NICOLE
The water is lukewarm, but it doesn't matter. I'm just trying to wash the feeling of him away, the sticky, wet evidence of what we just did. It's a futile effort.
The sensation is already branded into my muscles, the memory seared behind my eyelids. My body hums, a traitorous, exhausted vibration.
He's at the sink, brushing his teeth with a chilling normalcy. As if he hadn't just tied me up, made me scream, and then tasted me like I was something to be devoured.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror for a split second—flat, unreadable—then flick away. He spits, rinses his mouth, and walks out without a word, leaving me alone in the steam-filled room.
"My mind is a frantic, screaming mess.
He killed a man today.
He made me come apart with his mouth.
Which one is the real him?
Does it even matter?
The real him is both. And I just let the monster who kills people kiss me like I was starving for it."
