Helena's scream tore out of her throat like she was being murdered. "Aaaaaaaaah—! No! Dexter—!"
I casually slid my hand down and gave her plump, juicy ass a firm, loud slap—loud enough to echo.
"Stop screaming," I said, voice perfectly calm and almost bored. "Nothing happened. See? Not even a scratch."
Peter stumbled backward until his back slammed hard against the wall. The gun in his trembling hands shook so violently it looked like it might slip from his sweaty grip and clatter to the floor at any moment. His eyes were wide with pure, unfiltered madness, pupils dilated in terror as reality crumbled around him.
"No… What the fuck are you…?" he gasped, voice hoarse and breaking. "This isn't real… It can't be real… I shot you point-blank in the head and chest! The bullets… they just flattened like tin cans! What the hell are you?! Some kind of fucking monster?!"
