Page 47 of The Colour of Revenge

"I know," he says with a nod. "It's a good start. But it's not foolproof." He pauses, then glances at me. "Weigh the need to make them suffer against the risk. You've got a list of men to get through. I don't want this catching up to you before you're done."

I don't answer. I don't need to. The warning settles deep, threading itself between the satisfaction and the thrill. Maybe he's right. Maybe I was reckless.

But damn, it felt good.

13

Not A Serial Killer

Hypothetical Question: If a time traveller warns you not to do something, do you listen or do it anyway out of spite?

Carina

Istaredownatthe crossed off names from my list, a dangerous kind of satisfaction seeping into my bones.

Nothing has ever felt as good as getting justice for the version of me they destroyed. The me I will never be again.

Perhaps I should be worried. Worried that I’m dealing with this all too well. The bloodshed that is. But how can it be wrong when it feels so right?

Thinking about it has my mind drifting to Nate—to the way he took me while I was still covered in Robert’s blood.

It shouldn’t have been so hot. It shouldn’t have turned me on.

But it did.

I want to do it again.

Craveit.

I head upstairs to shower and get ready for my day.

My mind is still on Nate as the warm water cascades over my body. The way he possessed me, consumed me.

As if it has a mind of its own my hand starts to run down my body, cupping my breast so I can tweak my nipple between my fingers. My eyes fall shut and my head falls back against the tiles as I picture Nate’s hands on my body. It’s his fingers twisting and pulling at my hard bud. It’s his hand that’s travelling further down, until it reaches my core. Slipping his fingers through slickness, circling my clit and pushing a finger into my aching channel. My breath hitches. His fingers pick up pace, pushing in and out of my pussy until I’m a quivering mess.

I’m no longer in the shower, we’re in his murder room. There’s a man tied to the chair in the centre.

“Eyes on me, Princess,” Nate growls in my ear as he brings me closer to the edge.

A strangled moan leaves my lips as I come. My breath comes out in sharp inhalations of ragged air.

My eyelids flutter open and the illusion fades.

What the fuck was that?

I turn off the shower, stepping out to wrap a towel around my body.

My hands tremble slightly. I grip the edge of the sink, looking at my blurry reflection in the steamed-up mirror.

Have I truly lost any semblance of sanity? Of self control?

I wait until my heart rate settles before leaving the bathroom.

My hair is sopping wet, so I dry it before scanning my wardrobe.

Slipping on a pink hoodie with the slogan‘Not a Serial Killer’—a recent present to myself—and pairing it with some black jeans and my hot pink trainers, I’m ready to go.

Since Nate is on planning duty for my next hit—something I wasn’t sure about to begin with but really appreciating right now—I’m going to spend the day doing normal, mundane things.