Faith, he’s learned, is soft when it’s layered properly. The indoctrinated don’t need to be convinced so long as you cradle what they already believe and hide your intent beneath it. They listen because they want to, they follow because they’re grateful someone sounds so certain, and Remmick, standing tall beneath the cross, gives them certainty in abundance.

His favorite part of the whole arrangement is you. You, with your soft hands and softer eyes, who always lingers after services, offering help before he ever has to ask. Especially after he started ‘preaching’ after the church started holding evening sermons just for him. You’re always there then, too, moving quietly through the pews, straightening hymnals, and lighting candles.

You talk to him about the former priest while you work, and about how kind he was. How you’ll always honor him. Remmick listens, nodding at the right moments, his hands folded neatly in front of him, every word a private irony, because he knows exactly where the old priest is now. He knows what his mouth and hands did.

You are, in every sense, devout. Prayer shapes your mornings and nights, sometimes longer when guilt settles heavy in your chest. You kneel until your knees ache, until you’re certain you’ve been heard. And, oh how Remmick longs for those same knees worn down for totally different reasons that have nothing to do with grace.

Even in confession, you are gentle with yourself. The sins you admit are small and barely worth the name. They don’t come close to the things he has done—what he continues to do. Your faith is so earnest that it almost feels like a challenge. And Remmick has never been very good at resisting those.

It took longer than you’d like to admit before you finally cracked under his false words of faith. His voice was soft but commanding, wrapping around your mind until it was impossible to separate belief from desire. He spoke of blessing you, of how the act of taking him into your mouth could mirror the devotion of prayer, a profane ritual dressed in holy language. He told you you were honoring the gift of life at its purest, the sacredness of his seed, and somewhere in the back of your mind, the words burrowed in deep.

Now, it doesn’t take much to make you kneel beneath him, your fingers clutching the cold, hard beads of your rosary as your throat works around the intrusion of his thick, hot cock. The tip nudges against the back of your throat, drooling precum onto your tongue in slick, sticky ribbons. You squeeze your eyes shut, heart hammering, until a gentle pat on your cheek forces you to open them. When your gaze meets his, he bites off a groan, thrusting harder, each movement sending jolts through your jaw as strings of spit stretch between your mouth and the base of his cock, snapping taut with every withdrawal. His hand remains firm at the back of your neck, anchoring you in place as he fucks your mouth, legs splayed wide against the cold, unyielding surface of the confessional seat.

All the while, he murmurs about holiness, about the sacredness of the act, how you are being blessed simply by honoring life itself—by honoring him. You gag around him, tears pricking at your eyes as your rosary twists painfully between your fingers, beads pressing into your palms. He loves the view from above: eyes half-lidded and glassy, mouth stretched around him, spit leaking from the corners of your lips. Every small quiver of your body, every suppressed sob or moan, feeds his hunger. He can barely contain the anticipation of having you beneath him, of hearing you cry and beg God for forgiveness because of how good it feels as he fucks you for the first time. He could take you any time—nothing could stop him—but the drawn-out tension only sharpens the thrill.

He tells himself he can wait as his thrusts quicken, the wet, choking noises filling the tiny space around you. He can wait until you’re begging to be blessed by his cum inside your cunt rather than in your mouth. And when he finally comes down your throat, he holds you there through your gagging, your wet, shuddering cries, because every struggle, every tear, every guilty gasp of pleasure is his to savor. He loves it. He really does.

You’re locked in your dream, eyes moving softly beneath your eyelids as your fingers curl softly into the blanket. You’d pushed it down about ten minutes ago, muttering to Malcolm to open the damn window ‘fore I catch a heat stroke. He half-heartedly murmured something in return, rolling over and getting up to crack it open.

The day was long, filled with harvesting veggies—mostly the grape tomatoes that were two days away from being too red—and various house chores. Before the sun fully rose, Malcolm went into town to earn what little money he could by training those who’d soon replace others at the mill. 

He’d come home before the sun set, grumbling to Joe, another worker, about the machine oil stench that he’d have to fight out of his clothes come wash day. And after a warm bowl of soup beans and a good wash, you both longed for the bed.

You’re turned slightly to him now, deep in sleep while he’s rubbing at his temples; the ringing of the machines still haunting him even in the safety of his home. 

Malcolm glances towards you, eyes instantly softening. “You’re burning up,” he sighs, your name following. He pulls the blanket down more, situating it just below your thighs. And that’s when he hears it: three sharp knocks at the front door.

Silence fills the house shortly after. He obviously had to have misheard it—must’ve imagined it. You did warn him that hallucinations were one of the first signs of heat exhaustion. Malcolm sighs, already reaching for his glass of lukewarm water on the dresser, sipping a hefty amount before attempting to drift off to sleep. 

The knocks come again—more urgent—and this time you shift, brows drawing inward as if you could sense a disturbance in the air. 

Malcolm rises, careful not to stir you further, before walking out the bedroom door, worn wood creaking under his footsteps as he makes his way to the front door.

