Page 9 of The Road to Ruined

I can't help it; I click on that last one. It opens a set of photos—nudes—of a woman. Blood drips from her mouth and down her chin as she licks it from a knife. It sets off more than one visceral reaction. My nipples harden, and I feel that pulse between my legs as warm heat begins to pool at my center.

And my mouth waters.

"Nope," I say, closing the lid on the laptop and springing from my chair. "Can't do it. Can't do the blood thing." I shake out my hands, exhaling slowly, taking deep breaths as I pace in front of the desk. "Get your shit together, Teagan."

I need to live in reality. And my reality is that wherever Declan is, he left me; Luca is more than likely dead; normal people don't crave blood, and fucking around with bloodsluts and entertaining their fantasies and conspiracy theories isnotgoing to help me move on with my life.

I sink into the chair, open the screen, close the email, and sigh, running my fingers through my hair. I consider, just for a second, going through them all.Just in case.Because…what if they have been trying to contact me?

But no. I know better than that. Still…

I double-check the lock on my door before putting on my headphones and trying to catch up on the news I've missed. Unfortunately, there isn't much fact involved—just a lot of speculation, false sightings, and missing people. A lot of names I've never heard of, a lot of missing loved ones they think may have gotten lost in the Gods of Tomorrow Blood Cult—that's what they're calling it because they have no idea what it really is.

But I know exactly what it is. And I've never seen any of these faces in my life.

And while the average fan has moved on and the news has been quieter lately—just like the residents at Rancho San Flores told me—the hardcore bloodsluts have created their own religion dedicated to Declan's so-called teachings. They operate online and stream Saturday evening services through YouTube, and they've filed for tax-exempt status.

And they've rented some land in Northern Idaho, where they're attempting to start their own utopian community. That must have been what the Jurassic Park nurse was so upset about.

I scoff. Wherever that self-absorbed asshole is, he's loving every minute of this.

And the signs. They all swear there have been signs. I mean, they're worse than the Swifties. All of these signs apparently lead to one thing—a secret concert in L.A. on the Fourth of July…because the fourth is Luca's birthday, his initials are L.A., and that was the day they were supposed to release their third album.

There are other things, too. These sightings, these images that are supposed to be Declan are far too blurry for me to say definitively whether it is or isn't. Even knowing every part of his body by heart—every curve, every angle—I can't say none of these are him.

I can't say that they are, either.

But in every photo, the people in these images are showing seven or four fingers. And I'm…

I'm drunk. My vision is blurry, my eyes are so heavy I can barely keep them open, but I'm not falling for this shit. I can't.

I bring the bottle to my mouth again, tipping my head back, but nothing comes out.

"It's okay, bottle," I say aloud, tossing it onto the floor. "I'm empty, too."

I push out of the chair and stumble into bed, passing out facedown and fully clothed on top of the covers.

I only wake once in the night to a room that's spinning on its side and limbs too heavy to move. And if I wasn't used to seeing people who aren't really there at this point, I might be alarmed when I see a dark silhouette wearing a gold mask looming over me. He kneels on the bed between my legs, fumbling with the tie on my sweatpants before working both them and my underwear down my legs and tossing them onto the floor.

My pussy is already wet and swollen.

He pulls his own pants down over his hips until his cock springs free, pumping it in his gloved fist as he looks down at me. I watch through barely-open lids until he takes his other hand and pushes my shirt and bra up to my neck, freeing my tits. Then, he spreads my legs wide and lowers himself on top of me, covering my mouth as he pushes the thick tip inside me.

I moan against his hand, arching my back as he fills me. Drunk hallucinations feel even better—even more real. I feel everything—the pain of the stretch as my pussy adjusts to the thickness, pleasure as it slips deeper and deeper inside me…

"I know you're awake, little monster," his muffled voice rasps into my ear. "You're too wet to be sleeping. Try not to scream when you come, or I'll have to slice Mommy and Daddy from top to bottom and fuck their insides instead."

He takes his hand away from my mouth, and I moan. "Oh, god…" Lifting my hips, I meet his thrusts with my own as he fills my pussy to the brim. "Declan…"

"I'm not Declan, you little slut," he says. He picks up the pace, slamming his cock into me now. "But you don't really care about that, do you? You don't care who I am."

"No," I whimper. I bite my lip to stifle a scream. It's been so long since I've been fucked, so long since my pussy's been filled like this, that I'm already on the brink of orgasm. I cover my mouth with my own hands as the pressure at my core threatens to unravel.

"There you go," he says. "Just keep your mouth shut, and your whore legs spread open for me." He groans again, fucking me hard enough that the headboard slams into the wall. If he were real, I'd be worried, like he said, about waking my parents and watching him slice them to pieces.

Since he's not, I just spread my whore legs and focus on what he's doing to my guts.

My heavy lids fall closed again, my legs shaking and my back arching off the mattress as the waves of pleasure roll through me, and I pulse around the imaginary masked intruder's cock. Maybe I'm still a little too loud because he grabs me by my throat and squeezes as he fucks me through it, then flips me over and forces himself inside me again, pushing my face down into the mattress until my air supply is so limited I see stars behind my eyelids.

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