Page 20 of His to Slash

I saw the evidence of his need pressing against the fabric of his jeans, and it sent a jolt of fear mixed with an undeniable thrill coursing through me. My instincts screamed at me to run, to escape the overwhelming intensity of his hunger despite the knowledge that I knew better. So I did. I turned and bolted, my heart pounding in my chest as adrenaline surged through my veins.

But Grayson was always faster. He caught me effortlessly, his arm like a band of iron around my waist. Before I knew it, I was bent over the arm of the couch, my breasts pressed against the cold leather, my back arching as he positioned himself behind me.

He entered me with one sure, powerful thrust, and I felt myself stretched and filled to the brink. There was no tenderness in his movements, only raw, primal need. He was brutal and relentless, each stroke of his cock igniting a fire within me that I couldn't control.

I clawed at the cushions, trying to pull myself away from him, but it was futile. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them against my back, holding me in place as he continued to fuck me with a savagery that should have terrified me. And it did, but it also ignited a part of me that I had never known existed that longed for him to fuck me harder and faster. It wanted him to make me hurt.

"Please, don't come inside me," I begged, my voice desperate and pleading. But even as the words left my lips, I could feel the tension building inside me, a tide of pleasure that was rising higher and higher with each passing moment.

And then it happened. I came far too quickly, my body convulsing around his as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over me. The sensation was so intense, so overwhelming, that I gushed, coating his cock with my wetness. It triggered his own release, and I felt him pulse inside me, his hot seed filling me as he continued to thrust with a relentlessness that bordered on madness.

As the aftershocks of my orgasm rippled through me, a thought flickered through my mind, hazy and indistinct.

Is it really so horrible to have Grayson's child?

The idea took root, and I found myself unable to come up with a single reason why it would be a bad thing. At that moment, with my body still quivering from the force of my orgasm, it seemed almost... right.

I stopped fighting him. Instead, I relaxed into his embrace, my hips moving in time with his as I pushed back against his cock. The pain in my pelvis was still there, but it was overshadowed by the pleasure that coursed through me with each powerful stroke.

Grayson shifted slightly, and his jeans now rubbed harshly against my sensitive clit, the friction driving me wild with desire. I could feel another orgasm building within me just as fast as the first but stronger, and more intense. And as I came, my body clenching around his, I surrendered myself to the darkness that was Grayson Hale.

There was no more fear, no uncertainty, only the raw, animalistic bond that existed between us. It was exhilarating, a dance with the devil that left me both breathless and utterly consumed.

And as Grayson finally stilled behind me, his cum filling me once more and his body slick with sweat with his breath coming in ragged gasps, I knew that there was no going back. I was his, completely and irrevocably. The thought should have scared me, but all I felt was a sense of rightness, a connection that went beyond the physical and into the very depths of my soul.

Grayson pulled out of me slowly, and I felt the loss of him immediately. But he didn't leave me alone. Instead, he lifted me into his arms and carried me to the bedroom, his movements surprisingly gentle.

He laid me down on the bed and stretched out beside me, his hand coming to rest possessively on my still-flat abdomen. And in the silence of the night, with the man I both loved and feared holding me close, I finally allowed myself to embrace the twisted destiny that awaited us both.

twenty

As I steppedoutside the next morning, my heart froze. There, nailed to the ancient oak tree in my backyard, was a mutilated rabbit. Its fur was matted with blood, and its eyes—gouged out, leaving only empty sockets. Carved into its tiny flank was the word "weak." It was a message, clear and grotesque, meant to taunt and provoke.

A surge of anger coursed through me, quickly replacing the initial shock. I felt my cheeks flush, and my hands curled into fists at my sides. I knew, without a doubt, that this was the work of the Hollowed Man. It was a challenge, a sick game designed to test my limits and push me further into the darkness that was slowly consuming me.

I took a steadying breath, trying to calm the furious beating of my heart. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble. Instead, I would face this head-on, show him that I was strong, that I wouldn't back down.

With determination fueling my every step, I ventured into the woods behind my house. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I searched for clues, my eyes scanning the forest floor for any signs of disturbance. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the silence was oppressive.

And then I saw it. A smear of blood on the bark of a tree, leading me further down the twisted path. I followed the macabre trail, my heart pounding in my chest. The killer was taunting me, leaving a grisly breadcrumb trail for me to follow.

I quickened my pace, my eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of movement. The forest seemed to close in around me, the trees like silent sentinels, watching my every move. My breath caught in my throat as I spotted a fragment of fabric caught on a branch, the same material as the clothes I had seen on the killer. He was close, I realized, and the thought sent a shiver down my spine.

I continued to track the killer, my heart racing as the clues became more abundant. Bloody handprints on tree trunks, drag marks in the dirt, and, finally, a distinct set of footprints leading to a small, decrepit shack, hidden deep within the forest.

The shack was surrounded by shadows, and an eerie stillness hung in the air. I approached cautiously, my hand hovering over the rusted doorknob. As I pushed the door open, it creaked loudly, the sound echoing in the silent woods.

The interior of the shack was dark and musty, the only light coming through the cracks in the walls and the small, dirt-spotted window. I stepped inside, my eyes adjusting to the dimness, and I saw it—a tableau of horror.

Suspended from the ceiling, hanging by their feet, were three bodies. Their faces were covered with hoods, but I could see the dried blood caked on their arms and chests. They had been slashed, over and over, their bodies little more than canvases for the killer's demented art.

I recognized them. They were in the diner the first day I explored the town. Was it just a coincidence, or was he watching me even back then? The realization hit me like a physical blow, and my knees buckled beneath me. These were innocent people, lives cruelly cut short by this sick game.

I stood there, frozen, as the realization of what I was seeing sank in. The killer had hung them like trophies, a twisted display of their handiwork. Anger mingled with fear as I took in the horror of the scene. These people had been alive just hours ago, going about their day, unaware of the dark fate that awaited them.

My heart pounded in my chest as I scanned the shack for any signs of the killer. The air was heavy with the coppery scent of blood, and the silence was broken only by the soft creak of the hanging bodies. I knew they were dead, but my gaze searched for any hint of movement, any sign that I wasn't too late.

As I stepped further into the shack, my foot kicked something on the floor. I looked down and saw a small, charred symbol drawn on the wooden planks. It was familiar, and as I realized what it was, my blood ran cold.

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