𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝐾𝑛𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓

Travis Crashaws pov (murderer #1)

Sitting across the table from her felt strangely normal, but it was also terrifying as hell. I couldn’t help but wonder what this would be like if I hadn’t taken her.

“I don’t know—”

“I don’t trust you around forks or fucking butter knives. So you either let me feed you or… I eat and you watch.” I wasn’t inherently cruel, but I could be if I wanted to.

She stared at me, wide-eyed, and I chuckled, grabbing a glass. Before I even thought about pouring champagne, a sudden thought hit me—I needed something stronger.

I headed to the alcohol cabinet my brother kept stocked for his selfish desires, trading the champagne for a large bottle of tequila and slamming it on the table. Her gaze didn’t waver as she watched me, and I could feel the intensity between us.

“What—”

“Shush,” I growled, opening the bottle and pouring myself a hefty glass. Without hesitation, I chugged it down, the burn sizzling down my throat and making me groan. Slamming the glass down, I noticed my tongue felt fuzzy, the lingering taste of lemon more prominent than it should have been.

“Now… are you going to eat?” I asked her, feeling a strange buzz begin to settle in.

She nodded slowly as I grabbed some spaghetti from her plate with my fork and lifted it to her lips. She parted them, allowing me to slip the fork inside. She bit down, and as she tasted the spaghetti, her eyes fluttered shut. The sound she made sent a shiver down my spine, making me question whether I should have embarked on this endeavor.

She chewed slowly, and then she took some spaghetti from my plate, gobbling it down quickly. I wasn’t a bad cook; I could handle a few dishes decently enough, but I’d never been a chef, so she shouldn’t expect any miracles.

Pouring another glass of tequila, I chugged it down even faster than the first, the burn hitting harder this time.

“Can I…” she motioned toward the tequila.

I poured her a little bit, but she frowned at the meager amount.

“You don’t drink, remember?” I reminded her, and her cheeks flushed bright red as she recalled our previous encounter at the bar.

I lifted the cup to her lips and tilted it back. She swallowed, her expression squinting as the liquid hit her. It was obvious she’d never had alcohol before; her reaction said it all.

“Well?” I prompted, eager for her assessment.

“It’s… sour,” she said, squirming, and I couldn’t help but smirk—a genuine smirk that felt disconcerting. What the hell was happening?

As we passed multiple cups back and forth, I started feeling lightheaded and dizzy—definitely drunk. I hated being a lightweight, but in this moment, I didn’t give a shit. After we polished off our food, I drunkenly cleaned up the plates, leaning against the counter while my eyes remained fixed on Cara, who was still sitting in her chair, her gaze locked onto mine.

“What?” I slurred, annoyed by her unwavering attention. She had a staring problem, and it was one of the many reasons why I hated her.

Hate was a strong word… So why did I hate her? The alcohol made it hard to sift through the fog clouding my memories.

“Nothing… you just... look…” Her voice was slow, almost slurred. Was she drunk too? Had I poured her too much?

“Look what, Cara? Just fucking say it,” I snapped. She had a mouth, so why was expressing herself so difficult?

“Hot!” she blurted out, laughter bubbling up, as if she couldn’t quite believe she’d just said that.

She thought I was hot? What the fuck?

“You’re hot... too,” I found myself saying, the words slipping out faster than I’d intended. She was undeniably attractive—it was one of the reasons I felt drawn to her. But did I like her? Or did I hate her?

“I am?” She smiled at me innocently, and before I knew it, I was unchaining her. Now she was free, looking at me with warmth in her eyes.

“Why…?” She didn’t even reach for the door; she just stared at me, confusion written all over her, twisting her wrists in the air.

Fuck if I knew.

“I don’t know…” I stepped closer, feeling the alcohol pulse through my veins. All I could focus on was the heat radiating from her body, the intensity of her stare, the air between us thickening by the second. She inhaled sharply as I closed the distance, my inhibitions drowned by the alcohol.

Back away, get away before you do something you’ll regret tomorrow, my conscience warned.

So why the hell wasn’t I moving?

“Wait…” she gasped, her lips an invitation. She could run… so why wasn’t she? Why did she look at me like that, with that insatiable hunger in her eyes?

Before I could think of stepping back, she reached out, her fingers grazing my neck and skimming over the tattoo beneath my jaw. Her touch ignited a fire coursing through me, the alcohol making every sensation felt with greater intensity. Her fingers danced down my neck and across my collarbone, teasing the buttons of my shirt. Where the hell was this going? Why did I want her to continue?

“Do you want me to stop? I’m sorry—”

“Fuck no, keep…” I heard myself growl, not wanting that fire to extinguish before it truly ignited.

Not here, though. It felt too exposed, too open for what was happening between us.

“Can we go…” I asked hesitantly, actually voicing my desire. What was this girl doing to me?