𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝐾𝑛𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔

𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌

John Crashaws pov (murderer #2)

The shower abruptly stopped, and I found myself waiting outside the door, my patience wearing thin. Twenty minutes? Seriously? I was on the verge of barging in and shutting off that damn water myself, but I wasn’t a total jerk—just an asshole.

“Hurry the fuck up!” I banged on the door, a smirk spreading across my face at the sound of her soft gasp from the other side.

“I am… fucking geez…” she muttered, annoyance dripping from her voice.

Something had shifted; it could have been her sudden defiance or the newfound attitude she seemed to have developed overnight. But before I could even process it, the door swung open, and I stepped in, my glare locking onto hers. She was wrapped in a towel that clung tightly to her body, her hair damp and her skin glowing with that fresh post-shower look. She wasn’t ugly, not by a long shot, but all the times she had irritated me had created this wall of anger I wasn’t willing to drop easily. And maybe that was exactly what she wanted.

Since when did I care about what she wanted?

I didn’t.

“Look at you, suddenly bold,” I snapped, anger bubbling just below the surface. She took a step back, and I watched her, my eyes still boring into hers. They widened slightly, and her lips parted as she squeezed her fists at her hips. What was that supposed to do? My frustration festered. She wasn’t eating, had gone three whole days without food, and while she had at least been sleeping, I didn’t feel the need to coddle her.

“I…” she stammered, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she tried to shield her body with her arms.

A slow smirk crept onto my face as I took her in, my gaze sweeping up and down her. I could feel her nervousness simmering.

“Can…” she trailed off, the words failing her under my intense scrutiny. I shook my head, turning away and heading for the bathroom door. She should be scared of me, and she had every reason to be—she had no idea what was swirling in my mind.

This whole situation was something new. We’d had her for just a few days, and we were conducting an experiment to gauge her reactions. We set up a nice little dining table with food and plastic silverware as if to entice her. The door was just a few inches away, but she had no way to escape if she wanted to.

Finally, she emerged from the bathroom, and I quickly fastened cuffs around her wrists, leading her to the table. Travis was already there, rubbing his eyes and looking worn out, dressed casually in jeans and a shirt. I noticed her eyes roving over him before she sat down, and our gazes locked for a brief moment. What was it—some kind of instinct with women? Did they get turned on by the most mundane shit?

As I chained her to the table, I took a seat beside her, sighing heavily. I wasn’t sure how this was going to unfold, but I hoped it wouldn’t be as tumultuous as I feared; she seemed smarter than most.

“So?” I directed her attention toward the spread in front of us: eggs, bacon, pancakes, orange juice, biscuits. I worked my ass off to make this meal, not that I needed her approval.

“I’m not hungry,” she shot back, my fists clenching as I glanced at Travis, feeling the anger rise.

“Can you eat… something?” he asked, his tone more patient than mine. She sighed, lifting her chained hands.

“If I can actually… pick something up.”

Rolling my eyes, I pulled the key from my pocket and unlocked her cuffs, letting her wrists move freely. She stretched her arms before reaching for the bacon... then her hand abruptly switched to the butter knife.

Oh, hell no.

With a swift motion, she plunged the knife straight into my thigh.

“Fuck!” I howled, pain exploding through me as my body jerked. She shot up, trying to bolt for the door, but the multiple latches held her in place. Panic shot through her as she scanned for an escape, and I watched in a mix of shock and fury as she darted upstairs. Travis immediately dashed after her, but I was too caught up in the pain to care.

I pulled the knife from my leg, blood spraying everywhere. She hit something serious; this wasn’t just a scratch. Thick red droplets seeped through my jeans, and I felt dizzy.

I had tried to play nice. Clearly, that had backfired in a spectacular way.

The quietness in the house was suffocating as I struggled to gather myself. Trying to stand, I quickly realized how weak I felt from the loss of blood. I placed my hand on the table for support, my vision swimming. I was losing consciousness faster than I ever expected.

When this was all over, I was done with her. No more games.