Page 25 of Bonepetal
He hears it.
Of course he does.
“There she is,” he snarls, darker now, voice scraping raw. “The girl who swore. The girl who fucking forgot, and yet still shakes for me, still answers when I come back from hell to claim her.”
The corn rattles overhead as the night holds its breath. Pinned beneath him, bound and trembling, I realize the devil never needed to come for me at all.
Because he knew Finn would do it for him.
The first push inside her cunt is slow and brutal, the bone hilt forcing me open as it slides inside, cold at first before the stretch turns sharp, unbearable, and achingly familiar. Every movement after is measured, dragging me out only to sink me down deeper, making me feel every inch. My body betrays me, slick and greedy, pulling his blade in like it remembers it. Like it remembers him even when my head wants to deny it.
My eyes squeeze shut, shame and heat clashing too hard to face.
“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” he snarls, voice sharp as the grip at my throat. “You fucking look at me when I ruin you, bonepetal. Look through Nathan’s empty fucking eyes. Through his skull. Through the grave you fucking made me crawl out of.”
My pulse pounds so loud it feels like the field itself can hear it.
The hilt pumps deeper, faster, until I can’t keep still. My hips buck against the dirt, bound wrists pulling uselessly against the stalks. He grinds into me mercilessly, then slows, making me whimper before picking up again, fucking me with a rhythm that keeps me dangling right at the edge.
The jagged teeth carved into the hilt scrape that spot inside me every time he drives it deeper, sharp little shocks of pleasure that make my thighs quake.
It’s brutal, overwhelming, and it’s killing me how much I need the release, how my body clenches around it like it’s begging.
“Yeah,” he growls, rough and wrecked. “That’s it. Your cunt still knows me. Still squeezes for me. Every fucking twitch says my name even if your mouth won’t. You were mine first, bonepetal. You’ll be mine last.”
His free hand drags down, fingers finding my clit.
Circles.
Cruel, and perfect.
He matches the movement to the rhythm of the hilt, bone pumping in and out while his fingers work me harder. I gasp, back arching off the dirt, shame and heat colliding until I can’t tell one from the other.
“Look at you,” he taunts, mask grinning. “Taking it so fucking well. Made for me. Fucking carved for me. You hate how much you want it, don’t you? Hate that you’re dripping down my blade like you’ve been starving for it.”
I sob, twisting under him, and it only makes him laugh, low, and guttural.
“Beg,” he orders. “Beg me to let you cum. Beg like the whore you swore you’d never be for anyone but me.”
My body is shaking, every nerve screaming. His hand rubs harder, faster, and the hilt drives deep with every thrust. I don’t want to give him the words, but my voice betrays me just like the rest of me. “Please?—”
“Good girl,” he snarls, pushing me harder. “Cum for me, bonepetal. Cum for the man who burned for you. For the man who carved himself open for you. Who clawed his way out of hell just to fucking ruin you again.”
The pressure rips through me, unbearable, and then I shatter—eyes wide on the sockets of the skull mask, my wrists burning, my body convulsing helplessly while he holds me down and watches me break. His laugh twists through the corn, low and triumphant, as I cum around the bone handle he’s fucking me with, every spasm another confession my body can’t hide.
When it’s over, I’m shaking and raw, breath ragged in the cold air.
He doesn’t let me go right away.
His hand steadies my throat until the last tremor leaves me, until I’m forced to feel the wreckage he’s made of me. Then, with a slow tug, he loosens the stalks around my wrists.
I collapse forward, arms numb, the dirt clinging to my palms. He pulls the knife free, bone hilt gleaming wet in the fractured light. Without looking away from me, he drags his tongue along it, a filthy benediction, and lets out a low laugh.
“Fuck, sweet as I remember,” he snarls. “Your pussy tastes better on bone than it ever did on my tongue. Almost makes me want to keep it buried inside you.”
Then he tucks it back into his pocket like a relic, casual as sin.
My chest still heaves, lungs catching on air that doesn’t feel like mine. He offers me his hand, steady and sure, like he could just lift me to my feet and pretend we were still those kids in the forest.
