4. ‘K’
‘K’
Kennedy talked too fast when she was nervous. Swallowed way more often than was necessary. Overcompensated with a light laugh that never quite reached her gray-blue eyes.
Of course, I knew all of that before her first podcast episode went online. But hearing it without even seeing her; hearing that little tremble she tried to bury beneath practiced polish… fuck, it turned me on like crazy.
Then again, everything about Kennedy turned me on, as much as that bothered me sometimes.
It wasn’t just the way she looked, with those big doll-like eyes and plump pink lips, or the way her perfect tits rounded out the tight sweaters she favored.
It was the way she tucked her strawberry blonde hair behind her ear when she was thinking, the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when she was unsure about something, the way she always smelled faintly of vanilla.
Even her little quirks and neuroticisms were like a drug to me.
The more I watched her, the deeper I sank. Every gesture, every nervous tic, every false smile… I’d memorized them all.
She always tried so hard to act like she was in control, but she wore her fear like a second skin. If other people paid attention, they’d see it too. But they weren’t me. I was the only one who really saw her. Understood her.
At the end of her first podcast episode, when she and Freya were discussing an apparent mistake in the police investigation, she said that she didn’t believe in coincidences.
I’d never believed in them either. Especially not when it came to Corwin Bay and the Carver case. It was always going to bring the two of us together, given that we were both involved in some capacity. One of us a lot more than the other.
She thought the sudden success of her podcast signaled a fresh start for her. Something finally going right in her life after months of floundering. But it was just another step in a path I’d been laying for years. A path that led straight to her.
The poor girl never stood a chance against me. Not really.
I knew everything about her by now. Her passwords. Her playlists. The medications in her drawer. What made her laugh, and what made her cry. What made her wet.
I also knew that she was an anxious little thing. Fidgety. Hyper-aware. But there was something else linked to those nerves. Something she’d never say out loud.
She liked fear.
Not the safe, distant kind that was wrapped in fiction. Real fear. The kind that scraped against her ribs and curled into her spine. The kind that breathed on the back of her neck when she thought she was alone.
I’d already suspected it after observing her behavior for so long, but last night, she proved it in more ways than one.
8:56 p.m. Laptop open. Lamp dimmed. Jeans partially unzipped. She thought no one could see her, but she was wrong. The webcam caught everything for me.
She was reading slasher movie fanfiction at the time. Not the amusing parody kind, but the dark, erotic kind where the killer kept the mask on and the girl ran, then begged, then moaned.
Kennedy was touching herself over those words. Eyes wide. Chest heaving. Free hand clenched while the other moved slow and steady between her legs.
Right then, it was clear as day what she wanted.
She wanted to be the girl in the slasher story.
Wanted to feel the thrill of a gloved hand closing around her throat, choking her airway until she was on the brink of passing out.
Wanted to feel the sting of a knife on her bare skin, making her wonder if she’d survive the encounter.
Wanted to be fucked hard and thoroughly through all of that, screaming so hard when she came that her throat ached.
She loved the danger, the threat, the way the story blurred the line between fear and lust. I could literally see the fiery, desperate struggle in her eyes as she tried to stop herself, but she couldn’t resist in the end… because that line didn’t really exist for her anymore.
She never even closed the story tab afterward. It was still sitting there in the background, waiting for her.
Just like me.
Before all that, she’d posted to Deepest Desires. Said she fantasized about being taken by a brutal killer in real life. Stripped of all choice by a psychopath. She said it turned her on like nothing else, and that she worried it made her sick in the head.
It didn’t. It made her mine .
The way she phrased her dark, twisted admission made it seem like she intended it as a cry for help… but for a guy like me? It was a goddamn invitation.
Not that I’d ever needed an invitation to be in Kennedy Campbell’s life. Oh, no. I was always going to be a part of her life, whether she liked it or not. If she had a problem with that, then she should’ve just told the truth about everything from the start.
But she never did, so now, here we were…
I drew in a slow breath, imagining the sting of her nails digging into my back as she arched beneath me. I pictured her mouth open, desperate for my cock, kneeling on the ground, pants tugged down her thighs.
Jesus. This girl was going to consume me. Body, soul, and whatever the hell was left of my sanity.
As she strolled down the driveway on Fletcher Drive for the thirty-fourth time today, I ducked my head before she had a chance of spotting me watching her.
The trailer door creaked open, and I registered the faintest echoes from her sneakers as she stepped inside, heading for the back to retrieve another box.
She was alone. Vulnerable. And utterly unaware of me. This time, anyway.
She’d almost caught me earlier, because I’d grown a little complacent in my mission. Started letting things slip. Thankfully, I got away with it in the end, and as far as I knew, she still didn’t suspect anything.
The close call was a good reminder for me, though. A reminder to never get comfortable. Never be reckless. And certainly never underestimate Kennedy. Especially given some of the things I knew about her… like what a conniving little liar she was.
For now, I’d allow her to keep on thinking that everything was normal. That today was just another day. That she was still safe. Still free. Still in control.
She’d lived her whole life without realizing a monster was lurking in the shadows beside her. That someone had been studying her for years, cataloguing every breath and blink, learning her like a language.
I had a good reason for it, of course. I had serious plans for Kennedy Campbell. Plans that would unravel her and bend her into something broken and worshiped in equal measure. Something that belonged to me.
But I wouldn’t rush it. Right now, she was still wearing that false armor of composure. I needed her cracked. Fragile. Desperate.
And she would be. Soon.
All it took was one perfect moment. One wrong turn. One whispered word in the dark. And when it happened—when she finally realized what was coming for her—
it would already be too late.