Page 89 of Touched By Darkness

More screams.

Cold, knobby fingers with muddy, cracked fingernails encircle my ankles and pull me down.

Down.

Down.

“There she is.” Daemon’s voice has taken on a new quality.

Admiration, adoration, and even fascination.

“Look at me, little angel.”

Red. So much red. A savage snarl rumbles in my chest as he releases my mouth to tangle his fingers in my hair, as though he can’t stop touching me.

“Is this such a good idea?” Alaric asks behind Daemon.

The human is barely conscious, slumped on the damp grass, arms and legs twisted at grotesque angles.

“You can leave if you want,” Daemon tells Alaric without taking his eyes off me.

“I’m not leaving you alone with her like that.”

“You need to relax,” chuckles Ronan, and Alaric cuts him a glare.

“We’re so out of our fucking depths here. Do I need to remind you that we don’t have any experience with angels from Heaven? Especially not angels deprived of the light.”

“Think of it as research,” Daemon drawls, prodding my incisors with his thumb until I release a fierce snarl that’s abruptly cut off when he pulls my hair. “Shut up!”

Do I shut up? No. The darkness inside me refuses to be reined in, leashed, or caged. It’s a feral animal concerned only with its survival.

Daemon isn’t bothered. If anything, my snarling makes his cruel smile grow until the tips of his fangs glint beneath the moonlight. “Are you hungry, little witch?”

“Daemon, be careful when you release her.”

“If my hunch is right,” he whispers, his hand snaking beneath my skirt, “she won’t hurt me. No… our girl is hungry.” He slides my panties aside and rams a thick finger inside me. “And horny.”

The red mist intensifies until Daemon is barely visible. My pussy grips him tight as I throw my head back against the tree, pleasure bursting behind my eyelids.

“You’re dripping, little witch.” His smile turns wolfish. “Your soaking pussy is making a mess of my hand.”

Daemon steps away, and I whimper from the loss, but then my attention zeroes in on the prone, broken body on the grass.

I cock my head, curious and intrigued by the fearful, pained sounds slipping from the human’s lips. They call me home like the whispers of the forest. My heart thumps heavily, my fingers itch, and my incisors throb with the hunger for destruction. The damp blades of grass tickle my feet as I stalk him.

Anticipation swirls through my veins, and when the tips of my toes connect with his broken arm, my skirt shifts in the vagrant breeze. I crouch down and brush his hair away from his sweaty forehead.

“Please,” he chokes out, then cowers, hiding his face in the grass. I don’t like that. I want his eyes on me when I feast on his beating heart. But before I get to that part, I want to consume all of him.

I want every part of him to belong to me.

His fear.

His pleasure.

His soul.

Climbing on top of him, I lean down to kiss him.

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