She's My Collar - Katya x Reader

28: By The Pricking of my Thumbs

Trigger Warning: graphic descriptions of violence

"Don't be cautious, don't be kind
You committed, I'm your crime
Push my button anytime
You got your finger on the trigger
But your trigger finger's mine
Silver dollar, golden flame
Dirty water, poison rain
Perfect murder, take your aim
I don't belong to anyone
But everybody knows my name"
-Copycat, Billie Eilish

Katya parked her bike a street away, as she usually did, under cover of darkness. She pulled her hair back into a tight braid, carefully, doing a mental checklist that she had everything she needed. She had a silenced semi automatic pistol stashed in both shoulder holsters and another one in her thigh holster, a large machete strapped across her back and knives squirreled away in most of her pockets.

She had a healing black eye, too, from her last round in the crypts, and it ached, the swelling reduced with consistent icing, but it bothered her still, made her irritable on top of the anger that plagued her at the way she'd been forced to give you up.

Katya felt the anger simmering just under the edges of her consciousness, the desire for revenge like a live thing humming in her blood. She shoved it down. She couldn't be angry. Anger made you stupid. Stupid got you killed. She was only peace, intent, and the edge of a knife.

She had been angry last night, though. Angry when Ivan had told her about following you home from work. Not angry at Ivan, who had been apologetic about disobeying her orders to leave you alone. No, angry at the man who'd had the audacity to put his hands on you.

She'd sought him out that afternoon, found the run down, nearly-empty bar close to your own place of employment that he had been lurking outside of, hand braced on the brick wall as he took a piss in the alley.

Katya had barely broken her stride to lean down and pick up a mostly-empty bottle of Stoli that had been abandoned on the pavement, rearing back and shattering it over the drunk's head, sending him toppling to the ground with a choked-off scream.

She had used the toe of her Louboutin-clad foot to roll him onto his back as he groaned pathetically. She didn't stifle the victorious, satisfied grin that rose at the sight of the swollen-shut black eye Ivan had given him the night before.

"You think it's okay to put your hands on a woman?" Her voice was cold. She pulled the long switchblade out of her pocket and flicked it open. The blade was deadly sharp. Katya had seen it cut through limbs like butter before. She had chosen it specifically for this purpose, knowing whose blood she sought.

He moaned something unintelligible, and she dropped into a squat, balancing on the balls of her feet. "Well, you'll never make that mistake again, will you?"

She barely gave him time to scream before she was shoving a rag into his mouth, and her blade was dropping onto his wrist, severing each of his hands from his arms one by one. Blood sprayed up in an arc, and she got to her feet quickly, narrowly avoiding the arterial spray that threatened to stain her Dior suit.

Katya wiped a speck of blood from her cheekbone, using his pant leg to clean her blade before she flipped it close and tucked it back into her pocket. She turned on her heel and walked off. He'd bleed out in minutes, if he was lucky.

It was satisfying, the anger. It gave her something to focus on, something to hone in on, to feel that anger fuel the righteous fury of the Reaper as she became one with that mask once more.

But not tonight. Tonight she could not feel that anger, could not feel any emotion at all. Tonight was only death, and purpose.

She began to walk towards the warehouse, keeping to the shadows. Something wicked this way comes.