Page 27 of Unholy

I let a hiss out as my pelvis flexes, and my muscles tighten, causing my dick to move. The spikes nip it, stinging me as a quick sharp pain moves around me.

Once satisfied, her hands lift and grip my balls.

“Please, not my balls, Ms. Vandenberg,” I plead. I don’t think I can handle them being spiked like my cock. I’d cry on my knees, begging if it kept my balls safe.

“This is for touching yourself without permission. You will keep it on for the remainder of the day. Do you understand?”

My response is immediate—anything to protect my balls. “Yes, Ms. Vandenberg.”

Leaning forward, her top hangs and skims my bare chest. Her lips are just inches from mine. I need to taste them, to taste her. Both sets.

Her scent is sweet, addictive, and torture.

Licking her lips, her tongue teases me, moving slowly. She then whispers, “Now, get up. Greta should be here shortly.”

“Yes, Ms. Vandenberg.”

Rylee's hand reaches up, gripping my chin as her thumb rubs along my manicured facial hair. My cock throbs, and the spikes pinch me yet again. Not wanting to seem like a pussy, I keep the pain hidden. But it’s oddly satisfying.

The trust you have to have with one another in this situation has to be strong, and for two people who have barely spoken to each other, this is remarkable and intimate.

She has mentioned she could kill me at any moment. And she could. But I would fucking let her if it made her happy.

She is one of three people who can see right through me. But this is deeper than with the others. I wonder if she feels it.

Getting up, her scent leaves me first, then her touch. My hooded eyes watch as she leaves, closing the door behind her.

And this is the exact moment I realize, and she knows it too. It would be impossible not to because I have no game face when it comes to her. No strategy. No racing thoughts or game play.

What is this woman doing to me?

12

RYLEE

Greta sits on the brown leather chair across from me. Nathaniel is sat wide-legged on his desk chair, the spiked cock ring making it impossible for him to cross his legs.

Her glittered walker rests before her, and shockingly, a lit cigarette isn’t hanging between her lips.

“Shall we get to it then?” Nathaniel breaks the silence.

I’m sat back, legs tucked under me, as I wait in suspense. I feel like a little kid about to be told off by her parents as silence refills the space.

Greta takes a couple more deep breaths in. I’ve never seen her like this before, shook.

Nothing rattles her, and it turns my suspense into worry and fear.

“It’s not safe for you at home. You can’t come back.”

I jump forward. This isn’t about to happen. “I’m absolutely not staying here, if that’s where you’re going with this.”

She holds her hand up to me. “Let me finish, dammit.”

Her tone catches me off guard. Greta has told me off plenty, but this time hits differently. Unease further creeps up my body.

My grandmother leans forward, gathering a cigarette and lighter from her bag. “You need to listen when I speak. Don’t interrupt me,” she commands, lighting her cig and then leaning back.

A cloud of smoke fills the room as she exhales. “The King is dead. Dalton, that little shit, took advantage of Hell Fire Night. We have evidence that Brad was beheaded and was turned into an ornament at the end of his estate driveway.

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