Page 57 of Grave Love
Blaze
In minutes,we’re on Back Beach Road, taking the highway west into the Northern Florida woods. Darkness swallows the asphalt. Every once in a while, a lamppost illuminates a road sign, reminding us of civilization. Cars dissipate until we’re driving alone.
About an hour in, there’s a turnoff. A dirt road.No Trespassingis written in red letters on a faded, rusting sign. I’m familiar with the area. Private property, yes, but no one patrols the woods this far out.
And if we get caught, it doesn’t matter.
It shouldn’t matter.Not for me.
Definitely not for her.
The car inches forward and bobs on the dirt road, until eventually we hit a dead end. I curve the car to the side and angle the headlights into the trees. Ren gasps, her focus fixated on what I’ve left there for her.For us.
A noose.
I power off the engine, my chest rumbling, anticipation bubbling inside of me. It took some digging, but between the gossip and Last Spring’s access to the county records, I knew about Ren’s mother before she told me.Ligature marks on the neck,the medical examiner wrote.Bruises on the fingers, signs of struggle.Death by asphyxiation.
The tattoo of the noose. Her fixation with her own death. The details she told me in the cemetery. It’s an obvious response to trauma. A coping mechanism.
I’m not against changing that.
Out in the woods, I pull a short stool from behind the trees and place it beneath the noose. Then I round the vehicle and open Ren’s car door, surprising myself with those polite behaviors. Who knew I could be a gentleman? Leading her through her desires. Showing her the echoes of her past.
I hold out my hand, offering it to her. Waiting for her to take it.
You want to know why I want to live, love? I’ll give you my reason.
Her pollen-tinted skin grays now, changing to wet sand as she stares up at that noose. Frozen in time. Ignoring my offered hand. Perhaps she’s having flashbacks to her mother, too stunned to grasp the reality in front of her.
I should be sympathetic to that. Hold her hand. Let her know that I’ll always be right here, waiting for her.
But that’s not me.
I grab her by the fucking hair and wrench her out of the car, her body instantly tightening. She yelps. Her heart beats fast as she struggles against me, fighting me, resisting what she knows is coming, even if she’s done it to herself a hundred times before. My dick hardens, ready for her, loving her struggle,forcingher to confront her own fear. It scares her—facing the past—and right now, it’s waiting for her.
And she’s been waiting for it too. She wants it.Craves it.Needs everything I can give her. Even this.
My head spins with lust, her ripe scent snaking into my nose. I get her locked under the crook of my arm, and I push on her head, forcing her deeper into the angle of my elbow as I squeeze the air out of her body. She pulls at my arm, so fucking desperate, it’s beautiful—but my little corpse doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t tell me to stop.
Then she’s unconscious. I lay her down. I’ve got a minute or so to finish the prep work. I slam the cuff on her wrists, then grab the rope from the tree and place it around her neck. I double-check my pocket for my switchblade.
Then, on my knees, I put my hand down her leggings, playing with her pussy. She’s sopping wet, the sloppy little bitch, that fear driving her deeper into the madness.Into me.I roll my neck, desire shuddering through me. She’s insatiable, my little corpse, andfuck,I want her.
She twitches, her abdomen clenching up, and she chokes on her own spit as she comes back to me. My breathing accelerates. Her eyes squint, the headlights blinding her. She yanks at her wrists; they’re cuffed together now, and she whimpers. Kicks her legs. Whines as she pulls at those metal rings, tears welling in her eyes. And I laugh deep. My cock twitching against her.
“What the fuck?” she howls.
I smile. It’s the first time she’s questioned me tonight. Still, my girl doesn’t say the words—doesn’t tell me to stop—because she knows she wants it too.
I lick her cheek. Her skin smooth under my tongue, her lips quivering in revulsion. It disgusts her—licking her like an animal—and that’s precisely why I do it. To remind her that this isn’t about her. It’s aboutme.What I want. How I can use her. What I can do to her and for her.
I take out my phone and record her in the harsh light. The dark night contrasts against the bright headlights like a black-and-white television screen. Synthetic against natural. Every part of our arrangement goes against our survival instincts.
And I love every second of it.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I say in a low, taunting voice. She stills, like prey looking into the lights, trying to see the safety on the other side. But I’m all there is now. “You’re going to tell the camera why you want to die,” I continue. “List every reason. Don’t skip any of it. And then, you’re going to explain that youaskedme to kill you.”
“Why?” she whispers.
