Killer's Kiss

Chapter one

Seventeen years later

Crimson trickled down her wrist, a serpentine stream against her pale skin. The woman gripped the blood-stained knife with white-knuckled intensity, savoring the sharp, metallic scent that filled the air. A twisted smile curled her lips as she watched the light gradually drain from her victim's eyes, leaving them vacant and hollow.

She had been methodical in her cruelty, taking sadistic pleasure in prolonging his suffering. She struck with precision, targeting spots that maximized his agony without granting the mercy of a quick death. The blade found its mark in his stomach—a deep wound, ensuring he bled out slowly. Each drop fed her insatiable hunger for bloodshed until her dark desires were quenched.

Averting her eyes from the corpse, she sighed. She hated what came next: disposing of the body and finding a suitable burial spot. It was her least favorite part of the process, a tedious necessity after the thrill of the kill. Most would consider the stabbing the most gruesome act, but for the serial killer, that was her paradise.

This marked her tenth year of killing. To her, it was a "hobby for the greater good." She believed she only killed those who deserved it—murderers, rapists... though sometimes an innocent life was taken, "if she was in the mood." This particular victim was a rapist. A friend had hacked into his system after she caught him touching a minor inappropriately. As it turned out, this wasn't his first offense. His computer was loaded with illegal content, including footage of unspeakable acts involving children. Disgusting.

She allowed herself one last moment to marvel at the lifeless body before beginning the disposal. Hours of digging a grave in the middle of a remote forest left her exhausted. Afterward, she meticulously cleaned the blood from his garage. The ten stab wounds she'd inflicted formed the shape of a diamond—her grim way of celebrating her tenth anniversary as a killer.

Lisa Manoban was a psychopath. That much she accepted. It wasn't a label she loathed; it was simply the truth. From childhood, she had been captivated by murder documentaries—not to see the killers get caught, but to revel in their creative methods of murder. Planning the next massacre with patience and precision fascinated her. She had never voiced these thoughts aloud, but she'd always aspired to be like them. Even now, she saw her twisted desires as something rare and special.

Now, she was an active force of evil who had never been caught. Lisa wasn't religious, but she believed some higher power was protecting her, ensuring she remained free.

''Dara!'' Lisa screamed into her phone, her frustration palpable. ''I thought I told you I was in need of new equipment right this second.''

''Girl,'' her assistant groaned, chewing gum audibly. ''It's not that important. Aren't you, like, in need of a vacation or something?''

Lisa took a deep breath, her jaw clenching painfully. She rarely let emotions get the better of her, maintaining a calm, composed demeanor. But Dara was testing her patience daily, and Lisa was growing tired of it.

''Are you asking me to get you fired?'' Lisa whispered, her tone icy as she leaned against her kitchen counter.

''You're not my boss, Lis,'' Dara retorted, her fiery temper matching her short stature of 4'11.

''Hm,'' Lisa mused, a sly smile spreading across her lips. ''Shall I tell your boss about your pretty little secret, hon'?''

Silence followed.

''You wouldn't dare...'' Dara trailed off, her voice suddenly cautious. After a moment, she muttered, ''Ugh, fine. You owe me, Lisa, alright?''

''Don't call me by my name.'' Lisa's voice was stern, a warning in itself. ''And I don't owe you shit.''