Page 72 of When Death Whispers

But I can’t.

Rad’s touch is still imprinted on my skin—the claw marks on my hips and breast, the bruises already forming, the soreness that lingers deep inside me.

And my body still remembers.

My thighs clench without permission. A choked sound escapes me—somewhere between a growl and a sob. My body doesn’t seem to care that I shouldn’t want this. That I should be ashamed, afraid, horrified. It only knows that it craves what it shouldn’t.

Like a moth drawn to flames despite knowing it’ll burn.

I slap my palm against the tile, trying to ground myself, trying to remember who I am under all this. But I don’t know anymore.

All I know is that I wanted it. I begged for it.

And now Hudson is gone.

I bow my head and let the water scald the back of my neck. Let it sear away the pieces of me I can’t stand to keep.

And then?—

A shift.

That unmistakable, crawling sense of dread, of being watched. A prickle of awareness skates down my spine.

My breath catches.

The shadows are moving. Stretching slowly from the corners of the shower—curling along the grout lines like ink bleeding through water. They slither toward me with patient, terrifying precision.

Shit.

In my anger, in my haste to get away from Hudson, I forgot to turn on more lights. The single fixture overhead isn’t enough to push the darkness back completely. I usually have extra light bars, push lightseverywhereto keep this from happening.

I spin, reaching for the nearest one—but shadows coil tight around my ankles, locking me in place.

My heart hammers in my chest.

I’m so fucked.

They move faster now, climbing. Tendrils slide up my calves, wrapping around my thighs—slow and unrelenting.

And then higher.

Higher.

They don’t explore like they did the first time. They remember. They trace the path Rad’s claws took in the dream that wasn’t a dream—up my sides, over the curve of my hips, brushing beneath my breasts like they’re mapping his memory into my skin.

Like they’re erasing the feel of him just to put it back again, but colder.

Sharper.

My breath shudders.

They twist around my ribs, curling over bruises, wrapping me in phantom caresses—and then they dive straight between my legs.

A choked, strangled cry rips out of me.

There’s no hesitation. No build-up. No teasing. Just purepossession.

One tendril slams into me with ruthless precision, another circling my clit with rhythmic pulses, cruel and merciless.

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