. I just didn’t realize he was still willing to kill so easily, so brutally. It’s terrifying proof that Ty hasn’t moved on from his violent past at all. He’s still the same, maybe worse. The life I thought he’d left behind. It’s clinging to him, darker than ever.What have I done?
I need to call the police. I can’t let him stalk me like this. I can’t ignore that he’s hurting people again, that he’s taking justice into his own twisted hands. Sure, maybe he thought he was acting for the right reasons, but you can’t just fucking drown people in a shitty toilet, cut their fingers off and then rip their eyes out. My stomach churns as the memory flashes again—blood, the raw horror of it.
I steal a quick glance over my shoulder just as I reach my house, relief flooding me as I see he’s far enough behind for me to make a run for it. I bolt up the steps, heart hammering, and my hands shake uncontrollably as I jam the key into the lock, rotating it as fast as I can. The door creaks open just as he reaches the foot of the steps, his pace quickening, his shadow looming larger. I lunge inside, dropping my heels and bag before pushing the door shut with a panicked scream, but his gloved hand snakes around the edge, halting it.
He pushes back against my desperate hold before I stumble backward, spinning toward the kitchen. My mind races as I tear through the dim light, my hand finding the cold handle of aknife in the block. I turn, clutching it in front of me, the blade trembling in my grasp as I face the darkened doorway.
My ears strain to hear the front door close and track his slow, heavy footsteps as they cross the creaking wood floor, each step drawing him closer. I can barely control myself, my chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic wheezes. Then, he crosses the threshold, his shadow stretching across the floor. His figure looms impossibly large, like a phantom set on destruction.
“Get the fuck out,” I warn, my voice quivering with fear despite the blade I hold out between us.
My fingers tighten on the handle and my, forcing my grip to steady, but he doesn’t shy away. He doesn’t even pause. His dark gaze is locked on mine, his steps closing the space inch by inch. I back away, the edge of the counter pressing into me as I try to keep distance, feeling the walls closing in, knowing he’s not stopping until he’s got me cornered.
The tip of the blade brushes against his abs, and I have no choice but to ease it back, my hold faltering slightly. My chest restricts as I feel his heat against my cold skin.
“I will… I will kill you,” I whisper, the words trembling on my lips as tears begin to spill over. The knife shakes in my hand, the threat sounding weak, even to me.
He smirks, his eyes narrowing with a wicked gleam as his hands slide to either side of the counter behind me, caging me in. I’m forced to tilt my head back, his face so close I can see every drop of water glistening on his skin, feel the heat of his breath mingling with mine. Dark strands of his wet hair drip onto my face, cold against my flushed cheeks.
“So do it,” he murmurs, rough and deep, taunting me. “Pierce my fucking heart, kitten. Stab it. Cut me open. I’ll only ever happily bleed for you.”
He dips closer, his lips grazing mine, a shock of electricity shooting through me, coiling something deep inside. “Do it!” he barks, his teeth clenched, his voice loud enough to make my body jolt.
I stay silent, and he sees it—he sees every crack of my hesitation, my helplessness. His dark eyes flicker, drinking in my trembling gasps, tracing the curve of my throat as I swallow, the rise and fall of my breasts. His hand moves, rising slowly before his gloved palm presses against my chest, cold over my frantic heart. I flinch, but he doesn’t stop; his hand glides up, claiming each inch until his fingers are cradling my jaw.
With one rough push, he snaps my head back, exposing my throat to him, forcing my gaze up to the ceiling. My eyes squeeze shut as my body trembles, caught in the tension that winds tighter and tighter, my clutch strengthening around the blade I don’t have the strength to drive into him.
His hand slips around to the back of my neck, and his mouth hovers over my throat, sending a shiver that’s both electric and chilling down my spine. I feel his fingers weave into my hair, grabbing tightly, holding me in place with an almost cruel gentleness. His other hand, now gloveless, slides along the inside of my thigh, inching upward, his touch both searing and soft.
Instinctively, I force my legs together, trying to resist, but he doesn’t falter. His hand presses further until it’s just grazing the edge of my lace panties, and my limbs almost buck under his touch.
I want to say something, to snap out of this, but my voice is lodged in my throat, suffocating under the load of his closeness, his scent, the brush of his nose along my jawline as he teases me.
“This is what you want, isn’t it, therapist? It’s why you keep covering for a fucking murderer? But not just any murderer.Me.” he murmurs, his words menacing, yet full of desire. “You want your psychopathic patient to shamefully ruin this little pussy. To show you what it feels like to be fucked senseless by a maniac.”