"Is there any way to choose who I want to target properly? What if they're a nice person?" Florence asked through the crack in the bathroom door, deciding to slip into her underwear separately. I was sitting on my bed, pulling up my stockings, stumped for a response. Of course, it seemed like a daunting task; killing a man wasn't all pleasure if you weren't used to it. The idea of taking a life might seem appealing to her now, and maybe it will be later, but for a while, she'll be up all night asking herself questions about him. "What about his family? His mother? How will she cope with the loss of a son?" These thoughts will wreak havoc on her mental state.

I hope she realizes how lucky she is to have me, someone who went through that stage quickly. It didn't start with the killing of my fiancé and his mistress; I wasn't naive enough to think anyone cared about them anymore. They had ruined their family's reputation, but I did leave a letter to their parents saying they had run away—amusingly, no questions were asked.

My first real killing of a stranger took a significant toll on me. At that point, I had no one to help me through it with encouragement. It was utterly devastating; I spent hours wondering about that man. Truth be told, he was homeless and had recently been kicked out by his wife after cheating on her throughout their fifteen-year marriage. He jumped at the chance to be in my bed, so taking his life was easy. The following month was not.

His name was Francis, and he had an odd aura about him; it was as though his soul was devastated, but his mind was not. He exuded confidence, getting in people's faces, yet couldn't quite stand tall enough to portray it properly. His eyes were dark, his hair shabby and long, and he had slight stubble as if he hadn't shaved in a couple of weeks. His picture was all over the news—his ex-wife, though still legally married to him, cared enough to wonder about his whereabouts. His mother and father pleaded for his safe return home, offering full apologies for abandoning him.

Alas, my guilt shrank, and so did my humanity, as the news reports became less frequent. By the time the final report aired, my guilt had vanished entirely.

"You just have to remember that no one is as good as they seem, sweetheart," I whispered harshly into Florence's ear as I tightened a belt around her waist. Realizing it wouldn't do, I glanced toward the closet on my left. We had moved in front of a full-length mirror. I decided to let her borrow something of mine instead of spending hours finding something suitably enticing in her closet. Luke and I had chosen a tight black mini-dress for her, deciding that a safe choice was better for her first hunt.

Luke was sitting in the corner of the room, flipping through a newspaper, looking either frustrated or bored—perhaps both, judging by his reflection in the mirror. He caught my eye and gave me a comforting look, sensing how on edge I was about this entire experience.

"You can always change your mind after choosing a target," I reminded her. "If you think they'd get you caught, or if people would ask about them, you can always stop yourself." I had done it many times, deciding otherwise on a target. Sometimes, I'd be so interested in someone that I'd have to text Cleo or Luke to come and get me because I was too tempted to bring them home. I was frustratingly stubborn, even against my own willpower.

"I want to warn you, Florence," Luke said, standing up from the chair and stretching his arms. "With my first kill, I felt my whole being shake with guilt. You'll think, 'Did I just kill someone? Did I just pull someone out of existence?'" He exclaimed, walking closer to us while holding up a belt that would better suit the dress. "But trust me, what will follow will be something along the lines of, 'And I will do it again.' You'll just have to wait for that feeling of bloodlust."

I nodded in agreement. I had felt the same when I killed my fiancé and his mistress. Anger, guilt, and relief seemed to flood together. The bloodlust didn't come about until after them, after Francis, and after the initial month of grief. It terrified me because I couldn't trust myself around the people I loved. I had to go out every other day to find someone to slice into.

Back then, I didn't take them home and toy with them first. I would seduce them, and since the club I frequented was near a clearing surrounded by trees, more often than not, I'd coax them out there and get it over with quickly. Eventually, my bloodlust died down slightly as it became boring to end a life so swiftly.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," Florence said cautiously, stepping into the heels before her. I motioned for her to spin in front of the mirror. She looked down at her outfit, shuffling awkwardly in one spot. I could tell by her face that she was worried. The way she had been looking at me since I started getting us ready was a picture of fear. I knew she was nervous about disappointing me or messing up, but I had faith that she would handle tonight and pass it all with flying colours, just as I had. However, I felt the need to knock her out of the false sense of security she was building around herself. Overconfidence could lead to trouble.

"Don't be too sure of yourself, sweetheart. If Luke had trouble dealing with his emotions, so would you," I declared, linking our arms together and guiding her to the other side of the room. I picked up some lipstick and compared it to the dress. It needed to be red, of course, but also subtle enough that men wouldn't be turned off by it. Luke came up behind me and picked up a dark red.

"I'd choose this if I were her," he said. Luke trailed off, swinging his car keys on his finger, and I agreed with his choice of lipstick. I found it easy to trust Luke's opinion when it came to reds; he had seen enough of it watching the lips of women who scampered after him.

