Page 51 of Little Stranger

Olivia screams, but it’s muffled as I cover her mouth. “Shhhhh,” I whisper against her ear, spinning her around and slamming her back against the tractor wheel. I hold the screwdriver to her throat, and her pupils are expanding, her breaths uneasy, but the glaze in her eyes tells me she’s enjoying this.

I tilt my head. “Kai,” I say, and she relaxes a little. “This,” I start, digging the point of the screwdriver against her pulse, “is what I do.”

Will she notice how broken my words are? How badly I say them?

She bites her lip. “Hmm. What now?”

I smirk under the gas mask, easing off her neck and dragging the screwdriver down her chest, scraping her skin.

She’s never heard my voice as Malachi. She can’t see my face or my hair color or any of my tattoos with my gloves on. The only thing this version of me has in common with my true self is my height.

I stare at her for a moment. So beautiful. So fucking mine. “I’ll give you a head start.” My voice is rough, but I somehow manage to say those words without stuttering or overthinking the articulation of each syllable. I tip my head towards the cornfield. “Run, little stranger.”

Run. I wonder if she’ll remember throwing that word at me all those years ago. But if it triggers any memories for her, she doesn’t show it. I step back, my pants tenting with my thickening cock as she takes a deep breath and disappears into the cornfield.

I count to five, ten, fifteen, twenty, and flip the screwdriver in my hand before I chase after her.

Fuck, she can run.

I forgot Olivia used to be a cheerleader and has the stamina of a long-distance runner.

Her heels lie discarded in the middle of the field, and I can hear her little gasps of breath the further we get from the festival. Spooky music plays, the cackling laugh of a monster, and I hear her yelp as she trips over something.

I stop behind tall crops of corn, panting as I grip the screwdriver in my hand. She pushes herself back up to her feet, spinning left and right, wondering which direction would be best. The woodland isn’t far. I could drag her in there, but I quite like this setting. She looks terrified, but also eager, like she wants me to catch her.

The stranger.

Whacking hair from her face, she turns and runs further away from the music, and I smirk as I take careful steps, letting her go further and further, until I pick up my pace. My boots are heavy on the fallen corn, and I see her glance over her shoulder, spot me, and then her eyes widen as she screams loudly.

Damn, my cock is solid, and I didn’t think Olivia could go any faster, but I’m mistaken. Even dressed the way she’s dressed, I need to up my speed to catch her.

My hand fists the back of her veil, twisting into her hair, and she shrieks as I throw her to the side, making her roll over the snapped crops. Instantly, she starts crawling on her hands and knees to try to get away from me.

I grab her ankle, and she kicks me in the face, nearly knocking my mask off. She tries to crawl forward again, but I groan in annoyance and grab her nape, forcing her face into the dirt while I position myself behind her. She slaps at me from behind, but her attempts are useless as I rip off her panties, pocket them, and pull my screwdriver back out.

She goes stiff as I run the sharp, flat tip up her inner thigh, digging it in enough to cause a thin tear on her sensitive skin. Little beads of blood trickle down her thigh.

She’s still, but I can hear her breath hitching as I move the tip to her other thigh.

Her ass is in the air, and I push her poor excuse for a skirt up her back, exposing her to me, and she winces as I let a gathering of spit drip from my mouth, under my mask, landing on her back hole.

She shakes, pushing back against me as I pull the screwdriver away from her thigh, leaning over her body. I let go of her nape and grip her hair, tipping her head back. “Open,” I demand, pressing the handle of the screwdriver to her lips. She parts them, taking the handle into her mouth and flattening her lips. “Suck.”

My cock threatens to rip through my combats as it presses against her, but I refuse to let it free. This is about her right now, and I’m going to make her cry.

I want to make her sob in both pleasure and pain. With fear and horror.

No one can see us way out here—the crops are taller than me, and the music playing is faint. I can hear her heaving through her nostrils as I sink the handle of the screwdriver deeper into her throat, gasping as I pull it from her pretty mouth and slide myself back onto my haunches.

Her pussy is soaked, drenched in her arousal, her ass puckered with my spit. I lick my lips, taking careful breaths as I drag the handle up her thigh, over her ass, then back down to her pussy. I tease her opening, her clit, making her whimper and push herself back for more.

“Kai,” she moans. “Please.”

Kai. Not Malachi. She’s moaning another man’s fucking name.

Then I see her face, the way she looked at me when she told everyone how violent I was, how she wanted to be free of me, how she was scared of me. My anger builds, and I force the handle into her ass instead.

She cries out, lunging forward, but I hold her in place with a large palm on her back.

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