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19

This Could Totally Count As A Date Night

Hypothetical Question: If a serial killer was obsessed with you but only in a totally supportive, encouraging way, would you let them stick around?

Carina

Anonymous: You better watch your back.

I text Michael daily, knowing Nate is doing the same. For the past week, we've been chipping away at his sanity.

Each of his replies has grown more frantic and desperate, and his need to know who is sending them consumes him.

We've made sure of that.

Every morning and evening, we send him another message. Another little reminder.

We've also been delivering surprises to his office. Elegant black envelopes with handwritten notes:

Karma's coming, and she's not kind.

Sleep well while you still can.

And we watch. We watch him unravel.

He's constantly looking over his shoulder now, checking security cameras, hiring private investigators—who, by the way, suck at their jobs.

But the best part?

He's been so paranoid about being stalked that he hasn't visited any of his girls this week. We know this because Nate, Kai, and I have had him under constant surveillance. Even Kai, who was initially wary of me, has started to trust and work with me.

But the waiting is over. It's time to move to phase two.

Psychological torment is fun, but nothing beats the real thing.

I've been buzzing with anticipation. The thought of finally getting my hands on him, my knife in him, sends a slow pulse of satisfaction through me.

And Nate?

Nate has a flair for the dramatic.

So, he's set up a game.

Michael thinks he's about to meet an escort for a date.

In reality?

He's about to meet me.

We know his routine. He targets escorts, lures them in, and then makes them disappear. He thinks no one will miss them.

He's wrong.

The taxi pulls up outside the restaurant twenty minutes late—a deliberate move.

I step out, straightening my too-tight skirt and adjusting the lace top that barely covers anything. I feel exposed, like a version of myself I swore I'd never be again.

I hate it.

But I insisted on sticking to the plan.

Nate had hesitated, his jaw tight when he saw what I'd have to wear.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he'd asked.

"I can handle it," was my reply. "I want to do it."

Michael only had me for six months before passing me off to Edward, but I was seventeen then. A brunette.

Now, I’ve got my pink hair, and I’m wearing coloured contacts for good measure.

As I stride into the restaurant, I spot him immediately.

Michael.

His head jerks up as the door swings open. His beady little eyes light up like he's just won a prize.

I feel the weight of other people's stares as I move through the tables toward him. They judge me. They don't know.

I push past the burn of humiliation, keep my chin high, and take confident steps.

"Michael?" I ask, tilting my head, letting confusion slip into my voice.

His lips stretch into a smile. Predatory. Greedy.

"Yes. Candy?"

Candy.

The fake name I gave him.

"Sorry I'm late." I plaster a coy smile on my face as I slide into the chair across from him.

I see it immediately—the flicker of paranoia behind his practised grin.

His eyes darted around the restaurant, scanning the room. Looking for threats.

Good. He should be scared.

"You're even more stunning in person," he remarks, his voice oozing fake charm.

I force myself to giggle, lowering my lashes like I'm flattered. Playing the part.

"Thank you," I murmur.

"So, Candy, tell me about yourself." He leans forward, elbows resting on the table, pretending to be interested.

I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. Demure. Sweet. The perfect prey.

"Oh, I don't know," I reply, biting my lip. "I mean, you saw my profile."

"Yes, but I want to hear it from you." His eagerness leaks through, his desperation poorly concealed.

So predictable.

I let out a soft laugh. "Well, I'm just a girl trying to figure things out. Life hasn't exactly been kind, you know?"

He nods, pretending to care, his expression sympathetic. But his eyes? They betray him. He doesn't give a damn about my story. He wants to know what he can take.

"What about you, Michael?" I ask, turning the focus on him. "What do you do?"

He straightens and puffs out his chest like a goddamn peacock. "I'm in investments. Big deals, high stakes."

"Wow," I breathe, faking awe. "That sounds… exciting."

"Oh, it is." He leans back, trying to play it cool. "But it's not without its challenges. The competition is fierce."

I nod, smiling wider. "I imagine someone like you has a lot of… enemies."

For a fraction of a second, his mask slips. His fingers twitch on the table. Then he chuckles, brushing it off. "No more than anyone else in my line of work."

The waiter brings our drinks.

I pick up my glass, swirling the liquid. "It's funny," I muse, keeping my tone casual. "Sometimes the past has a way of catching up with us, doesn't it?"

Michael's hand freezes. His knuckles whiten around his glass.

