Page 36 of Monstrous Grave

“Put down the gun,” he calmly says, yet there’s nothing in his voice to indicate that he’s the least bit threatened about this.

But of course, he’s the notorious biker, the current leader of the García cartel, who’s ruthless. He isn’t the same as then, but he’s still a liar who went on his merry little way and left me to die at the hands of our foster parents when they couldn’t stand me anymore.

I don’t drop the gun, causing his gorgeous brown eyes to narrow into two slits.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” I whisper, desperately trying to keep my voice steady, but it’s all too fucking much.

How many times have I stood by these cliffs, screaming out my agony, crying and raging from betrayal and longing?

“You lied to me,” I say, rage making my voice tremble. “You said you’d never hurt me.”

A laugh tears from my throat, realizing how pathetic I was growing up—putting my entire heart in his hands to hold and protect.

Anger seeps through his soul, staining his skin with an ominous hue, like ink spilled upon a pristine canvas. This is it, I think. This is the true him, the one who wouldn’t allow anyone to threaten him or his position. The foster brother who’d laugh as I hurt myself, yet made me feel safe during thunderstorms. Each breath he takes seems to smolder with wrath. His eyes hold a lethal glint as he stares at my gun expectantly, wanting me to drop it.

The distant roar of waves echoes from behind, blending with the haunting whistles of wind through the trees. Something appears to consume his mind until his gaze flickers on the fallen phone, its screen dimming until going dark. It was enough for him to see the person I’d attempted to call. A ferocious tide crashes against the shores of his composure.

“Do you have any idea who they are? They’re monsters!” he shouts, voice raw with emotions.

His words don’t make sense because he’s the one working with my found family. Anger consumes me as I shout at him, thrusting the gun’s barrel into his chest. “They’re not monsters, you are! You abandoned me. You. Left. Me.”

I’m torn apart just by the sight of Kaiden—Viper—making me want to forget this ever happened.

This can’t be real. Soon, I’ll wake up, safe in my bed, and this erotic nightmare will be over.

But as I open my eyes again, he’s still there, a painful reminder of all I’ve lost.

I step back, still aiming the gun at him. “You’re supposed to be fucking dead!”

He flinches, and something unknown passes his face while he waits for my next move. With resolve, I erase all emotions from my expression, focusing solely on the target before me.

This is the only way because I’m still not certain that this isn’t a dream. Taking a deep breath, I focus, my finger on the trigger. I have to rid myself of the devil who’s haunted me for five agonizing years. There’s no way out other than death.

My finger pushes against the trigger, but I fail to comprehend his swiftness as his body abruptly presses me against a tree, expelling the air from my lungs. The shot goes off, reverberating through the trees as it hits a trunk farther away, missing my intended target.

The power in his muscles is evident as he rips off his mask. He’s fucking stunning in a way that steals my breath away yet fills me with regret for laying my eyes on him. Beautiful in a way that conjures memories of our past together, remembering all our shared moments.

He’s fuming, quickly disarming me before pressing the gun against me. “You’re mine,” he snarls.

Stunned, I watch as he lowers his hand to my shorts, dragging them down my knees. “Not a day has passed where I haven’t yearned to be with you. To possess you. I never let you go, not for a moment in all these years.” His words are dangerously low.

As if oblivious to my disdain, he shoves my panties aside, slipping a finger inside me. I scream out in a tumult of surprise, pleasure, and hatred.

“I love the way you scream,” he taunts, adding another finger.

“I should kill you,” I grit out, but he only chuckles, his hair in disarray.

“Too bad I have the gun, then. Lucky for me.” His lips stretch into a cruel smirk, dragging the weapon toward my mouth. With the barrel pressed against my lips, his next words freeze me in place.

“Suck on the gun like the good girl I know you are.”

I’m about to protest, but he inserts the muzzle into my mouth, fear rendering me motionless.

I don’t recognize this man anymore.

His other hand finds my clit, rubbing it as he demands I hollow my cheeks around the weapon, pushing it deeper until it hits the back of my throat. Despite my revulsion, an undeniable arousal takes hold. I reluctantly suck on the gun—he leaves me no choice—and watch his cock press against his pants. The outline of it makes me salivate.

He pulls out the gun, touching my clit with it. Every instinct screams at me to stop him, terrified as I am. But deep down, I know I don’t want him to stop. If this is a fucked-up dream where I can have him again in any way, I want to savor the moment because this fantasy will vanish when I wake up.

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