Page 79 of If Looks Could Kill

She attacked him. She hit him! She actually hit him. Twice. His head reels from the blow, and he feels sticky blood trickle down his cheek. Oh, she will pay for this. And not with a swift death. Oh, no. Not she.

If she prefers to be awake, let her be awake.

If she prefers to scream, let her scream.

But he’d used enough chloroform to sedate a pony. She should be far, far gone.

Now she moans and whimpers something underneath her breath.

Good. Let her unravel. It will be amusing to watch. And here he’d almost taken an indulgent view of her, the hardworking little maid. Never forget, Jack, what women are. He will harvest her and rid the world of one more hysterical female.

Something crashes over his face, sharp and wet. His brew. She has flung the beaker straight into his face. It shatters. He roars in frustration. All his pains, all his risks for nothing. The experiment is ruined. Never mind; it will be pleasure enough simply to kill her.

The pathetic wretch is crawling toward the light and the foot of the stairs. Does she think she can escape him on her hands and knees?

Let her think it. He calms his breath, steels his grip on his knife, and rises to finish the job.