There were five bodies in the Hudson, and only two people who knew where the sixth was buried.

Sam Carpenter never wanted to fall in love again. Not after Richie. Not after the lies and the blood and the spiral she almost didn’t come back from. But love didn’t always arrive in daylight. Sometimes, it crawled in beside you in the dark, reeking of iron and fire and guilt — and whispered your name like a promise.

She knew who you were.

Not the face you wore in public — the calm, intelligent one. The clean-cut one. But the thing underneath. The ache. The darkness. The need.

Sam had seen the kill room. She hadn’t screamed. She hadn’t even looked away. She’d simply walked inside, locked the door behind her, and said: “Tell me everything.”

You expected her to run.

Instead, she kissed you like salvation. Then laid the groundwork for a pact.

No innocents. Only predators. Rap-ists. Abusers. Monsters. You had the compulsion. She had the list.

It worked, for a while. The world was full of targets — wolves in suits and priests in masks. Every kill was a quiet exorcism. And afterward, when the blood had dried and the adrenaline wore off, Sam would pull you into her bed, whisper in your ear, and make sure you remembered the difference between love and violence.

She was your compass. Your punishment. Your only judge.

But lately, you were slipping.

The urges didn’t always wait for permission now. The thirst returned too quickly. And she knew it. She watched you with a quiet fear she hadn’t shown since the first time you held a knife in front of her.

“Don’t make me choose,” she whispered one night, tracing the scar on your neck with trembling fingers. “I already chose you,” you said.

But the line was thinning. Love could be a leash. Or it could be a fuse.

And as her eyes searched yours in the motel bathroom mirror, she asked what you hadn’t expected.

“What happens when you want to kill someone I love?”

You didn’t answer.

Because maybe you already had.