We both managed to get outside without her tripping in the new heels; deciding that Florence would ride with me while Luke would drive alone. Luke had a habit of staying in clubs far longer than I did. His needs were highly specific, so he took his time choosing a girl for the night.

We opted to go to a club we hadn't been to in a while, named 'Chaos', for fresher choices. We parked outside for ten minutes, giving Florence a chance to observe the men walking in so she could get a sense of her preferences. As of yet, she wasn't sure.

The area surrounding the club was as shady as it could be. There were always more dubious places, but the neighbouring buildings were run down, covered in graffiti, and inhabited by drug-addicted teenagers and sex-driven older men. I admit I had been inside a few and used these inhabitants to my advantage; drunk and drug-fueled people are easily manipulated. The neighbourhood seemed to house people the government didn't want to waste time on, which was unfortunate for them. The nearest buildings to the club also had scattered hookers in knee-high boots and tight dresses that exposed more than they covered. I had met a few; they were very charming when they weren't completely insane.

The club itself was busy. I hadn't been here in a long time and even then had only visited twice before. It was decorated with purple lighting and various decorative items. The floor was black tile with purple carpeting for walkways, matched by black leather seating dotted around the room with purple cushions. Candles were placed around to create a darker atmosphere, complemented by a single chandelier above the dance floor. It was a complete contrast to the world outside, which I think was the owner's intention. People travelled from cities to come to this club because it was eccentric yet high-value.

After spending the first five minutes with Florence on my arm, I let her off the leash and onto the club floor. I stood by the wall for twenty minutes, observing the men scattered around different areas. The night seemed quiet and serene for me. Of course, I kept an eye on Florence while studying the crowds. I had been silently teaching her for months, so it was no surprise she was taking to poaching well. She was dancing with a boy who had been staring at her all night, which was helpful because she chose him as her target the moment we walked through the door. As I had instructed, she flirted and drank with other men but gave lingering looks to him every so often. Eventually, he grew tired of waiting for a signal, bought them both drinks and led him to a booth alone.

Meanwhile, I scanned the room for something to occupy my time. Plenty of men fit my type, but my heart wasn't in the poaching tonight. I opted to sit at the bar, having a light conversation with the bartender. I desperately needed a drink, and part of me desperately needed to be loved, which I could tell might be a problem. The idea of using someone as a bed warmer for the night intrigued me—I wouldn't kill or toy with them, just a classic one-night stand.

Within the first few minutes inside the club, I spotted someone who wasn't quite my type for poaching. He seemed lonely, sitting in the corner of the room pondering over beers. It seemed to me that he'd be easy to talk to and easy to coax into my bed.

"See someone you like?" I heard a voice behind me and turned to see Luke running his fingers through his hair with one hand and holding a shot of alcohol in the other. I could imagine he'd been watching me for a while. I didn't often just sit at the bar; usually, I was perched on someone's lap, wearing them down and marking them as mine.

"Not for the reason you're thinking," I murmured. Luke often assumed that if I stared at a man long enough, I wanted to tear his throat out. Unfortunately for me, that wasn't the case tonight. He decided to sit on the barstool beside me, studying me for a few moments before clearing his throat and downing his shot. I locked my heels together behind the seat and leaned forward, stretching out a bit to ease the tension in my body.

"Finally playing the game of 'just sex' then?" he muttered, his voice almost drowned out by the surrounding noise. I gave a small smile, downed my drink, and signalled the bartender for a refill.

"I'm thinking about it," I grumbled, taking a sip of the cocktail the bartender had placed in front of me, "But if I did, they wouldn't be able to see who Florence takes home, so I would be leaving first, and you would be taking Florence and her toy back with you." It wasn't set in stone that I'd give in to my cravings, but warning Luke of my thoughts seemed like the best plan.

"Just do it, Angel. You need a break from it. Take a page out of your book—learn to enjoy the company of a man." He threw my previous words, which I'd mentioned with Diana, back in my face. I could tell it wasn't out of spite; he meant well, as did I the night before. It just seemed as though he could control me more than I appreciated. Of course, I'd never tried to control Luke like every other man. Luke had always been obedient, so I'd never needed to force anything upon him. Sometimes, I wondered if I let him have a strong voice to ensure I didn't do anything rash against him. My eyes lingered on him for a few moments before I realized that I could enjoy a man's company if I let him balance the power—though Luke was the only one I'd given that exception to.

"Didn't I already accomplish that with you?" I smiled, knowing it was true. He rolled his eyes but returned the smile. He knew it was true as well; he always had. I had sacrificed a lot for him, but he had managed to help me keep some of my morality in return. I appreciated him, and I'm sure my soul did too. He was one of the few reasons I didn't want to be caught, even though that feeling sometimes crept in. Occasionally, I felt I needed to be caught to restore my faith in humanity. Unfortunately for me, it hadn't happened yet.

