Page 116 of Horror and Chill
We look at Debra, and she whimpers. Her hands knot at the ropes. Her eyes are huge and wet and useless.
Evander steps forward. He moves behind her and presses his hands to the side of her neck, the way you press a map flat. She thrashes for a second, eyes bulging with that instant animal panic that always comes the first time someone realizes the world is not on their side. Then her shoulders slump in defeat.
He pulls his knife from his back pocket, flicks it open, and in one smooth stroke draws it across her throat. Blood spills hot and fast, spraying before it runs down in sheets. She jerks, hands twitching against the ropes, but she’s trapped. The chair rattles beneath her as the red pours, coating her dress and pooling across the floorboards.
“Start phase two,” I tell Garron and Evander, my voice steady like it was waiting for this. They know what I mean without me spelling it out. They peel off to their tasks, boots echoing in the quiet house, leaving me and Agatha in the living room with the wreckage of her parents.
Michael’s chest is still. Blue tinge across his lips. No pulse. No life. Just a husk. I crouch down and pull my own dagger from my boot.
I press it into Michael’s chest. The skin splits, ribs resisting before they give. My hands work with a rhythm, pulling muscle aside, carving until I feel it. The thing that kept him alive. My fingers close around it, hot and slick, and I rip it out in one hard motion.
I stand and hold it up. Blood drips down my wrist, runs across my knuckles, spattering the floor.
“A gift fit for a queen.” My voice is almost a laugh.
Agatha stares. She grimaces, a flicker of disgust twisting her mouth, but she doesn’t look away. “Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Maniac.” Her tone cuts, but then I catch it—the flick of her tongue across her lips, quick and hungry, like she can’t help herself.
That’s all I need.
I drop the heart to the floor with a wet thud, sheath the knife back into my boot, and step into her space, fisting my hand in her hair. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t back up. I yank her forward, hard enough to make her stumble, and crash my mouth against hers. Blood on my tongue, fire in my chest, and her lips fighting and giving at the same time.
My fingers tighten, dragging through her grey hair. Blood slicks between the strands, streaking silver with red, and something inside me twists. The sight of it—her ruin tangled in my hand—turns me on more than it should.
49
Agatha
His mouth crushes mine,and I don’t fight it. He kisses me harder, teeth catching my bottom lip until I taste blood. I gasp, and Corwin swallows the sound, pushing me backward until my back hits the wall.
The bodies are still in the room. I can feel their presence, like an audience, like judgement. But it doesn’t stop me. It makes my skin prickle with unspent energy.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Sinning in your parents’ house. Their blood isn’t even cold.”
The words should repulse me. They don’t. They light me up. I tilt my chin and let him claim me again, my body choosing for me before my head can catch up.
The leather squeaks when I shift, and I realize if I peel this outfit off, it won’t go back on easily. The thought lingers between us like a dare. Corwin’s hands slide lower, tracing the edge of my skirt until he pushes it up over my hips. His fingers pause there, rough against the thin band of my fishnets, and we both know there’s no going back once he takes it further. My pulse pounds.His eyes lock on mine, daring me to flinch, daring me to stop him.
He tries to wipe his hands on the slick plastic leather of my skirt, but the blood only smears, dark and wet. With a low curse, he drags the mess across my fishnets instead, the red streaks catching in the weave, staining the thin threads. Then he hooks his fingers into the band of my thong and wipes the rest away, slow and deliberate, before tugging it down. I step out of the flimsy scraps of fabric like I’m shedding the last piece of the girl they tried to cage.
I sink down before him without thinking, knees pressing into the blood-soaked carpet. The world tilts and narrows until there’s nothing but him above me, looking down with that wild grin that makes me feel both hunted and chosen. My hands find the waistband of his pants, and I drag them down, just far enough that his concrete-hard cock can slip free.
For a moment I only look, caught between fear and thrill, heart battering against my ribs. My mouth curves into a smile that isn’t innocent at all. Licking my lips so they’re wet and ready for him, I lean forward and envelop his mushroom head into my mouth. I swirl my tongue around his tip, focusing on his slit that leaks precum.
“Fuck, Little Horror. No wonder they kept you under lock and key. That mouth is dangerous,” he groans.
I take him further until my chin touches his balls, and I pull back slowly, letting my teeth graze the top and bottom of his shaft roughly. When he’s almost free of my mouth, I nip his tip before taking him into my throat once more.
Corwin moans above me, and I look up at him, seeing his head thrown back. That I can make such a violent, dangerous man make those noises, fills me with pride and has my thighs slick with my own arousal.
His hand grabs a chunk of hair and pulls me off of him. “Get your naughty little ass up here.”
I scramble to my feet, and before I can even mutter a question or wonder what’s next, he’s hoisting me up. I clamp my legs around him. His strength pins me there, one arm locked tight under me, the other between us, wrapped around his cock. I bite my lip as I look into his eyes, shining with desire as he lines up his dick, and buries himself inside of me with one fluid thrust.
The sound that rips out of me doesn’t feel like mine. My nails scrape at his shoulders, my head falling back against the wall. Heat shoots through me.
“Good girl,” he mutters.
My legs squeeze around his waist, my heels digging into him, trying to anchor myself as he drives into me again.
