It doesn’t matter how much I tell myself that he wasn’t a good guy—that he’d drugged me and would have done whatever he wanted against my will. I still feel guilty about it to this day. And I felt guilty every single time I lost control as I tried to figure out my curse. I worked at a sex shop, in a peep show booth, siphoning lust off the customers to keep myself alive. When that wasn’t enough, I would purposely put myself in the sights of very bad men. I was still taking lives, but at least they weren’t so innocent.

Eventually, I got caught, but rather than going to prison or worse, I was offered a job. I’ve been with the Mendax Corporation for about three years now, and it’s easily the best thing to ever happen to me. I have the opportunity to prove to myself and the world that I’m not evil—I can use my curse for good as part of Earth’s anti-dark magic coalition. They gave me a place to live, food and clothes, training, and a purpose.

Oh, and therapy. So I can work through my self-loathing and whatnot.

I’m not panicking anymore, thanks to those few tricks my therapist taught me. But the self-loathing is still there. Especially now that I’m realizing I just walked away from the only man to ever live through my curse. Ran away, more like. From a tall, sexy, chiseled, delicious man who made me see stars. And lived through it. UGH.

Part of me is scared to go back downstairs and check the bathroom, afraid he might have just had a delayed reaction and I’ll have to stare at the ashes of an innocent man. Another part of me—the sexually frustrated, pathetically lonely part—is intrigued and curious, and thinks that maybe I shouldn’t have panicked and ran away so fast.

I use the half bath to clean myself up as best I can, finding a faded flannel shirt in the closet. It smells like weed and stale dirt, but it’s the only option I have to cover up my exposed boobs and all the blood. I spray it down with apple-cinnamon bathroom spray and tie it off at the waist. It almost passes for cute over my short black linen dress and combat-style boots. It’ll have to do.

Cautiously, I head back down the stairs and into the back hallway where the bathrooms are. I knock before peeking into the men’s room, slipping inside. My heart beats frantically as I slowly approach the stall, pushing in the door a little too forcefully. It bangs loudly against the side.