Page 102 of Killing Me Softly

How the fuck had he got here?

His fingers twitched, a sluggish, delayed response as he forced himself to shift, to move, but he felt trapped in someone else’s body. His limbs felt wrong. Disconnected. His vision swam as he pried his eyes open, the dim light of his living room blurring and doubling, the ceiling spinning above him in nauseating spirals.

A shudder wracked through him. Cold sweat. Weak muscles. Shaky pulse.

Fuck.

His heart slammed against his ribs, erratic and uneven, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to fight through the haze.

Think, Kenny.

What happened?

A breath. A fragmented recollection.

Pryce.

Her voice. Low. Smug. Clinical.

“Killers are born, Dr Lyons. And you? You’re about to witness it firsthand.”

The sting of a needle. The rush of a foreign substance through his veins. His own body betraying him. His sharp, ragged exhale forced the flood of memories, disjointed but returning fast, hard.Prycehad done this to him. She’d fuckingdruggedhim. Then she’d convinced the faculty he was drunk, and they’d helped her take him home! She had him right where she wanted him. Helpless. Unable to stop whatever came next. And why? Because of Aaron.

Fuck. Aaron!

A fresh bolt of panic shot through him, cutting through the lingering fog like a live wire. WherewasAaron? He dug his fingers into the sofa, shaking, but he forced himself to sit up, head lolling forward before he caught himself. The roomspun violently, vision narrowing into a pinprick of light before snapping wide, nausea curling through his gut.

Push through. Push through.

He gritted his teeth, pressing his palms into the cushions, testing his own strength. His arms shook, legs like dead weights, but he wouldn’t let himself sink back down.

Not now!

His entire nervous system fought him. Reflexes lagging. But he forced his body to obey. A deep inhale. Another. Slow. Steady. Kenny clawed his way back to full consciousness, fighting through the aftereffects, shoving away the chemical fog to push up onto unsteady legs, bracing against the armrest.

My phone.

Where the fuck was his phone?

He scanned the room, blurry, unfocused, before locking onto it on the coffee table. He lunged.

Or tried to.

Muscles still lagging, he miscalculated, and he nearly collapsed, catching himself on the table, knocking over a stack of books.Aaron’sbooks. Shaky fingers grabbed for his phone, the screen blurring as he tried to focus.

Missed calls. Texts. Aaron’s name flashing.

Something was wrong.

Something was so fucking wrong.

His hands trembled as he fumbled with his phone, unlocking it with a clumsy swipe. He called Aaron. Voicemail.Fuck.He tried again. Voicemail. The sound of the line cutting off punched him in the gut. He gritted his teeth, dipped forward, and pressed his fingers into his forehead, willing himself back to full strength.

Jack. He dialled Jack. The phone rang out.

A wave of nausea surged. His stomach clenched, and before he could stop it, he retched, doubling over and vomiting onto thecarpet. Not letting it stop him, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, forced air into his lungs, and with shaking fingers, dialled 999. The call barely connected before something caught his eye—a notification in WhatsApp.

His stomach turned ice.

---