The fear is there. Just a flicker. But I see it.

"What do you mean by that?" His voice is tight now.

I shrug, sipping my drink. "Oh, nothing really. Just an observation."

But I watch as the seed takes root.

Michael glances around the room again, his paranoia simmering beneath the surface.

Perfect.

Nate

My girl is a fucking badass. I've said it before, and I'll say it until the day I die—or until she tells me to shut up, whichever comes first.

I'm here, playing backup with Kai, watching from a distance in case things go sideways. Not that I don't trust her—she's got this. But also, I'm a possessive bastard, and the idea of her being anywhere near that monster makes my skin crawl.

She's been on edge all day, tension locked in her shoulders, her usual sharp comebacks dulled. But she strode in here with her chin up, looking like a sexy vixen. Now? She looks composed, every movement calculated. Carina sits across from Carmichael, her expression unreadable, legs crossed like she owns the place. Like he's not the man who once shattered her. Like he’s just another rich guy with a bad haircut. It’s awe-inspiring. And also terrifying.

The dinner drags on, a slow burn of small talk and subtle power plays. I clock every twitch of Carmichael's fingers, the way his gaze lingers too long on her. The plan is simple: plant paranoia, make him sweat, and then let him spiral into his fears before we wipe him off the map. Later, we’ll tie it all up with a bow and make him “disappear,” with a fake paper trail that suggests he fled the country. Easy. Smooth. Just another Tuesday.

They stand.

I follow at a safe distance, blending into the shadows. But something's wrong. She was supposed to split off and come back to me. Instead, she keeps walking with him, turning down a dimly lit street. No CCTV. My pulse spikes.

What the fuck is she doing?

Carmichael grabs her, slamming her against the wall.

I see red.

Full-on raging bull, ready to gut him. I’m halfway to breaking the sound barrier when Kai, the ninja, gets there first and knocks him out cold. Show-off.

Carina stands frozen, her breath ragged. Her fingers curl into fists like she's holding herself together by sheer force of will. I reach her in seconds, yanking her into my arms.

She's shaking. Fuck.

"What happened?" My voice is low and steady, even as my rage burns white-hot beneath the surface.

"I don't know. I think… I think he recognised me." Her voice is small, almost distant.

I tighten my grip, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I've got you," I murmur. And I mean it. I'll always have her.

For a second, she lets herself lean into me. Then, just like that, she's pulling back, shaking off the moment, steel snapping back into her spine. "I'm good. Let's end this."

God, I love this woman.

Kai glances at Carmichael's limp body. "Watch him. I'll get the car."

I toss him my keys, then turn back to Carina. Her top is barely there, and even though it was part of the plan, I hate it. Hate that Kai saw her like this. Hate that Carmichael laid eyes on her at all. Hell, I hate that the bloody moon got a glimpse.

She's mine.

Shrugging off my hoodie, I drape it over her shoulders, tugging the hood up like I can shield her from the world. She looks up at me, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. I press a quick kiss to her nose.

When I lean in, I drop my voice just for her. "Let's get this over with so I can take you home and fuck you so hard you forget any name but mine."

Her cheeks flush, and my grin could rival the Cheshire Cat's. It's the little wins.

Kai pulls up, and we work fast—Carmichael gets shoved into the boot, and the tyres roll over the pavement as we disappear into the night.

He stirs in the boot, groggy, dazed. A low groan seeps through the metal.

"Shh," I whisper, knocking twice on the back seat. "No one likes a whiny hostage."

Carina lets out a breathy laugh, but there's no humour in it. Just anticipation.

Kai drags the now-squirming Carmichael into the dimly lit building—my murder cabin. The mood is dark, intense. Romantic, even. I glance at Carina, thinking, If Kai wasn’t here, this could totally count as a date night.

Here's the thing: I never thought I'd enjoy something more than the thrill of the hunt—tracking, eliminating, feeling the life drain from someone who deserves it.

But now? Now all I want is to go home with her, order a takeaway, and watch a terrible rom-com I’ll pretend to hate while secretly rooting for the quirky best friend. That’s my dream . When did that happen?

Still, business first.

Carina steps forward with the poise of a predator, her every move deliberate. Carmichael’s eyes widen in panic, and for the first time tonight, I relax.

Because my girl? She’s got this. And me? I’ve got her.

"Hi, Michael," she whispers, her voice as sharp as a blade. She stops just in front of him, towering over him despite her smaller frame.

