Slaying the Holidays: A Dark Rom Com

by Beatrix Hollow

When I said "get a new hobby," I meant kayaking, not decking the halls with garlands of gore.

“Who are you?” I ask. His eyes find the clock on my wall and sparkle. “Your ten o’clock. But if this guy is done, I’m happy to start early.”

“You need to calm down,” he purrs into my ear. I go stiff in his arms. “That’s a good girl, Doctor Moore. We can’t let our emotions control our actions, right?”

Maybe this was his entire plan since we first met. Stalk me, kill my date, and then drag me back to the sex hovel he made for me. Honestly, no one’s ever made me anything before. That’s a level of commitment that’s as flattering as it is disturbing. I mean, depending on the state of said hovel. A hole in the ground would fucking suck. What the hell am I thinking? He lets me rip away and looks down at me in surprise. I shouldn’t have moaned. How embarrassing. Kidnapping one-oh-one: don’t moan.

“Are you stealing food from the restaurant?” He asks in confusion. He peels open my coat pocket and sees my smashed dinner and a few napkins. “Weird,” he mumbles. “Leftovers are normal. Murder, however, isn’t,” I snap.

“Doctor Moore, I’m going to have to insist that you marry me.” He pets the tree’s branches with gloved hands as my mouth drops open.

There’s a certain Hell for people who blush when a killer calls them their wife.

I could handle a bad date and a murder, apparently. But being proposed to while my perversion is revealed? Too much. God, please pick another soldier; this one has had enough battles for one night. Ugh.

Does he really think having sex with me will convince me not to tattle that he murdered someone?

I never thought I’d be happy a killer kidnapped me from my date. Too bad Thanksgiving is over. I could have shared that I was grateful for murder.

The next few days are uncomfortable. Slowly, I come to accept I’m willingly here. However, I’m not happy about it. I spend nearly all my time locked in my room.

This is a lot more fun than the last kill. Everyone should drag their therapist along for murders.

No one needs to settle who doesn't want to.

I was reaching my mid-thirties, and guess what? It was the prime of my life. The new leg of the race. I spent the second half of my twenties and the start of my thirties trying to find a sense of calm. Maybe I needed that at first, but now it’s slowly subduing me into a state of daily dissociation.

My serial killer. I like that.

One more night of play fucking and another set of twins will be on the way. My stomach feels elated, and I grimace. No breeding your therapist, you psychopath.

Please don’t fall for your client, the serial killer.

There's so much pleasure in fucking my serial killer.

If I give up my gory hobby, I’ll have nothing. But I’d rather have nothing than lose Sophie.

I want her more than I want peace of mind or the undeniable pleasure of killing an asshole. She’s my person. I need her. And she’ll accept me once I agree to do what needs to be done. What she keeps desperately trying to keep me from doing. Soren Erikson is going to retire from serial killing so he can live happily ever after with his therapist.