Page 82 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
“I love him.”
“You love a beast,” he mutters.
“Better a beast without a head than a demon without a soul,” I throw back. “Oh, and for the record, he is a master at givinghead…unlike you.”
“Oh, my Belle…” he purrs like a perfect predator before forcing my legs apart again, now shifting my dress up. Pieces of me break the higher he slides the fabric, continuing with a tenderness I’ve never felt from him. “I truly do look forward to having you wrapped around my cock again.” Chills skitter up my spine. “Soon. Our ritual of my redeeming you will not happen here. But in the meantime…hmm, I have learned quite a few things over the past nine years. And you will soon know how I possess every part of you. Your body. Your mind. Your soul. And…your pleasure.”
There’s something darker in his eyes, a determination I’ve never seen, daring to prove how far he will go this time. And itwill be worse. Worse than the past when he would simply shove his fingers inside me and force my orgasms without emotion.
This…this side of Thaddeus strikes every shade of fear inside me. Fire and ice war for territory. Then, he locks eyes with mine, the slightest upturn of the corners of his mouth horrifies me.
The second his fingers touch the lace of my underwear, I rear up. “Get the fuck off me!” I attack with everything I can, but it’s all futile. His knees are like boulders keeping my legs divided. His hands on my hips paralyze me. I’m lost to my powerlessness.
With a heart-leveling grin, Thaddeus rips away the lace covering me, shoves my knees to my armpits, and gazes at the view before him. His eyes are the same as they were on our honeymoon. Hunger but with a malevolent ownership.
Nothing like Jack. I never needed to see Jack’s eyes to know how he cherished me, worshipping every part of me. Even when hunting me, punishing me, possessing me, and owning me, I am his treasure, his equal, his wife.
To Thaddeus, I’m a prize, a fertile vessel, and submissive prey.
“This means nothing,” I throw out, willing some measure of control in my inevitable defeat as he runs his nose between my pubic lips, inhaling my essence. “It doesn’t make you a man. You’re nothing but a monster. Dead inside. And it doesn’t matter how many orgasms you give me, it will never be me.”
“I’m taking you to hell, little Belladonna.” He chuckles, the soft rumbling sound pulsating through my center, forcing my inner muscles to clench. More tears stream from my eyes when he rubs my thighs and vows, “I’ll see you burn. Then, I’ll fuck you to redemption as I fill your womb with my blessed seed.”
He lubricates two fingers and slides them slowly into me. Too slow. Aching tenderness and finesse. I hate him more for this. Because he will make my body want it. My heart will never want him, never love him. He pumps those fingers in and out until my arousal slicks my pussy more than his spit.
I won’t imagine it’s Jack. Too impossible. Too much of a betrayal.
I wish I could be hollow. But I am with Thaddeusin all my hatred. I won’t let him consume my soul. With every fiber of my being, I vow never to revert to little Belle. I am Belladonna Moore.
I am Jackson Elias Moore.
Tunneling in on the words, I repeat them over and over in my head as Thaddeus seals his mouth to my center, kisses my lips, and licks me to oblivion until my screams shake the cabin and I’m as worn and weak as he wants.
32
“I’ll give my soul before I let her heart die.”
JACK
Idon’t know how long I’ve been shut in here. Feels like days.
No matter how many times I’ve kicked and shoved at the coffin, it’s useless. It’s too strong. I’m in a goddamn black hole.
I know it must be closer to dawn since the drug has worn off to give me mobility.
Belle consumes my thoughts. Every last fraction of hope within me believes she is safe with the town, the Council, and the county authorities.
But a dark, crawling horror has me envisioning her with that bastard demon from the depths of hell. Some cold, deep part of me whispers it’s already true. He has her. He’s doing unspeakable things to her.
I grit my teeth, jaw aching from all my grinding. Fury gnaws at my insides. My fists clench so tightly that my fingernails dig into my palms, leaving bloody crescent marks. I can feel it in my bones—he’s taunting me, pushing her, breaking her. I have to get out. I have to get to her.
The sudden scrape of dirt above me jolts me from my spiraling thoughts. I freeze, my ears straining. It’s faint, but the sound is undeniable—a faint, metallic shift followed by the unmistakable sound of soil being disturbed. Someone is digging me up.
Hope flickers, raw and frantic, kindling my blood and strengthening my limbs.
The shovel clinks against the wood of the coffin. My breath hitches. After an eternity, the lid is pried open, and the splintered light from the harvest moon above the trees engulfs my vision. I squint, my muscles screaming as I sit up.
And there she is—Mrs. Kravitson, standing over me like some guardian angel in her flowery, flouncy dress, her weathered face lined with determination. Her hand grips the shovel, her knuckles white.
