Page 33 of Snatched By the Sandman

Her feminine wrath makes me so fucking hard.

I chuckle darkly and deadpan with her, my eyes dark and unfeeling. “You need someone with control issues to command you. You are mortal. I am a God,” I remind her while descending toward that desolate burial ground, whipping my wings, forcing the wind to part for me. “You are my slave and my queen. And you love my dominance. You love how I can shatter you and put you back together. You love it when I cut you open, little girl, and bleed your insides before I stitch you back together. You love when I fuck you so hard, I shake your bones and your spirit. You laugh through it all, curse through it all, and silently scream ‘do your worst’. I will, Zenya.”

As if understanding the gravity of my words, she goes still while I land upon the earth, her gown catching on the thorns.

I lift my broken fingers to her face. She’s frozen, lost in my gaze, trembling so sweetly. “When I shatter you, my little killer, it reminds you of who you truly are. Someone sees you—all the damaged, broken, and fucking exquisite parts of you. Someone who knows how alive you are in the darkness. How at home you are with the demons.

“Breaking you, Zenya…” I brush my bent finger bones across her cheeks, touching her tears before licking their tragic, sexual essence off her skin. “…is an expression of how much I need toruin you and consume you. You know in your innermost being that when I break you, I won’t fuck it up like you have all your life.”

Shaking off my fingers, she steps toward me, burning those beautiful aquamarine eyes right through mine and parting her lips to say, “Fuck. You.”

I open my jaw slightly. She may not be able to see the devilish smirk, but she feels it. Down to her bones. “Oh, you will, sweet dreamer. I desire your defiance. It makes the discipline so much…sweeter. Now, are you going to bend over like a good girl, lift up your skirts, and present your pretty ass to me?”

“Maybe you have hearing issues.” She sticks her pert nose in the air. “So, I will repeat. Fuck. You.”

I lower my skull, leaning closer to whisper in her ear. “I will enjoy your cries tonight. But they will not be the only ones.”

Without another word, I turn her to face the landscape of dead roses and release one soft breath of a silent command. As hundreds of corpses rise from beneath the black earth, shaking their selves of rot and bones from the soil, I savor Zenya’s eyes grow wider and wider.

The instant she tries to run, I seize my sweet, strange girl and rip the gown off her beautiful tattooed form before forcing her to the ground. Face first. Thorns slice through her flesh. Through all her screaming, I command the vines to root her in place.

Then, I take her pretty little fingers—and snap them one by one.

Chapter 12

“I am nothing but a corpse who loves you…”

ZENYA

“All Around me” by Flyleaf

“Haunted” by Evanescence

“Beauty From Pain” by Superchick

At first, the pain is extreme, but then it fades to a phantom-like sensation.

In some morbid part of my psyche, I admire him. After all, he’s just following the Golden Rule, considering I broke his bones first.

Nyxion knows how much I enjoyed it. The violence. I get one little taste—then I’m opening the scars inside me, feeling the handle of a blade in my strong grip just likeheshowed me, and twisting it into flesh. Blood pooled into my sandbox. I grew wildflowers in the same soil where the corpses were buried.

Now, they are rising all around me.

I’m spitting and thrashing, but the vines are like damn chains that bite my flesh with their thorns. One binds around my mouth, slicing through my lips, but my cries still echo from my throat.

Heat roars in my blood and fills my pussy. I feel myself gushing already.

Spine locking up, I freeze, the blood congealing in my veins. Because Nyxion is brushing something hard and unyielding but still soft and smooth. Cool to the touch. Oh, hell, I know what it is.

“Did you know the femur is the strongest bone in the body?” he purrs, tracing the edge of the bone along my spine until he arrives at my ass. “And the longest?”

“Mmm,” I moan through the vines, flick my hair from my eyes, and my mind howls from the corpses staggering and crawling toward me.

Part of me tries to rationalize. I shouldn’t get off on this, especially not the violence done to me instead of by me. Maybe it’s some twisted sort of punishment, a penance. But that’s not right.

I’ve never forgiven myself. Because there’s nothing to forgive.

Not when the blade was forced into my hand. Not when the shovel came next. Not when I planted wildflowers in the dirt and played with the smaller bones in my sandbox—because, in my child’s mind, I didn’t want them to be lonely.

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