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Pink Perfection

Hypothetical Question: Would you rather be a famous serial killer or a completely unknown one?

Nate

Peter Winslow is a fat, balding man in his late forties. He's disgusting.

"Don't judge a book by its cover!" Blah. Blah. Blah.

In this case, the cover fits.

Winslow moves with surprising stealth, with far more grace than a man of his bulk should possess. My eyes track his hunched form as he slips into the crumbling shell of an abandoned building. Shattered windows cling to their frames like broken teeth, and the walls are thick with grime and neglect. The faint stench of damp rot wafts from the darkness inside.

Yes, we're in Crawley. That alone should tell you everything you need to know about his character.

"What did he do?" you ask?

What didn't he do?

Fraud, extortion, trafficking—he's done it all. But his worst crime? The one that sealed his fate?

Peter Winslow is a serial rapist. Specialising in young girls. And I mean young.

Not that he's particular—he'd fuck anything that moves. Maybe even things that don't , if you catch my drift. The point is, he's the lowest of the low. And he has to die.

There's no reform for people like him. No rehabilitation. No second chances. They don't deserve to rot in a cell at the taxpayers' expense.

So here I am, shadowing him from his pristine, picture-perfect manor—complete with a clueless wife and three kids—to this decrepit building that screams future crime scene. And trust me, it will be.

Just not in the way he planned.

A muffled sob pierces the stale air as I slip inside, the scent of old blood and sweat turning my stomach. I like my blood fresh.

He's already on her. Fast, for a man his size. His victim tonight is blonde—not as young as he prefers, maybe nineteen. She's a fighter, thrashing and kicking with everything she's got.

It won't be enough.

He's too strong. Too practised.

His grin stretches wide; like a predator certain he's won.

I take a step forward, ready to end this.

Then I see it.

A flash of pink.

And I freeze.

Wow.

She stands in the shadows, her pink hair glowing faintly under the sickly hallway light. She's poised and calm, like she's been waiting for this moment.

Her eyes are locked on the scene before her, sharp and calculating, a predator sizing up its prey. She holds a knife in her hand—sleek, deadly, and… pink?

Like Barbie's murder weapon of choice.

For a second, I forget why I'm here.

She's dazzling—skin like porcelain, curves that make sin look boring, and a dress so bright it's practically a neon sign for trouble. Her eyes, a silvery-blue so pale they almost glow, hold no fear. No hesitation.

What a sight. Exquisite beauty at its finest.

Then she moves.

She lunges forward, all lithe and precise in her body's movements as she knocks him to the floor with enough force even I wince. The pink blade presses to his throat as she straddles him, looking like the world's deadliest cupcake.

The girl doesn't waste a second. She bolts, her breath ragged as she stumbles toward the door.

I catch her before she can run out. Her eyes, wild with fear, lock onto mine, and she trembles.

"Please," she pleads, assuming I'm like him.

Rude.

"Relax," I say, keeping my tone level—casual. Non-threatening. "He's done. Go home. And keep your mouth shut."

She nods like I just handed her a golden ticket and sprints into the night.

I turn back just in time to see her press the blade harder against Winslow's throat, a smirk playing on her lips, triumph glinting in her eyes.

What a dangerous little thing. Stunning, lethal, and absolutely captivating.

"Any last words?" she purrs.

I almost roll my eyes. Boring. Never ask that.

Also—please tell me she's not just going to kill him.

Winslow wheezes, his eyes wide, sweat rolling down his bloated face. "Who… who are you?" His voice shakes, breathless with fear.

Good. I hate when men like him don't appreciate a strong woman.

"You don't remember me?" She tilts her head as if offended .

His throat bobs. "N-no."

Her knife presses deeper. A single crimson bead rolls down his neck, pooling against the blade.

"Please," he begs. "I'll do anything."

Her expression doesn't change. "I think that's what I said when I begged you to stop."

Her voice is low. Murderous.

Something stirs in my chest—a sharp, unfamiliar pain I'm not used to feeling.

She's one of his victims.

The realisation hits hard, and suddenly, letting her kill him feels too easy.

This man doesn't deserve a quick death.

I step forward, making my presence known. Her shoulders twitch, but she doesn't flinch. Winslow gasps, eyes darting between us.

"Princess," I murmur, my voice smooth. "I think you need a lesson in playing with your food."

She looks between us, her breath catching. I see it—the flicker of fear as she tries to determine who the bigger threat is.

"Who are you?"

"Nate," I say, tilting my head and holding her gaze. “Or, if you're my parents, then it's Nathaniel, but please—" I drag out the 'ea' for dramatic effect, “—do not call me Nathaniel."

She studies me for a moment, trying to assess me, size me up. I imagine my presence has thrown her and now she’s thinking something like:

“Who is this incredibly tall, handsome stranger with a penchant for murder and a massive—”

Fine, you’re right, my height isn’t that incredible.

