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God, I hope I’m not about to be haunted by the ghost of Aunt Hortense. Because by that logic, if I were to off Patrice, she’d come back to haunt me too and I can’t handle that emotionally.
His hair is dark, almost black, and my first glance of him reminds me just how normal the monster with the knife can be.
“Yeah, I’m definitely not going to impart tales of my sexual experiences to you over the phone, in person, or via a carrier pigeon.”
“Fine. I’m adaptable. What’s your favorite scary movie?” “Oh, we’re crossing genres now? No more shitty romance, we’ve moved to slasher horror? Let me just pop some popcorn. I don’t have a boyfriend for you to tie up by the pool, though. And I also don’t have a pool.”
Run away, little bunny. But don’t you dare make a sound.”
“You’re being a brat,” he informs me almost sweetly. “It’s cuter in the dark.” “Yeah, so’s your face.”
Murder isn’t sexy, I tell myself.
“I’m going to make you regret being so fucking addicting.”
“You’re all mine, little bunny. No matter if I want to love you, devour you, or ruin you. You’re mine to do with as I please.”
“Because you’re mine. And I like to believe you were always going to be mine. Whether it was going to be like this, or chained up in my basement until I could convince you to like me.” I swallow hard, but he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t break eye contact while I fumble for words. “That’s maybe not as romantic as you think it is,” I finally manage to whisper.
