Page 46 of Morsel

The jizz squirts into the rabbit’s warmth, the pleasure drifting from my body.

Blood stains my pants and my shoes, and fur sticks to the damp splotches. Anger trembles through me. I didn’t even kill the rabbit on purpose; I killed it by accident like a wimpy little bitch.

Even if she wants me to—even if I want to—I can’t kill Mona. I’ll go to jail, and in prison, if you eat another person, you will end up in solitary. I can’t eat my own flesh. Male meat is too tough.

Eventually, you’ll end up in jail, Mona’s imaginary voice taunts me. Or maybe you won’t. Her image reaches forward and puts her blood-soaked hand on mine. But there’s so much meat to hunt and eat before you get caught, right, love?

I drop the rabbit’s remains into the offal pit. Whatever this is with Mona, it’s too much. She’s gotten into my head and shown me that these games we’re playing aren’t enough.

I don’t give a fuck if she’s the wolf or the rabbit; I’m not going to prison for my sexual interests, and I’m definitely not going to prison for her.

There’s more to us than our primal instincts. Animals don’t think, but we are humans. We have brains that help us make complex decisions, and I know right from wrong. I can’t control Mona, but I can do the right thing. If we keep doing this, I’ll lose my mind and unintentionally hurt her, like the rabbit on the road.

And I refuse to accidentally kill her.

Chapter 17

A car hums, the tires rumbling over the dirt. I climb out of the offal pit and check the driveway.

Mona’s SUV.

My stomach sinks. I have to end this now, or something terrible will happen, and I refuse to let it happen to me.

Mona slinks out of the vehicle, then crosses her arms over her chest. “You haven’t answered my texts or calls,” she says.

I go around her to the front door. “Busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

I spin around and stare at her. There’s more than a foot of height difference between us, and yet her voice—her stupidly confident voice—echoes like she’s a million times bigger than me. A monstrous giant.

I know better though. I know who I am and what she is. Even if she’s taunting me, I have the power to do the right thing. I can end this.

“What happened to your pants?” she asks, her tone full of accusation. “Your hands?”

Rabbit fur and blood are caked on my palms, and my pants are drenched in red. This is going to start another argument, isn’t it? Son of a fucking bitch.

I head to the bathroom; she trails after me. “Nothing,” I say.

“Bullshit. That’s blood!” she snarks. “You hurt someone else, didn’t you?”

I snap around. “Are you jealous?” My laughter booms through the mobile home so loudly that Mona, the usually defiant little cunt, actually shrinks back. “You’re jealous of a blood stain when you made me watch Artemis bite your neck like you were a corn on the cob?” She rolls her eyes, and I face the faucet and wash my hands. “Who the fuck knows what else you do in your free time.”

She laughs.

Hollow tension rolls over my arms and neck. What’s so fucking funny?

“You’re right,” she says. “There’s nothing about love or respect between us, is there? You signed a contract; nothing more.” She places a hand on her hip, then addresses me through the bathroom mirror. “Though you should keep in mind that our contract requires you to answer my phone calls and texts for the duration of your participation. We have an agreement, Kent. You can’t just walk away from this.”

A destructive fire simmers inside of me as I stare at her reflection in the mirror. Dust flecks the glass, the edges stained with brown rust.

Ever since I first responded to Mona’s personal ad, she’s been telling me what to do.

I’m sick of it.

“Fuck the contract,” I say.

“I’ll call a lawyer.”

---