Page 5

4

I Don’t Even Know How It Got On The Ceiling

Hypothetical Question: If you had to kill someone using only things you can find in a hotel room, how would you do it?

Carina

Gareth Crane. Second on my list.

He pretended to care. Made me trust him. Then handed me over to the monster who turned my life into a nightmare for three hundred and seventy-six days.

I want his death to be slow. Messy. Painful.

Watching Nate drag Peter’s death out—turn it into something twisted—sparked something in me. A realisation. There’s no justice in a quick death.

I want him to suffer.

I pace around Gareth, my heart pounding and my thoughts spinning. I don’t know what I’m doing; I know I want to hurt him.

I want him to feel every ounce of pain I’ve felt.

Gareth squirms in the chair, tied tight, sweat dripping down his face. His eyes flick to the door. To the window. Searching for an escape.

There isn’t one.

I found him in a grimy hotel, stuffing cash into a duffel bag like he was ready to run. That’s where we are now.

I stop before him, taking a slow breath to steady myself.

“You know why you’re here, Gareth?” I sneer.

My fingers tighten around the knife—it’s not pink, the boring colour only serves to anger me further. I slice it through the air, just above the chair’s arm, the steel hissing.

He flinches hard like I’ve already cut him open.

Pathetic .

“Naomi…” he mutters, voice shaky. He stiffens, trying to hold it together, but I see it.

The fear.

Then I hear it.

Naomi.

The name slams into me like a fist to the gut, and suddenly, I’m not in this room anymore.

I’m there .

Edward’s on top of me.

His sweaty body pins me to the bed, his breath heavy, his hands everywhere.

I can’t fight. I never can. Hands tied. Feet bound. Always.

“Naomi,” he moans, voice thick with possession. His hips push forward, again, again, again—

I go somewhere else.

I have to.

Survival depends on it.

He tells me he saved me from the other monsters.

But if that’s true… then why do I feel even more trapped?

He comes once a week. The rest of the time, I’m alone. Shackled to a wall like an animal in a room that stinks of piss, blood, and vomit.

I hear the others. Screams, muffled cries. But I never see them.

Just him.

Only him.

The memory slams shut.

I’m back.

I’m here.

But my hands are trembling. My back is pressed against the cold hotel wall, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

With shaking hands I bring out my phone, stabbing out a text to Dr Morgan.

Carina: Ppositive words os tthee day?

The reply is immediate.

Doc M: You are experiencing distress right now, I can tell. Remember: Your worth was never determined by their actions. Your strength comes from within, not from their permission. Breathe through this moment—I'm here.

I let her words settle inside me, sinking their claws into the memory and dragging me out.

Lifting my head I catch Gareth staring at me. Studying me.

How dare he?

How dare he remind me of that time?

How dare he make me seem weak?

The anger inside me ignites. Hotter. Brighter. Deadlier.

I don’t fight it.

“What did you do, Gareth? What led you here?” I spit the words like venom, my rage boiling beneath my skin as I stalk towards him.

His lips part. “I... I...”

“Spit it out!”

The shout is sharper, louder than I intended, and my breath catches. My hand tightens on the knife, pressing harder against his collarbone. Not enough to break the skin. But enough to make him flinch.

Enough to make him afraid.

He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I betrayed you.” His voice cracks. His eyes—wide and desperate—search mine, looking for something.

Looking for mercy.

There isn’t any.

“How?” My voice is quieter now but no less sharp.

His gaze flicks to the knife. Then back to me.

“I helped your father sell you.”

My grip tightens.

“I told you I’d protect you. Then I drove you to Winslow.”

His confession slams into me. A knife to the ribs.

I already knew. But hearing it? Feeling it? It’s something else entirely.

It’s a different kind of wound.

I smile. Sweet. Soft. Fake. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

Relief floods his face. His shoulders sag, his breath stuttering. He thinks honesty will save him.

He’s wrong.

My fingers ghost over the ropes, binding his wrists. He sighs in relief. He thinks he’s safe.

The knife slams down.

I don’t mean to drive it so deep. But I do.

