Page 31 of Morsel

The two of them grunt, and Mona’s warm cunt grips me like a glove. In the distance, one of her sculptures catches my eye. It’s vastly different from her other pieces; it’s not abstract or broken pieces put together. It’s a very realistic marble bird with one of its wings nailed to the ground. It doesn’t belong with the rest of Mona’s pieces.

I don’t belong here either.

Especially not when Artemis is around.

What the fuck am I still doing here?

“You want us to go harder? Would you like that, baby?” Artemis asks. My scalp stings, and each knot of frustration ties tighter around my rib cage. Does he really have to ask every time they do something together? Where’s the seduction in that?

“Yes,” she croaks, as if she can hardly contain herself, as if she likes this haphazard attempt at dirty talk.

She turns over her shoulder and looks at me, her eyes glazed and dark, trying to tell me something without actually saying it.

Finally, I see it.

Mona is acting. Pretending she likes this constant negotiation. She’s faking it like she admires the ridiculous amount of authority he’s giving her.

I can’t let him insult her anymore.

I pull out, then get to my feet.

“Where are you going?” Artemis asks. “We were just getting started, right, baby?”

I storm back to the guest room and rip a bundle of rope out of my duffel bag. I need more though. I wander through the other rooms swiftly as I search for inspiration, for anything to bring this night to where it’s meant to be.

I skim over a room decorated with jarred rodent organs and bat skeletons. I stop on a piece of paper on the desk. Each line is scrawled in a different style, the strokes switching between black and red ink, and in the corner, there’s a bright red doodle of a skeleton holding an umbrella, like Mona was brainstorming her next project or taking notes while she was on the phone with someone. I read the writing.

Desiree Duncan

Desire, the survivor

Desire, the non-victim?

Face her FEARS

Did she misspell the name, or did it switch from Desiree to Desire on purpose?

“Another fake name,” I mutter. “Probably one of Artemis’s idiotic friends.”

With that thought, I exit and hastily plod over to the kitchen. A bowl of fruit lies on the counter. I snatch a red apple from the top.

In the backyard, I throw the bundle of rope at Artemis’s feet. He raises a brow.

“Tie her wrists together. Hold her taut,” I instruct.

Mona’s eyes widen in glee. “Kent, I?—”

I swiftly bend down and shove the apple in her mouth. “Meat doesn’t speak,” I say.

She stiffens, her nipples beading. I rub my dick and admire my stuffed pig, ready for a long, slow roast in the oven.

Artemis fiddles with the rope. My jaw ticks.

“What’s taking so long?” I bark. “Don’t tell me you’ve never tied up a woman before.”

He lifts a loose knot. It’s reminiscent of a soft pretzel. Annoyance and rage flame behind my ribs. He doesn’t deserve Mona. He doesn’t deserve the air he fucking breathes.

“Will this hold?” he asks.

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