My Husband The Psychopath (BWWM)

The air crackled with a terror Nia had never known. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the large, isolated house. "911. What's your emergency?" the operator's voice had been a fragile lifeline, now severed.

The phone lay shattered on the cold, tiled floor of the bathroom, a casualty of her desperation. Her knees were drawn to her chest, trembling violently. Five feet five inches of petite frame, she was no match for his six-foot-two, muscular build. Not the Dylan she knew, at least. The man pounding on the door was Michael.

Twenty minutes. Twenty agonizing minutes had passed since she'd struck Dylan and locked herself in. Twenty minutes since she realized the true, horrifying extent of his Dissociative Identity Disorder. "I know you're in there, beautiful. Open the door so we can talk." His voice, though familiar, dripped with a chilling malice that twisted her stomach. It wasn't Dylan. It was the monster that lurked within him, the one who admitted to advising Dylan to kill all those people.

She scanned the bathroom, her eyes darting frantically for anything, any weapon. The doorknob jingled again, a low, ominous growl preceding it. "All you had to do was open the door like the good bitch that you are." The wood splintered with a deafening crack. He burst through, a hulking shadow against the dim light, blood marring his temple where she'd hit him.

And in his hand, a butcher knife, glinting malevolently.