"Let me rephrase. Learn to be in the company of a man you didn't previously love and wouldn't dare to touch," Luke chuckled, emphasizing the last part to make sure I understood. He was never completely sure I wouldn't kill him, and to be fair, neither was I. But he knew he could keep it from happening because I'd given him that power.

With that, he got up from the chair before I could reply or argue further. Truth be told, I felt I was dragging the conversation on to stop myself from approaching the man in the corner. Though, looking at him now, he did seem rather appealing. He was drumming his fingers on the table, glaring at the wall furthest from him.

After downing the drink I'd been sipping since Luke arrived, I signalled for another from the bartender and then walked over to the man in the corner. Alcohol seemed to be the only reason I was doing this, fueling the courage I needed. I had decided moments before that this would be a fun test of both my ability and my restraint.

"Not having fun?" I murmured as I arrived at his table. He looked up, waking from his daydream. My tone was calm, as it always was when I approached a man for the first time. Being controlling right away seemed to be a turnoff for most men.

"I'm not sure I was," he replied, motioning to the booth seat opposite him, and I moved into it. His words sounded empty, each one hollow as if he had to force them out of his mouth. Yet, his eyes drew me in; they were a beautiful shade of green, a rarity around here, a welcome change from the usual blue orbs. Despite brooding over a drink, he seemed rather well-built and attractive, with dark, styled hair indicating he put effort into his appearance. Trying to decipher why this man exuded such a lonely aura was a puzzle. His posture also betrayed more confidence than he felt; his shoulders were pushed back, and he locked eyes with me deeply.

"Was?" I smiled.

"You're a sight for any man, Miss," he responded, surprising me. For someone who seemed so empty, he had a fire in him.

"And you caught my attention very quickly—how lucky of you," I said, almost breaking my concentration as I fought the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. His eyes bore into me, tracing over my body while analyzing my gaze.

As our conversation unfolded, I learned that his name was Elliot, he was in his late twenties, and he worked as a mailman while pursuing a job to align with his university degree. He also revealed that he was recently divorced with no children. He confided in me about his ex-wife's betrayal, explaining how she had slept with his brother due to a lack of trust in their relationship. I scoffed internally. It was a realization I had long ago—that women could be just as despicable as men—but it seemed like a new concept to him. Despite his attempt to exude confidence, there was still a sense of naivety about him.

In comparison, I offered very little about my own life. I shared that my name was Angelina, my age was similar to his, and that I was self-employed. Surprisingly, he didn't seem to mind the gaps in my story; every detail I disclosed seemed to catch him off guard. It was a matter of tone; I could effortlessly transition from an exhaustive tone to a more suggestive one without much effort.

As I finished my drink, he caught me off guard with a question that usually fell within my grasp.

"Please forgive me if I'm too bold, but I wish to take you to bed," Elliot confessed, his words breaking the surface tension of our conversation. I looked up from my drink, initially appearing confused, but as I processed his proposition, a slight, almost cocky smile tugged at my lips. He had taken me the way I needed him to; he seemed like he would satisfy my desires.

"Forgive me if I am too bold, but I think I would like that," I murmured, trailing off and averting my gaze from his eyes back to the dance floor. A couple in the middle caught my attention, their bodies grinding against each other with a hunger akin to animals. It intrigued me; the idea of being so attached to someone that a dance could ignite such intense desire. Turning back to Elliot, I decided I wanted him as they did on the dance floor, whether he understood that or not. And because of that, I needed him in my comfort zone, in my territory. "On the condition, you accompany me to my bed instead."

He rose from his seat first, strutting up to the bar and settling our tab. I smiled to myself, adjusting my dress as I stood and approached him, pulling money from his wallet. Glancing back to where Florence was last, I saw her still there, now caressing his hand and gazing seductively into his eyes. She seemed to be taking things slow, a tactic I appreciated at this point. With more experience, she could have men wrapped around her finger in roughly five minutes, but for now, a slower approach was optimal.

We exited the club relatively quickly, but in my habitual disarray, I had forgotten where I'd tossed my car keys into my purse. Growing impatient, he leaned in for a kiss while I rummaged through my bag, his lips tracing down my neck. This man was a captivating distraction, his affection so unabashedly intense.

As his lips continued their exploration, my frustration mounted, and I reluctantly relinquished my search, passing him the purse and swapping roles. With practised efficiency, he soon located my keys and dangled them triumphantly in front of me. I barely had time to sigh in relief before he cupped my face in his hands and resumed kissing me. At that moment, I could only hope that we would make it home before anything beyond this blissful distraction occurred.