"So," I say, tilting my head toward Winslow, who's still squirming like the worm he is, "are we flipping a coin, playing rock-paper-scissors, or going full-on deathmatch for this one? Because, fair warning, I fight dirty."

She arches her brow. "What kind of psychopath negotiates over a kill like it's the last slice of pizza?"

"The efficient kind." I smirk. "I mean, I'm guessing you didn't come here for a three-way."

Her eyes flash with something unreadable. Then she exhales sharply and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Oh my god."

"What?" I ask innocently, jutting out my bottom lip into a pout and widening my eyes.

"What are you doing here, Nate?"

I gesture toward Winslow as if the answer is obvious. "Same thing as you." I slowly step closer, nodding at the man beneath her. "Though, let's be honest—I'd do it with far more pizazz."

She cocks her head, intrigued despite herself. "What do you suggest?"

I close the distance; my boots silent on the rotting floorboards. The air between us thickens. Winslow whimpers beneath her, but neither of us pays him any mind. His fate is sealed.

She's what interests me now.

"I suggest a more,” I pause, thinking, “theatrical approach.” My tone is edged with amusement. "You're on the right track—he's squirming, which is half the fun. But you're not giving him the finality he deserves."

Her eyes lock onto mine, calculating, daring me to elaborate.

"What do you mean?" she asks, voice low, curiosity laced with something darker.

I lean slightly, just enough that my breath ghosts over her ear. Her grip on the knife tightens.

"Pain's a beautiful thing, Princess," I murmur. "It can be an art. You should make him beg for it—then make him regret ever thinking he could hurt you. Or anyone else."

I step back, watching her. Looking for hesitation. A flicker of doubt.

There's none.

She's as cold as I thought she'd be.

A slow smile curves my lips.

"If you're going to do this, make it last." I keep my tone gentle. "Don't let him slip away so easily." My fingers twitch toward my knives, but I don't draw them. Not yet.

"I'll show you how it's done."

I kneel beside Winslow, the floor cool against my skin. With a flick of my wrist, I lift his shirt just enough to expose the ridges of his ribs. His breath stutters, and his chest rises and falls panicked.

I extend a hand toward her, palm up.

"Knife."

She hesitates, but only for a second. Then, with deliberate care, she presses the hilt into my hand. The blade is sleek, glinting under the dim light—delicate but just as deadly as any of mine.

I could use my own. But there’s something intimate about using hers.

Winslow’s eyes widen as I press the tip of the blade against his skin—light enough to prickle, sharp enough to promise agony. He goes rigid, his body thrumming with silent terror.

He knows.

He’s in the presence of not just one killer, but two.

“Every part of this man should scream,” I murmur, dragging the knife just enough to make him twitch. A slow, shuddering breath leaves him. “Every inch of his skin should burn with fear. It’s not about rushing through it—it’s about savouring the moment.”

I press deeper, just enough to break the skin. A thin crimson line blossoms across his ribs. He gasps, his chest jerking, but it’s not the pain I’m after.

It’s the realisation.

The slow, dawning horror that he’s completely at our mercy.

I glance up at her, the sharpness of my expression inviting, daring. “Your turn, Princess. Show me what you’ve got.”

She watches me, her lips parting slightly, her grip tightening at her sides. Her gaze flickers between the knife and the thin line of blood, something unreadable flashing in her eyes.

Then, without a word, she steps forward.

She takes the blade with practised ease, her fingers curling around the hilt in a delicate and sure grip. Then she kneels beside me, close enough that I can feel her warmth, her scent—a mix of adrenaline and something sweet beneath it.

A glance at Winslow’s terrified face and her lips curl into something almost… amused.

Good.

She mirrors my movements, pressing the tip of the blade to his chest. Not deep enough to kill. Just enough to ensure he’ll never forget it.

Not that he’ll be alive to remember.

Her breath hitches as she applies pressure, drawing another shallow cut across his skin. Her hand is steady. Too steady.

A slow, satisfied smile touches her lips.

“There you go,” I murmur, voice hushed in approval. “Feel it? The control… the power?”

She doesn’t answer.

But she doesn’t have to.

The glimmer in her eyes says it all.

She’s enjoying this as much as I am.

Carina

I watch as Nate brings out one of his own knives, the cool metal gleaming under the faint light streaming through the broken window.

I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here. I had planned to do this quickly—get in and get out.

But I can’t help the satisfaction coursing through me as I press the blade back into Peter’s skin, this time just over his heart. It thumps so wildly I can hear it. It’s exhilarating.

Peter Winslow was the first man to defile my body—but he wasn’t the last. It’s taken me months to track him down. Just as many to work up the courage needed to get back into the country.

