I wrote this and honestly I don’t know which story to put it in so have it:
“Keep holding me like that and I’ll break your spine,” she murmurs against his ear, hoping to hide her fear under the venom.
He doesn’t heed. His fingers dig into her flesh, unbidden and it hurts when he touches. She feels soiled at once. She squirms but it does not stop him, far from it. His arousal heightens, and he claws her tighter, until she feels a crack on her hip-bone. She whimpers in pain but he takes it as a moan and he grins, wider, until his hot breath feels damp against her skin. His grip is of iron, his breath smells of the dead, his hands are slimy crude things, stained to the obscene. His shaft against her feels like the knife he will murder her with. His face takes to red and to her he transforms. From hideous shape to hideous shape he turns, the bones bulging, the eyes dripping in their swollen monstrosity, his lips moist and purple, his nose, vile and green, his tongue a leech, his hair bald and crusted with infection.
He revulses her. And she hates him enough that her hand moves on its own and grabs the knife on the counter-desk. Her fingers furl around it, steady, vengeful.
And she had always known she would come to slay a beast.
It’s easy, all things considered. It takes her knee to his groin. It takes her fist on his nose. It takes a foot to his stomach. It takes her leg across his crouched body. It takes her anger and fury and she wants him dead and she wants to kill and kill and kill and reduce him to what she knows he is; a shapeless thing, barely human, barely beast. It takes his first sputter of blood and her vengeful satisfaction. It takes her grin and an unbidden cackle as she feels his teeth break against her stilettos.
It takes her hand around the kitchen-knife; white and quivering. It takes him laying on his back, catching the light against the edge of the knife, his eyes opened in terror while her own face is a mask. It takes his own fear, a pale mirror of her own. For a moment she wonders if the fear she has ignited in him will cut deeper than the knife.
And she knows it will not. It will not eat him deep enough. Centuries of agony will not be enough. She craves that vengeance. She’s ravenous.
Her tongue runs against her teeth.
And she carves him. Slowly she carves him, straddling him like he had straddled her so many times, slow movements, almost gentle, merciful. He screams, of course, and she tempted to cut that slug of a tongue but instead she gags him with his tie.
“Shh,” he had said, all those years, “Shh,” they had told her: quiet know, or you would make a scene.
She’s done and she wants to scream.
He does not do her the favor of crying. In his eyes she sees that he believes himself above her. He has won and he wants her to know. For her it will be jail and her word will be nothing. It pours gasoline on her rage, and she digs the blade deep in his throat, until he squirms, until he dies.
Slowly she stands up, the knife red, her hand shaking, feeling cold and hot at once, set on a maddening fire while the room spins around her. It’s done. She’s free, but then the tears start to roll down her cheeks, pouring to meet his blood below. She’s crying, sobbing, and wipes her eyes red.
She releases the knife. Her hand has lost its grip and she feels drained.
“I warned you,” she says, her voice brittle and choked up with tears. “I warned you!” she shouts, as if he could still hear her. As if all of it can be undone.