Page 169 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

She looks… fucking amazing.

Head-to-toe pink, hair perfect, makeup flawless—even when she’s pissed enough to pummel me with her fake-engagement ring.

The look she’s giving me? Full-on jealous fiancée about to cause a scene.

And I’ll be damned if a sick part of me doesn’t like it.

I let her stare me down longer than necessary—let her stew—then slide an arm around her waist.

She stiffens for half a second, then recovers, tossing her hair and flashing a brittle, syrupy smile.

“If you’re not too distracted,” she says brightly, loud enough for the receptionist to hear, “we’re going to be late for our hot yoga class.”

The receptionist—poor, deluded thing—puffs up like she just won a prize, batting her lashes like she’s already planning our imaginary hookup.

Poppy catches it.

Her eyes narrow, one brow lifting in a way that promises bloodshed, and I can’t tell if she’s still playing or if it’s real.

“I can’t wait, darling.”

I tighten my arm around her and steer us toward the door, tossing the receptionist a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

Outside, the sunlight slams into us.

Poppy yanks out of my grip with a huff, marching ahead.

“Well, you played that off a little too well.”

She’s halfway down the block before I catch up—after tossing the number in the trash and wondering, not for the first time, how the fuck I went from respected detective to undercover fiancé to Manhattan’s angriest Disney princess.

And worse?

Wondering why the hell I don’t mind.

I’m nailing this.

This wholelook naturalthing? I deserve an award.

I’m sitting upright, hands folded around a delicate porcelain teacup like a well-adjusted woman who definitely did not kill a man last night and then get strapped into a spreader bar and eaten out by the masked stalker who’s been following her for weeks.

Nope.

Just a regular girl.

Having a regular lunch.

Definitely not wearing the clothes said stalker left on a chair with a note that said,Be my good girl. I’ll be watching.

And absolutely not wondering why it’s been radio silence since.

I’m even making eye contact like a professionally not-deranged person.

Across the table, Declan’s scrolling through his phone, brow furrowed like he’s thinking about something serious and not—say—how I gutted a predator behind a locked door last night.

Kill or be killed.

Again.

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