"Naomi," he spits, his mouth tightening into a strained frown. The sound of her real name from his lips has me clenching my fists. He doesn’t get to remind her of the person she used to be, the person she wants to forget. "You've grown up."

Carina doesn't flinch. She tilts her head, considering him like he's something small and pitiful. "Bet you wish I hadn’t," she fires back, her words laced with venom.

His lips press into a thin line. "What do you want?"

She leans in, her breath ghosting over his face. "What do you think I want, Michael?"

"Money?" he blurts out, desperation creeping in.

I can’t help the laugh that bursts from me, loud and mocking. "You idiot. If she needed money, she could just ask me."

Michael's eyes dart to me, his brow furrowing. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Nate," I drawl, stepping forwards with a sneer. "Her sugar daddy." I let the words roll off my tongue with deliberate flair, earning a laugh from Carina that brightens the entire room. It’s the kind of laugh that reminds me why I’d burn the world down for her.

But then Michael speaks again. "You always were a slut."

The air changes.

My blood simmers with fury, every muscle in my body tensing as I fight the urge to pummel him right here and now. But this isn’t my moment. This is hers.

Carina’s playful demeanour vanishes, replaced with a look so cold it could freeze fire. Her lips curl into a slow, menacing smile. "I wouldn’t have said that, Michael," she warns, her tone low and deadly.

Kai, silent as ever, holds out a knife. Her knife. The pink one.

She takes it without hesitation.

Then she drives it into Michael's thigh.

He screams, his body jerking against the restraints, but she doesn't stop. She yanks the blade free and slams it into his other leg. Blood pools, staining the floor, and still, she doesn't blink.

"You always were a piece of work," he spits, gritting through the pain. "Clearly, no one broke you enough."

“ Ti uccido brutto stronzo 3 , ” Carina mutters under her breath. Then she drags the knife up his chest, slicing open his shirt. The blade catches flesh, and Michael grits his teeth, sweat beading his forehead.

"How did it feel?" she whispers. "Spending the last week looking over your shoulder? Wondering when it would happen?"

Carmichaels eyes flash wide with recognition. “That was you.”

“Yes.”

Carmichael lets out a wheezy laugh, his lips curling into a cruel sneer despite the blood dripping from his chest. "You think this makes you strong? You’re still just that scared little girl crying for her daddy to save her. Too bad he never did."

Carina freezes for the briefest of moments, her knuckles white around the hilt of her knife. Her entire body is coiled like a spring, vibrating with barely contained fury.

"You should’ve stayed broken, Naomi," Carmichael continues, his voice low and venomous. "Men like me? We’re the only thing you’re good for. If you had any brains, you’d still be on your knees, where you belong."

The words barely leave his mouth before I move.

In one fluid motion, I close the distance between us, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him off the chair.

"That’s enough," I growl, my voice cold as ice. My grip tightens, cutting off his air as his face flushes red.

"Nate," Carina’s voice is steady, though I can hear the undertone of her own rage. "I had this."

"I know," I reply, not taking my eyes off Carmichael’s panicked expression. "But he’s done breathing now."

And then I snap his fucking neck.

His body goes limp, slumping in the chair like the worthless piece of shit he was.

The silence that follows is deafening, punctuated only by the sound of Carina’s heavy breathing.

Then, she exhales. Slowly. Like a weight has been lifted.

I step closer, brushing blood-sticky hair from her face. "You okay, baby?"

She looks up at me, dark eyes unreadable. Then she grabs my collar and kisses me hard.

Yeah. She's okay.

And I'm never letting her go.

The room is eerily quiet, and Carina's uneven breathing is the only sound. The sharp tang of blood clings to the air, thick and metallic.

"I couldn’t let him talk to you like that," I murmur. My voice is steady, but inside, I’m still burning.

She exhales, shoulders rolling back as the tension drains from her body. Relief. Or closure.

"You're lucky I like you," she says, lips curling into a small, almost lazy smile. But her eyes—they're still dark, still haunted.

"And you're lucky I don't mind cleaning up after you," I reply, keeping my voice light. But my gaze stays locked on hers, searching. "You’re okay?"

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she looks down at Carmichael's body, her expression shifting—triumph, satisfaction... but something else. Something raw.

"Better now," she finally says.

But as I step closer, letting my hand trail down her arm, I feel it—the way her pulse skips beneath my fingers. The way her breath hitches.

She's steady. But not untouched.

And neither am I.