My father sold me to Peter when I was just thirteen years old. The dirty pervert loved being the one to ‘break me in’, as he put it. My knife digs in a little too deep as I shiver with disgust at the thoughts of what this man did to me. He’s not even the worst of them.

The first man to betray me was my father. He sold me, his only daughter, for money and power. The second was Gareth, his right-hand man—the man I trusted, the man who promised to protect me. I saw him as more of a father than the one I share blood with. And yet, he was the one who drove me to Peter.

Gareth’s betrayal hurt more than my father’s. My father, I could hate easily; he was never a good man. But Gareth? He wore his kindness like a mask, one I fell for completely.

After Peter, there was Robert. He was crueller, more calculated. Where Peter preferred to break me down with fear, Robert used control, stripping away every shred of autonomy I had left.

Then there was Simon, he loved to hear me scream. He revelled in knowing that each time he took from me it was worse than the last. My compliance only served to anger him, to make him find new ways to make it hurt.

Michael came next, a man who thrived on manipulation. He would be kind one minute, then remind me the next of exactly why I should never let my guard down. I lived in a constant state of paranoia, wondering which version of him I’d get that day.

And finally, there was Edward. Edward liked to think of himself as a saviour, acting like he did me a favour by buying me. He was the last man to do so before I managed to escape.

Seven men in total, including my father. Seven monsters who shaped the person I’ve become.

“Careful, Princess. Savour it,” Nate murmurs, his voice thick with amusement as his knife slides effortlessly through Peter’s flesh. He pauses, letting the blade linger before setting it down and using his hands to tear at the tendons, slowly, methodically, one by one.

Savour it.

The words echo in my mind, the concept sinking in with a dark, unsettling thrill.

It should repulse me—watching this man rip into a living creature’s body with nothing but raw strength and precision. The sound of tearing flesh should turn my stomach. But somehow, Nate makes it look almost sensual. The way his fingers dig into the tissue, how he moves with such care, as if he really is savouring the moment, extracting each piece with a practiced, almost tender touch.

I thought I was going to have to kill two men tonight when he first announced himself, but instead he’s… helping me. He’s showing me how to take back the control I desperately lost while within this man’s clutches.

As Nate continues to tear into Peter’s flesh with an almost disturbing elegance, I can’t help but watch him. The blood, the brutality—it should disgust me. But all I can focus on is him.

His face is lit by the soft light, sharp features catching my attention in ways I can’t ignore. His jawline is sculpted, the edges harsh and masculine, stubble traces the curve of his chin, making him look like something dangerous—a man who’s seen too much and doesn’t care. But his eyes... His eyes are what draw me in. They’re brown, almost black really, with an intensity that feels like they’re peeling me open, layer by layer. They gleam with mischief, with something darker, something I can’t quite place, but it’s magnetic. Every flicker of those eyes sends a rush through my body.

It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be feeling like this. But I can’t seem to stop.

His hair, a bit tousled, falls in soft waves around his forehead, the dark strands damp with sweat, glistening slightly under the light. It should make him look dishevelled, but instead, it only adds to the allure. I find myself wanting to reach out and smooth it back, feeling the rough texture between my fingers. His lips curl into that predatory smile, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.

There’s something impossibly seductive about the way he moves. It’s not just the violence. It’s the control. The way he takes his time, savouring the moment. Every rip of the tendon, every twist of his fingers, feels deliberate, calculated. And somehow, it’s like watching a dance—dark, dangerous, and impossibly sensual.

His muscles shift beneath his shirt with every movement, the fabric tight over his chest. It clings to him in a way that makes my mouth dry, and I wonder what it would feel like to touch him—feel the strength in his arms, the heat of his skin.

I try to shake the thought away, but my body doesn’t listen. Heat floods my chest now, a tightness sinking low in my stomach.

Everything about him—the way he looks, the way he moves—has me drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And I hate myself for it. But I can’t tear my eyes away.

“You’re staring,” Nate says, his lips twitching into a grin.

I blink my eyes, snapping my focus off him and back onto the task at hand.

Peter's arm is shredded and he’s clearly on the verge of passing out, his face red, breathing unevenly as he sucks air into his lungs.

“Think he’s had enough?” Nate asks, grinning maniacally, blood splattered over him in a way that shouldn’t be so arousing.

I take a moment to assess. Peter's eyes have fluttered shut now, his head lolling to the side. It’s not fun now that he no longer looks like he’s in pain. What does that say about me?

“Yeah. I’m done.”

“Your kill, Princess.” Nate motions for me to do the honours. To end Peter’s life.

I don’t hesitate. My pink blade comes down steady in my hand as I swipe it over his throat, severing his neck.

Watching his blood seep onto the concrete floor, staining it a crimson red, a sense of satisfaction washes over me.

One down. Six more to go.