𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝐾𝑛𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔

𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒃𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈

John Crashaws pov (murderer #2)

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I reluctantly trudged into the bathroom, the heavy door creaking as I shut it behind me. My brother had filled me in on her condition—she had managed to eat something, albeit only a meager meal. A surge of unsettling anger bubbled within me at the thought of it; she was a traitor, and part of me wanted to let her waste away. But I understood, with a cold clarity, that a corpse held no power, and for now, she’d need to cling to life.

The next day loomed heavy with dread; it was my turn to keep her company, and I wasn’t certain I could endure being in the same air with that insufferable creature. The memories of yesterday's pain, a vivid reminder of her betrayal, threatened to leave an indelible mark on my soul. With a conflicted heart, I stepped into her bare, cramped quarters, intending to fetch her some clothes—not just because I couldn’t fathom why I had stripped her in the first place, but also to shield my eyes from the sight of her exposed form. She had always excelled at cloaking herself in secrecy, but now, under my watchful gaze, I found the sudden weight of my actions pressing down on me.

Clutching the clothes tightly in one hand, I turned the lock and opened the door to find her huddled in the corner, a shabby blanket clinging to her body like a veil of shame. Our eyes locked, and I felt a surge of hostility rise within me as I glared at her, those dirty little orbs reflecting nothing but defiance.

“Here,” I spat, throwing the clothes at her with more force than necessary. She stared at the fabric, bewildered, her expressions shifting between confusion and something deeper that I refused to recognize.

“You have to wear them. I’m done with this,” I commanded, frustration lacing every word.

Her eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her face. “But... you took them away—”

I cut her off with a glare that could silence the loudest protests. Leaning against the doorframe, I observed her, feeling an odd mix of disdain and something else—something I couldn’t quite name.

“Aren’t you going to—” She gestured for me to leave, her voice trembling.

“Nope. You’ve lost that privilege. Get dressed.”

She didn’t budge, remaining immobile as if cemented to the floor. “I will if you need me to,” I threatened, my patience wearing thinner by the moment.

“No! Just… okay.” With an exasperated huff, she tossed the clothes aside, the weight of the moment hanging in the air between us like an unspoken challenge.

There was a moment of stillness as she closed her eyes and let the blanket fall away. I wasn’t prepared for what lay beneath. Her fragility struck me like a lightning bolt—her pale skin stretched over delicate bones, her curves betraying an innocence that felt impossibly at odds with the animosity that had kept us apart. A stupid part of me noticed the shape of her body, the way her breasts settled perfectly into the air, and I cursed myself for thinking anything beyond contempt for her.

As she changed into the oversized clothes, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson, her gaze steady and unflinching yet filled with an undeniable vulnerability. For a fleeting moment, it made me wonder if the girl I had fought so relentlessly against was still a little girl deep down.

"I’m sorry... for stabbing you," she whispered, her voice barely a murmur, yet it struck a chord deep within me. The large sweats and oversized t-shirt hung on her frame, a surprising fit that made her look... almost soft.

“Sure you f*cking are,” I replied, skepticism coloring my tone as I scrutinized her expression, determined to see through any pretense. Trust was an elusive commodity around her.

“I am... can I ask one thing?” She shifted her gaze, her usually fiery spirit dampened as she tied her hair away from her face. There was a beauty in her vulnerability—but I quickly banished that thought, unwilling to let it seep into my resolve.

“What is it now?” I barked, irritation simmering just below the surface.

“I know I can’t have a shaver because of the razor, but what about Nair?” she stammered, struggling to keep the words from stumbling out.

“Nair?” I echoed, confused at her request.

“Yes... hair removal. I haven't...” She faltered, her eyes darting away as if the topic suddenly felt too personal.

“You want hair removal? For what? Your armpits, your…?” My words hung in the air like uninvited specters, her cheeks flushing a fervent red at my crude inquiries.

“If that’s alright—” she murmured, then shook her head, the shame etched on her face. Why was I even contemplating this? Why did her desperate request stir something within me?

“I don’t f*cking know, okay? Just... stop asking,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair, grappling with the internal chaos she’d stirred within me. Her gaze pierced through me, tracing my hands as I fidgeted, a glimmer of hidden thoughts unspooled between us.

“What?” I snapped, frustration flaring as she stood there, barely moving, her gaze fixated on me as if I were some puzzle she desperately wanted to solve.

“Never mind... I just…” She pulled herself to her feet, stepping closer until she was inches away, the air thickening between us with an electric charge. What was she doing? My instincts screamed at me to back away, but I found myself rooted in place.

“Get the f*ck—” I started, but her fingers brushed through my hair, a tender caress that sent shivers racing down my spine.

What was happening? I was completely paralyzed, losing myself in the warmth of her touch, something I had craved for far too long. Cara’s fingers tangled in my hair, exploring, awakening a desire I thought long buried. Her eyes glimmered with wonder as she watched my reaction, and I felt the world around us fade away.

“Cara…” I groaned, her grip tightening possessively, fire igniting on my skin where her hands roamed. The intense connection between us felt undeniable, blurring the lines of who we were to one another—after all, she had wounded me, betrayed me—but now she was the reason I was breathless, dizzy.

“No… don’t do that. This isn’t…” My words faltered, confusion and longing tangling within me, preventing clarity. She was the enemy, but why did I feel torn between hate and some unacknowledged need for her closeness?

“I’m sorry—”

“No. Just... stop. Please.” I stepped back, heart racing, stumbling out of the room as I desperately tried to escape the turmoil I felt inside. I had to rid myself of her lingering touch, the feelings that threatened to overwhelm me.

She was the enemy. Nothing beyond that. And yet, as I left, I couldn’t shake the haunting echo of her kiss from reverberating in the depths of my mind. I needed space, and I wouldn't return for a long while.