A scream rips from his throat, raw and high. It cuts through the room.

I freeze.

The blood pours from his hand. Crimson spills onto the floor, staining the linoleum. The copper tang fills the air.

It’s too much.

Too loud.

Too… beautiful.

I lean in close, my voice a whisper against his ear.

“Oh, Gareth. Did you really think being honest would save you?”

His entire body shakes. He yanks at the ropes, twisting, writhing, but there’s nowhere to go. The pain keeps him here with me.

Bleeding.

Breaking.

His breath shudders. “Naomi, please…” His voice is thin. Wrecked. “I was just doing what I was told. Your father—”

No.

NO.

I grab his jaw, fingers digging into his skin. His breath stinks of fear. Good.

“You chose to do this.” The words come out sharp, like glass. My pulse pounds, my breath jagged.

“You made me trust you.

“You betrayed me.

“ You . Not him.”

His eyes widen, fear and realisation flickering behind them.

“I... I was scared! He would’ve killed me if I didn’t—”

“You think that makes it okay?!” My voice splinters, cracking on the edges. Rage blinds me.

“You think your fear matters more than what you did to me?!”

I yank the knife from his hand—not carefully.

Not like I had planned.

It’s messy. Rough. Brutal.

His scream tears through the room, a raw, broken thing. Too loud.

Too real.

His body slumps, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his limbs shaking. But I won't stop.

I can’t stop.

“You don’t deserve a quick death,” I mutter, circling him like a predator.

His head hangs low, sobs wracking his body.

“Naomi… please…”

The name shoves a blade through my chest.

My entire body goes cold.

I am not her. Not anymore.

I step closer, my breath warm against his ear. “Don’t say that name.”

My voice is low jagged.

“That’s not my name anymore.”

I move behind him, close enough to feel the tremors in his body. Close enough for his scent—sweat, fear, blood—to cling to my skin.

“Don’t worry, Gareth.” My lips curl into a slow, wicked smile. “I’ll make sure you feel every second of this.”

I don’t think.

I move.

The knife sinks into his shoulder.

Hard. Deep. Unforgiving.

He jerks, his back arching against the ropes.

His scream is so loud it drowns out the sound of my pulse hammering in my ears.

I twist the blade. Slow this time.

I feel it tear through muscle, through sinew. Through him.

I exhale, breath shuddering. The sound is intoxicating.

“Funny, isn’t it?” I laugh, breathless. “You’re finally feeling the pain you caused me. Does it hurt?

“Does it feel like you’re dying?”

He can’t answer. His sobs are too loud, too consuming.

I crouch in front of him, tilting my head.

Tears stream down his face. His mouth hangs open, his chest shuddering with each breath. Pathetic. Weak.

Just like I was.

“You know, I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to watch you suffer.”

I smile.

“Turns out, it’s better than I thought.”

His eyes flicker with something.

Guilt? Desperation? Hope?

“I… I’m sorry…” His voice is barely there, thin as a whisper.

Too late.

Too fucking late.

I tighten my grip on the knife, twisting the handle between my fingers.

“You’ll die knowing it was all your fault.”

I lean in, close enough to watch when the fight drains from his body.

“And no one’s coming to save you.”

Nate

A sharp ring blasts through the otherwise quiet function room at the Emerald Hotel. Crap, that's my phone.

I fumble with it, cursing as I wrestle the phone from my pocket. I'm ready to silence it when I catch sight of the name flashing on the screen: Pink Princess.

We've been texting off and on the past week—flirty, playful exchanges that have me intrigued but mostly keep me amused. Harmless, at least on my end. Not so much for the men she's been doing her 'research' on.

But she's never called me before.

My mind races through the worst-case scenarios: Is she hurt? Did she finally pursue someone who fought back?

Then, as if on cue, my parents' sharp, disapproving glares pierce into me like a blade. The irony.

I'm at a charity dinner they dragged me to. Pretentious. Fake. They pretend it's about helping people, but we all know it's about status. I stand up, raising a hand to excuse myself, then slide into the empty hallway, pressing the phone to my ear.

