Page 46 of Under Fyre

Click.

She starts struggling, her knees lifting no more than an inch off the bed.

I take a few more shots, some with my knife against her slim throat, others with my hand around her neck.

Then I leave her to her frantic sobs and go to check the camera. When I see the images on the preview screen, my insides go cold.

It looks real.

It lookshorrifying.

And, sick fuck that I am, I realize it’ll look so much better in video.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Charlotte

At first, I was terrified. It was as if Fyre had reverted to the psycho who’d broken into my apartment, pinned me against the wall, and assaulted me at knifepoint.

There is pain. When he yanks at my hair, my scalp burns. When I struggle too hard, the ropes bite into my flesh. When he grabs me, his fingers bruise.

But this time, his knife never draws blood.

This time, my body doesn’t view his rough attentions as a physical assault. For some reason, this is making mewet.

Fyre stands, shoulders hunched, the mask propped up on his dark, unruly hair as he goes through the photos he took. The thought of him looking at those photos, of how exposed I am, even with my underwear on, starts a low heat building in my belly.

This has nothing to do with Peter, or my therapy. He made that clear.

Uneasy thoughts flirt with my mind.

Does that mean he’s creating keepsakes for himself? He said something about our time running out…what does that mean?

Maybe he’s lost interest in me. Maybe he brought me here to dispose of me. Maybe—

Fyre looks up, and when his dark eyes lock onto mine, a thrill rushes through my body. He reaches down and grabs his cock through his jeans, giving it a hard squeeze as I watch.

I don’t know why the fuck that makes me squirm, why my pussy starts tingling.

It can’t just be because he’s good-looking. I mean, fuck, he’s a God among men…but I can’t be that shallow. Letting him do whatever the fuck he wants just because he’s handsome?

He sets the camera back on the tripod, fiddles with it for a few seconds, and then presses a button.

A red light comes on.

But it doesn’t just flash, like when he was taking photos.

It stays a solid red, like the devil’s eye.

Fyre strips off his jacket, his shirt, his jeans. He’s standing off camera, close to the fire, and the glow cast by the embers paints his skin a warm orange.

He slips his mask over his face, and a shiver races through me.

I don’t know what his options were wherever he bought it, but did he have to choose a wolf? It’s plastic—so fake—but it’s the comic grin that gets me. The pink tongue lolling out between razor-sharp teeth.

The bedposts rattle when I yank at the ropes.

Fyre steps out of his briefs, exposing his hard, thick cock, monstrous in the light of the dying fire.

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