Page 10 of Body Tox

In the photo, she was barely in a string. It was white, a soft, satiny-looking material. Something that was both vintage and see-through. The bitch looked breathtaking, and that made me even more irritated. I stroked myself harder. The moans and her image were the anchor I used to abuse my cock.

I was so close that I started flipping from photo to photo. Her image changed over and over. She was against the wall in one, bent over, glistening wet in another, and then biting her lip, her long white hair covering her peaked nipples. Image after imagemade me feverish. The beauty of this woman did something unexplainable to me.

The collage of images continued, the tip of my dick throbbing, ready to explode, but then the screen showed me a photo I wasn’t expecting at all.

The cruel and wickedly beautiful woman, the tantalizing Little Wraith, was on a video. The image was shaky, blurred, and hard to make out, but it became clear as the images shifted and continued playing.

It was a dimly lit street, with a flickering street lamp in the background. A figure close up was crying, binds wrapped around their torso and lying on the dirty cement. My target slides a golden blade out of her dress pocket. The POV was set up adjacent to the scene on a wall or fixture off-screen.

The phone dropped to the wet cement. It now sat slightly crooked in a groove of the street, rain pouring down and blurring the images more.

My target walked over to the shaking form, bringing the weapon up, the gold glint reflecting off the flash of the video’s light. With one tilt of her head and that dangerous signature smile plastered on her face like a sadistic, beautiful clown, she slid the blade over the body on the ground. The tantalizing river of crimson melded with the rainwater, catching the cracks in the pavement and spidering forward until completely consuming the image in red.

Spoken words popped up through the speakers next. The eerie tone of the woman in front of me sounded free somehow when she said, “Blood for blood.”

Ididn’t remember when I woke up, but when I did, Cali had already left—that was okay. My best friend—low-key girlfriend, and I had a mutual agreement that worked well enough for both of us. We fucked when we wanted to, but no one owned the other.

I stretched out on my mattress, and my body felt nice and used.

Slinging my feet off the bed, I sauntered over to the vanity, my jewelry box perched so beautifully waiting for me. I grabbed the mask, the material, and all my trophies collected over the years and got to work, finishing the last row of stitches for the newest addition.

When I completed the knot to bind the thread, I shot a text to Cali, making sure she got home all right. I didn’t know what time it was, but I always felt sleepy after a nice ‘sexorcism.’ aka sex-exorcism.

My phone pinged from Cali’s reply. Usually, she was a hell of a lot more flowery with her words, but tonight, her response was a simple ‘Yep.’ I frowned, irritated at how simple the text was. It was her way of saying, ‘Fuck you.’ I’d fucked her so well, so I didn’t know why she was acting pissy.

Something felt off, so I sent her another message.

Me: Hey, is Didi keeping you warm, Cali babe?

Didi was the stuffed bear Cali would never admit was still on her bed. It took a few minutes for another message to come through.

Cali: Yep.

I threw my phone, irritated about being blown off.

Fine. If she wanted to ignore me, I would focus on something else. Her dad was probably on her ass about getting the job at the clinic. Lately, that was why Cali was wound so tight and not in a fun way.

I pushed myself off the bed and walked over to the kiln, grabbing the clay on the table and sitting at my personalized pottery station.

Searching for some inspiration, a mirage of images flitted through my head and landed on the annoying ass man at Palazzo’s. His beauty was dark and inviting. His outfit was exactly what I’d expect from someone with that type of alluring danger.

There was something about him that I couldn’t shake from my head—a mystery—an invitation that beckoned me to explore the darkness in his eyes and calculating smile.

“Fuck you, asshole,” I said to the intricate design I was molding under my hands, capturing that mystery in the man’s eyes with the twists and binds.

I imagined the asshole underneath me, sliding his fingers along my body the way mine did to create my art. He’d handled that iris flower with an intricate, subtlety—gentle yet concealed dominance hidden within those tattooed fingers.

Would he touch me like that flower?

Why did I want him to?

I finished the design, staring at the vase with anger. Every twist and loop of the clay made me feel anger…and intrigue.

Rolling my eyes, I washed up my hands and placed the artwork in the kiln to dry.

I needed to kill. I was too on edge, and nearly drowning that mermaid just made the itch even more intense.

I slid open the hidden compartment of my jewelry box and lifted my dagger free.

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