She’d taken a liking to you, she needed to take you.

With a cry, you forced her body against the doors with all the thrust you could muster. It definitely stunned her. You immediately attempted to bolt, but her hand, she - it was so fucking warm - gripped your forearm.

She ripped you backward, and thrown onto the table. Right onto her last kill. And the anxiety was written on you. Your back grew warm with blood, not your blood but still— it frightened and spiked you. She didn’t want that.