You shift again, turning your back towards the door, perhaps believing that you were dreaming of the muffled voices coming from down the hall. Maybe you were confused by the bump that started light and ended heavy with swiftness, and your mind processed it in a way you can understand. Malcolm must’ve gone to grab some more water. Maybe he’d bring you some back before you sweated all yours out. 

The floor creaks as he returns, breathing heavier than when he left. An unintelligible murmur slips from your lips. Something along the lines of come back to bed. He obeys, steps approaching closer until he’s climbing back into bed, shifting until he’s comfortable again. 

There’s a long silence and you assume, in your limbo state of in-between sleep, that he’s drifted off. It’s until he shifts again that you sigh rather harshly. You aren’t exactly angry at him for not settling—he’s been out all day, working hard to bring money into your home, and he’s clearly having trouble adjusting to laboring work rather than the teaching he had to quit. You just can’t help but feel a bit irritated by the inability of yourself to fall back into a deep slumber. 

The mattress dips as Malcolm reaches over to touch your exposed thigh, fingers trailing a safe line along your skin. You turn until you’re on your back, instantly soothed—still hot—but soothed by the sensation.

“Can’t sleep?”

The question exits your mouth even though you know the answer. He doesn’t respond, hand squeezing lightly on the fat of your thighs. You think nothing of it. He’s probably just seeking comfort in you. 

Suddenly, he’s sitting up, fabric of the sheet rustling as he seems to move over you, knees bracketing your hips and hand leaving your thigh to grab your wrist. You hear more rustling above you, and suddenly the rasp of a zipper. The thought drifts into your mind and you shake your head softly.

“Not tonight. It’s too hot, Malcolm.” You attempt to gently pull your wrist out of his grip—to no avail. 

Your eyebrows furrow, eyes opening slowly. You expect to see him leaning over you, eyes soft and hands softer, despite the light callouses blooming from working—maybe coaxing you gently to release some tension. Your eyes adjust slowly to the dimness in the room with some difficulty, and what you see steals your breath.

It’s not Malcolm. 

The man above you looks as though he was suddenly thrust out of the darkness—curls plastered to his sweaty forehead, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, dirt smudge along his cheekbone that’s barely visible due to the amount of blood painted onto the bottom half of his face.

He looks like death.

Your heartbeat stutters, eyes frozen open as you take in his appearance, a cold flush rising up throughout your body when you realize a stranger—a bloodied stranger—is in your house. On your bed. On you.

His mouth is parted softly, and his chest heaves deeply as his arm flexes. One hand is still wrapped around your wrist, holding your arm in his right grasp while his other hand is lower. 

You can’t bring yourself to look down, still completely frozen in shock, confusion, fear. Where was Malcolm, and who is this man who he let in? Nevertheless, a man who looks like he feasted on something that bled a lot. 

“… Malcolm,” you manage to get out, voice barely above a whisper, not feeling the tear sliding down your temple. 

The man watches you, hand still moving down below. The corners of his bloodstained mouth curl up, revealing the sharpness of his teeth.

Your breath hitches, a hiccup building in your throat as another tear slips free from your eye. The grip on your wrist doesn’t compare to the grip fear has on your entire body. Thoughts race through your mind, now fully alert and on total defense mode. What was he? He isn’t human—he can’t be. The shape of his teeth confirms that enough. The question of how he got this far into your house, without Malcolm stopping him, twists at your mind. 

You gather all the courage to break eye contact to gradually lower your gaze down towards his hand. 

His trousers are unbuttoned and unzipped, briefs pulled down just enough to free the weight of him. The waistband of them sits just below his balls, and his engorged cock jumps in his hand in time with the strokes of his fist. Arousal drools from the tip, the slick sound of his hand moving fills your ears. 

Your eyes squeeze shut, and tears begin to fall constantly while your mouth opens to begin pleading and calling out for your husband. His cock slaps up against his stomach when his hand releases it to instead begin wiping your tears.

You flinch away from the sensation of his precum-slicked hand caressing your face like he has every right to. And, from the gentleness of his touch, maybe he believes he does. “Stop,” you shriek, free hand flying up to push his away. 

He opens his mouth, tongue sliding along his bottom lip. “Ain’tcha just the prettiest thing.”

His voice comes out, clouding your mind, and you freeze at the sentence.

He sounds off, like he doesn’t belong here but has the determination to convince others he does. His accent could fool anyone who didn’t live out here, but not you. Not you who was born and raised here.

Your mind scrambles for answers, lip quivering as you turn your head to the side, towards the door. You cry out for Malcolm, but that’s only until you make out the shape of something laying near the front door—a body.

A cry rips through you as you struggle against the man to crawl out of the bed. He doesn’t let you move, knees still pinned on either side of you while his free hand moves to grab your other wrist. He grasps both of them in one hand while the other trails down your body—down your cheek, sternum, ribs, naval, until just above the mound of your cunt.

