Seventeen times. Seventeen.
She pulled the knife out of Steven’s chest. It made a wet sucking sound. The blood, already thick and sticky in the heat, dripped from the dull blade.
She put the knife down.
Took a deep breath. And another.
Sitting back on her haunches she considered his naked body. Another fine specimen. Dark. Toned. The curvature of well defined muscles on his arms and legs. His groin. His chest was a bit of a mess, admittedly, but she could still see the dark curls that covered his pecs matted in the blood.
She stood. Stretched. Walked over to the fridge, trailing bloody but shapely footprints. Opened the door and looked inside. Bathed in blue light, she reached for the milk and drank greedily, directly from the bottle.
Returning the bottle, now marked with a darkening red hand, she closed the door, looked at her watch and was surprised at how little time had passed. If she hurried, she could still make the theatre.