"Nate?" Her voice filters through the receiver—sweet and melodic, dangerously tempting like a siren's call.

"Princess," I drawl, leaning against the wall, a secret smile tugging at my lips. "This is unexpected."

"Is it a bad time?"

"Never for you."

There’s a pause, long enough to make my chest tighten. Then she says, “I have a… situation,” her voice carrying an edge of hesitation.

The words hang between us for a moment, just enough time for the air around me to thicken. The playful amusement drains out of my system, replaced by a sharp, protective concern. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"No, no, nothing like that!" she rushes to reassure me, the words tumbling over themselves. "It's just… I tried cleaning up. After… well… you know. But it's not exactly going well. I need advice."

Relief floods me, though I can't stop laughing at her obvious panic. "Let me guess. Blood everywhere?"

"Everywhere," she mutters, exasperated. "It's like it seeped into the floor, it’s on the walls—I don't even know how it got on the ceiling."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, grinning despite myself. "Oh, Princess. You've got a lot to learn."

"That's why I'm calling you," she snaps, but I can hear the hint of embarrassment in her voice. "You're the expert, right?"

"Expert doesn't even begin to cover it." My voice turns smug, the confidence in it evident. "But cleaning up isn't just about removing the evidence—it's an art form. The trick is to think like the scene never existed."

"So… what do I do?" she asks, and damn it, the vulnerability in her voice does something to me—more than it should.

"Where are you?"

"Why?"

I push away from the wall, already moving to grab my jacket. The need to be there overrides everything else. "Because, Princess," I say with a grin she can't see but will feel, "this is one lesson you're going to need hands-on training for."

Outside, I shoot a quick text to Kai as I wait for the valet to appear with my car. Sure, I told her I'd handle this myself, but let's be honest—I don't clean up my messes anymore.

His reply is immediate.

Kai: You owe me for this.

I grin, as I slide into the leather seats.

Kai’s waiting for me when I arrive at the address she gave me, a scowl on his face and his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“She better be worth it, man,” he mutters as we make our way to the correct hotel room.

"Princess," I call out, knocking gently, my voice cutting through the heavy stillness of the place.

She emerges from behind the door, her head poking out before she opens it fully to let us in.

I forget how to breathe.

She's a vision of chaos. Her pink hair is streaked with crimson, and blood spatters across her cheeks and nose like a constellation of red freckles.

Her pink dress—a different one this time—is soaked in red, ruined beyond salvation. Yet somehow, she wears it like a masterpiece, like she was meant to be drenched in it.

Her eyes are wild, feral—untamed in a way that makes my chest tighten.

Behind her, the scene is pure carnage. A man slumps forward, tied to a chair, his body lifeless and dripping. Blood coats the floor, the walls—hell, even the ceiling bears the marks of her work.

It's a mess, sure.

But it's also beautiful.

The justice she's delivered here is raw, visceral—art in its purest, bloodstained form.

"Bloody hell," Kai mutters behind me, shattering the moment.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" I murmur, my lips twitching into a grin as my eyes rake over the scene.

Her gaze locks onto mine, and for the briefest moment, there's hesitation—uncertainty flickering behind the madness. She's waiting for my reaction.

"I thought you were coming alone," she says, her jaw locked tight.

"Relax, Princess." I take a slow step toward her. "Kai's a professional. Doesn't talk, doesn't judge. Just cleans."

Kai exhales sharply, eyeing the blood-soaked room with a grimace. "And this is going to take a lot of cleaning."

I ignore him, my attention fixed on her. "You did this all yourself?"

Her chin lifts, defiance blazing in her eyes. "He deserved it."

A chuckle rumbles in my throat. "Oh, no doubt. But you have a flair for the dramatic, Princess." My gaze flicks to the ceiling. "It's… impressive."

For a second, she almost smiles. Almost.

Then it's gone, buried beneath whatever storm is brewing inside her.

"Are you going to help or just stand there admiring my work?"

I smirk, stepping closer. "Both."

Then I crack my knuckles, glancing around the blood-streaked walls.

"Now," I say, rolling up my sleeves, "let's see what we can salvage here."