Page 23 of Sweet Torment

Whitney raises the knife, and I twist at the last second, pulling Rebecca into her path.

The knife sinks into Rebecca’s back with a sickening wet sound.

Everything stops.

Whitney pulls the knife free, staring at the blood. She hit something important. “F-fuck! Becca, oh my God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean⁠—“

Rebecca gurgles, blood trickling from her mouth. Whitney drops beside her, trying uselessly to stop the bleeding.

“This is all your fault!” Whitney screams, and she’s barely recognizable as the girl I once loved like a sister.

I launch myself at her. We tumble to the floor, and the knife skitters away. We’re both fighting for dominance, hitting and clawing. Weller’s scent is a constant, maddening trigger. Her horrible videos are still playing in the background.

She crawls for the knife. But I’m on her back before she gets there, holding tight as she tries to buck me off.

I reach for the knife. She gets there first and starts slashing blindly behind her. “Just die already!”

I bite her shoulder. She cries out, flipping onto her back, and loses her grip on the knife. I snatch it up.

I don’t wait. I sink the knife into her chest. “This is for Freddie.”

A gasp escapes her lips.

I pull it out and push it in again.

“For Owen.” She tries to speak, but only blood comes out.

“For Tristan.”

“For Weller.”

“For me.”

Her eyes are fading, but she’s still looking at me. I lean close, my voice breaking. “I loved you, Whit. Maybe I was the only one who ever really did.”

Her eyes well with tears. For a heartbeat, I see her—the girl who taught me everything about hair and makeup, who cried in my arms when her father chose work over another birthday, who held my hand at my Grandma’s funeral.

My best friend.

The knife goes in one last time—gentle, almost. A mercy.

The light leaves her eyes.

I look around at the carnage, but I can’t really process what just happened. My pajamas are soaked with blood—mine and theirs. My body is shaking violently from the adrenaline.

Red lights flash from the ceiling, painting the room in crimson pulses.

The knife falls from my numb fingers, clattering to the floor.

What will Dr. Montgomery do to me now?

I killed his daughter.

The thought should terrify me, but I feel nothing.

My wounds throb in time with my heartbeat, but the pain feels unimportant. I collapse and press my cheek against the freezing cold floor. The chill is a shocking, grounding sensation against my hot skin.

It’s over. They’re dead.