Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Sweat beads above my lip as I stretch my arm. I’m about to put my hand on the firearm when my gaze slides over the dead man’s face, and I realize this isn’t the first time I’ve seen him.
It’s the Sexy Santa who drugged me at the club, and while I’m relieved to see that he won’t be able to hurt me in this godforsaken dungeon, I might have escaped the frying pan only to end up in the fire. Or a whole fireplace doused with gasoline for that matter. I stiffen when the whistling killer takes a saw off the wall.
I pull away from the gun and retreat into my prison of dark shadows before he can spot my hand. The weapon that could save my life is so close, but I can’t risk being discovered.
The man stops whistling the jolly tune with a huff and pulls off the balaclava.
I’m dead. I’m so dead.
Even if he never meant to show me his face, even if he doesn’t know I’m here, he will find out, and by then it will already be too late, as I know from every true-crime story I ever read.
My only hope is to remain silent as a mouse, and maybe, just maybe, thanks to a freakish amount of luck, he doesn’t spot me.
I try to memorize every detail of his face. Victims are often too frantic when confronted with an attacker, and can’t describe or even recognize the criminal at a later time.
That won’t be me. If I survive, that is.
In the light coming in from above, his profile couldn’t have been sharper. He’s pale, with messy dark blond hair that barely reaches his chin. Some strands are of a lighter color. I don’t see that well from afar, but his eyes are bright. Either green or blue. Maybe gray?
Big nose. Golden stubble. Must be over six feet tall. Is that a tattoo on his neck? His face is flushed, and his smile widens as he assesses the dead body. I’d describe that grin as either cheerful or predatory. Or deranged. As though he’s just come back home through a snowstorm and is about to bite into a warm cookie.
Details, Blake. Details.
Just as I’m about to log his dark eyebrows into my memory, he leans down with that cheery grin and puts the saw to work on the dead man’s neck. Blood splashes his face, but he just… licks his lips.
The rusty teeth of the saw bite deeper into flesh, and the sudden faintness in my head dives straight into my stomach. I’m retching, and the freak looks my way, his gaze diving into my corner behind the cupboard. I no longer have anything to lose so I dash forward, grab the gun and point it at the stranger with acid still burning my throat.
“Stay back,” I demand, and when my hands shake, I pull them close to my chest, hoping that will make me appear much less intimidated than I am. The chain attached to my waist rattles, as if it has a mind of its own and wants to make it clear to him that my whole body is trembling.
I don’t want to die. My life was supposed to finally begin next week. I was supposed to inherit half a fortune, gain new freedoms, explore the world, and suck my first dick.
The man isn’t frightened, and that doesn’t bode well. His eyes (blue, definitely blue) pierce me, and he doesn’t even blink, like he’s not even human, but a sexy lizard man.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says and cocks his head as he steps closer. Blood drips from his chin.
I’m not a crier, but right now I want to wail. I’m only eighteen, with a whole life ahead of me. What did I do to deserve this?
“H-he spiked my drink. I don’t care what you do with him. I just want to go home,” I mumble as my head throbs, making rational thinking impossible. Maybe my older brother was right when he said I don’t have the personality to deal with stressful situations. Then again, who the hell could easily handle this kind of situation?
He takes another step closer, and I wonder if I ought to shoot yet, but I’ve never even held a gun before, and I’m less likely to miss from up close.
The man’s expression turns curious as he eyes me from head to toe, and I’m all too aware that the Christmas elf top I have on is split all the way to my belly button.
“You should have shown yourself while I still had the mask on,” he says with a sigh and runs his leather-clad hand through his hair. If the situation wasn’t so surreal and terrifying, this could be a perfume commercial and he’d fit right in, with those looks. “What do I do with you…?”