Page 103 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She shakes her head fast, then nods once—like the question hit her brain at a delay.

“No,” she whispers. “No, I’m okay. I’m okay.”

She’s not but she’s upright.

And that counts for something.

I look at her—really look—and something behind my ribs tightens.

Because for all her jokes, her confidence, the crop top she wore into a raid like it was a uniform, she didn’t come here expecting this.

And neither did I.

One second, I’m watching her breathe—alive, whole, not bleeding out on some concrete floor—and the next, that feeling curdles into something sharp and blistering in my chest.

Anger.

Hot. Immediate and unavoidable.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

Her post-scare shock turns to confusion instantly. “Excuse me?” Her forehead crumples.

“What. The fuck. Were you thinking?”

I let the words roll off my tongue slowly. Each one cutting the space between us.

Each one dragging me a step closer.

I want her to feel it.

The heat. The weight. The truth.

“I was thinking, ‘Gee, golly. I wonder what’s behind this hidden panel in the human trafficking house.’”

Hands on her hips. Blue fire in her eyes. Sarcasm locked and loaded.

“You never go in first. You got it?”

My voice drops, rough and tight.

My breath’s coming too fast, and we’re standing way too close.

Uniforms are watching us now—half their attention on the suspects being led out, the other half wondering if they’re about to witness an implosion.

Her eyes flick to the women being escorted from the hidden room.

Some carried. Others walking on shaking legs.

Her voice goes soft. “They obviously can’t hurt me.”

She waves her hand at them like it should be obvious.

My patience snaps.

“You didn’t know they were in there!”

Yeah, I’m yelling now.

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