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I ignore her, stepping to the wall.

What I do next possibly shocks her more than the brutal murder itself. I curl my hand into another fist and then launch it at the wall, puncturing the plaster.

Monroe shrieks and jumps up on the sofa.

I do it again, punching another hole. Then I move onto the second lamp on her side table and smash it against the floor. The curtains at the window are next, ripped from the rod and torn in half by my hands.

I hurl her coffee table across the room, snapping one of its legs.

Her bedroom isn’t spared. I tear that apart too, flipping her mattress over with athumpand knocking over her delicate perfume bottles.

Monroe’s cautiously followed me, watching in stunned horror.

She doesn’t understand what I’m doing and why.

I barely do, even as I smash the mirror at her vanity table, then whirl around to face her. Immediately, she backs up several steps, assuming I’m turning my wrath on her.

The first thing she’s been right about all evening. I cross the room in two long strides and grab her by the wrist before she can think to flee.

I fuse her full mouth to mine. Her lips are wet with blood, yet I only kiss her harder. I savor the tart, metallic taste of her blood and how it mixes with her natural sweetness.

My grip clenches tighter on her wrist and I hold her in place even as she squirms for freedom.

She’s going nowhere.

That night in the alley, I told her she couldn’t outrun my mark. I meant every word of it.

There will be no escaping me, in life or in death.

Something she will eventually come to terms with.

Her mouth is soft and warm. It’s inviting and addictive, making me question my sanity. What the fuck has happened to me?

How can one woman drive me to this point? How can I betray every principle I’ve set for myself?

These are questions I don’t have the answer to. At least not in this moment.

Monroe’s pressed up against me, trapped in my clenching hold as I kiss her hard and my tongue ravages her mouth.

All the guilt, the rage, the possessiveness comes to a head and explodes from inside me.

It’s the earth-shattering realization that I’m betraying the Baekho Pa for this girl. I’m venturing into a territory I never thought I would.

We’re both reeling even as the kiss ends.

She jerks back once free, still stunned into silence. Her dark, emotive eyes are larger than ever, glassy with fear.

I’m huffing ragged breaths. I probably look like a lunatic.

Nothing I’ve said or done makes sense. Neither does the blade I slash across her throat.

I do it suddenly, deftly, in a clean swiping motion. The blade cuts into her skin like the slash from a tiger’s claw. Deep enough to draw blood, shallow enough to avoid any tendons or serious damage.

Wiping my fingers across the open gash, I step toward the bed and smear her blood on her bedsheets. The once perfect white sheets now have her blood marring the cotton fabric.

Monroe’s backed up against the wall again, quaking on the spot. I went from murdering a man to destroying her apartment to kissing her and then cutting her in the span of five minutes. She likely has whiplash from it all.

But it doesn’t matter how she feels or what she thinks in the moment—this was necessary for how things have to be moving forward.