Page 61 of Mine To Hunt

"No! I can't handle it! Please, I'm begging you!" He wails, arching his back in a useless fight.

"You thought you could do anything to her and walk away." I say, my voice empty of pity but full of that dark satisfaction.

He's fading fast, his begs turning to wet, gurgling whispers as blood fills his insides. "Help... Anyone, please..." He mutters, his eyes starting to glaze over.

I spot a rusty steel rod in the corner and heat it with my lighter until it's glowing red-hot. I press it hard against his thigh, the skin sizzling and charring black in seconds.

The smell of burning flesh fills the air, and it pushes my high even higher. "This is for even thinking you could touch what's mine." I tell him, watching the damage with a twisted smile.

He jerks one last time, the poison finishing him off as blood leaks from his eyes, nose, and mouth. "I… I'm... sorr..." He whispers, then goes still, his eyes blank and empty.

The peak of the rush crashes over me, that perfect bliss of fixing my world. He's gone. No more interference.

I prop the body against the wall, spreading his limbs to show off the mess. As a final touch, I slip an iris flower near him, nice and neat. I want her to see it, to spot the pattern from my other kills.

She'll know someone's out there, watching her, claiming her, reshaping everything around her, long before she figures out it's me.

The high sticks with me as I melt into the night, that unbreakable certainty pumping through my veins. She's all mine, and soon she'll feel every bit of it.

Chapter 19

Her

It has been a week since the incident near my house. The night with the drunk man should feel far away by now, but it isn’t.

The fear from that night follows me into sleep, waiting patiently for the moment I close my eyes. Every time I drift off, it’s there, pressing against my thoughts, refusing to let me rest.

I force myself out of bed anyway. I remind myself that today is my day off. No newsroom. No files. No deadlines screaming my name. No headlines to chase. Today is supposed to be quiet.

But my mind doesn’t listen.

No matter how hard I try to push my thoughts aside, they keep sliding back to the same place. The same image. An alley replaying itself in my head like a broken clip. The concrete looked darker than it should, slick with shadow. The air felt heavy, even in memory.

And there, near his body, lay a single iris flower. Crushed. Placed there on purpose. It didn’t belong. That’s what makes it worse. The more I tell myself not to think about it, the clearer it becomes.

I decide to distract myself. Chores usually help. Normal, boring things. Laundry. Dishes. Cleaning. Things people do when their lives are ordinary. Maybe if I keep my hands busy long enough, my mind will finally let go.

I start in the kitchen. I pick up a cloth and begin wiping down the counters, moving slowly from one end to the other. Dust has settled over the last few days, thin but visible. I focus on the movement of my hand, the back-and-forth motion, hoping the repetition will calm me. For a moment, it almost works.

Then it hits.

A sudden tightness spreads across my chest, sharp and uncomfortable. My hand stills. Something feels wrong. I don’t know what, only that the feeling is strong enough to make me stop. I look around the kitchen, scanning every corner. The sink. The stove. The doorway. Everything looks normal. Too normal.

I move on to the laundry, carrying the basket into the next room. I sort the clothes automatically, separating colors, folding what needs to be folded. The familiar routine helps. My breathing slows. My thoughts quiet down just a little.

That’s when I notice it.

The living room curtains shift at the edge of my vision. Just slightly. Barely enough to be sure. I look up at once, my hands freezing mid-fold. There’s no breeze. The windows are shut. I stare at the fabric, waiting for it to move again. It doesn’t.

But the unease doesn’t fade. It grows heavier, sinking into my stomach like a stone. I swallow and shake my head. “It’s just my imagination.” I say out loud. I need to hear the words. I need them to sound real. They don’t help.

The alley flashes through my mind again, sharp and sudden. The fear I thought I had buried rises back up, raw and familiar. My heart beats faster. My skin feels tight, like it’s bracing for something.

I grab the duster and step into the living room, running it along the shelves and surfaces. Dust lifts into the air, floating slowly as it catches the light. I try to focus on that. On something small and harmless. But the feeling comes back. The sense of being watched.

At first it’s faint, easy to ignore. Just a thought. Then it grows, inch by inch, until my skin prickles and my shoulders tense. I don’t turn around. I don’t know why. Maybe part of me is afraid of what I might see if I do.

“Stop it, Iris.” I mutter. “You’re safe here.” The words feel hollow.