Your legs kick from underneath him, but he doesn’t phase. He instead shifts back more until he’s sitting on your thighs, free hand moving to the hem of your shift, finger curling underneath to begin lifting it until you’re bare for him.

Shame flushes through your body that has nothing to do with the heat. You feel utterly useless under the strength of him, struggling and failing to rip yourself out of his grip. And now, with you bare to him, you’re exposed to his line of sight. 

“Please…” you beg, voice cracking on the word as you try, with every ounce of strength you have, to plead with him.

He lifts his gaze to your eyes, and leans down until his breath is fanning your lips. “It’s okay, you’re fine. It’ll all be better now.”

What he means, you don’t understand. None of this makes sense. Nothing will ever be better now that your husband is assumed to be dead, killed by the hands that now restrain you. 

Your vision blurs, tears relentless. “My husband… Malcolm..”

He shushes you, a drop of blood dribbling from his mouth and onto your cheek. Your eyes slam shut at the sensation of it sliding down along your skin. 

“He’s still here.” He brings his hand up place on his chest, his dark as he watches your expression shift to confusion. He taps his chest once before rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth, smearing the blood.

“You see…” he tilts his head as though he’s thinking, as if this is a normal conversation. “… I’m somethin’ different.”

You shake your head softly, not understanding. 

He brushes a strand of hair off of your sweaty forehead before continuing. “I have to feed to survive, and your husband just so happened to be within proximity.”

Nausea washes over you, thoughts tangling together and beginning to line up. He’s not human… and he had fed on your husband. Fed on your husband. Your Malcolm. He’s dead, you think. He’s dead and you could have done nothing to stop it.

“Malcolm was his name, yes?” 

Your eyes flick back to his. You want to tell him to go to hell, all rationality forgotten and life probably threatened, but you hold your tongue.

He grins again, canines gleaming in the moonlight that spills across the room. “Yeah… I know everything he knows.” He pauses momentarily, letting it sink in. “There’s also somethin’ that occasionally happens when I feed good.”

The stranger sits back up fully, weight nestled into your thighs as his hand slips back towards your mound, finger slipping lightly between your pussylips.

You squirm, another sob wracking your body as you attempt to pull yourself towards the headboard, away from him—but his weight keeps you in place. A series of please and stop slip from your lips in hiccups as his finger traces a line down your slit. 

“You see, I get worked up sometimes.” His hand clamps around your thigh and lifts and spreads it, settling now in between your legs. “Sometimes I get a meal so good that all this pent up,” he gives his cock a tight squeeze, groaning softly, “has to be put somewhere.”

Your thighs clamp around his hips, desperate to close, but he’s in the way of you accomplishing that. You can only cry and plead with him while tugging against the hand that still binds your wrists together. “You don’t have to do this,” you weep.

“Remmick.”

Another wave of confusion weaves into your fear at his answer. You don’t question him, too busy thinking of ways you could possibly get out of this.

His eyes are heavy-lidded as he takes in the sight of your bare cunt on full display for him now that your legs are opened completely. 

“My name. My name is Remmick, sweet girl,” he breathes, gaze lifting to yours. “And I’m about to fuck you real nice and slow, okay?”

His hand releases your wrists and you immediately start trying to hurt him any way possible—nails scratching at his shirt, at his shoulders—before you notice that’s not doing any damage. Your fists raise and come down to beat at his arms, but he doesn’t react. Remmick’s hands grip your thighs tightly—bruisingly—and he begins breathing heavily.

None of your physical attacks seem to deter him any further, so you begin screaming for help, voice cracking on the syllables as sobs wrack your body. You continuously switch between screaming for help and pleading with him to stop. 

He doesn’t listen.

Remmick brings a hand down from your thigh to wrap back around his hard cock and gives it a couple of strokes. He brings that same hand up to his mouth after a moment and spits into his palm. “I don’t want to hurt you, so let me get myself all ready.” He begins stroking himself with more fervor with the added lube from his red-tinged saliva. 

“Please!” You cry out, hips lifting, attempting to maneuver yourself off of him.

“You gotta stop movin’, girl. You’ll only make it worse for yourself.” Remmick shakes his head, a groan spilling from his mouth when his hand twists at his cockhead.

You’re not listening to him, too focused on making it hard for him. Trying to make him want to give up. It only seems to spur him on, and he ends up slapping the side of your thigh, making your whole body jump at the contact. 

Remmick groans again when he glances down at your cunt. He leans forward, cheeks hollowing before spitting right on your folds. The sensation sends a jolt through you that bleeds through with disgust and humiliation.

He then brings a hand down to rub the spit around on your folds and entrance.

A shiver shoots through your body and you bite your lip to stop yourself from making any noise. You don’t want to react in any way that could make him mistake what he’s doing as pleasurable, even though it is. 

“I think we’re ready.” Remmick nods, gripping his swollen cock once more.

You shake your head, pleads mixed with curses falling from your lips. Your hand flies up to smack against his cheek and he grabs that same hand, giving it a tight squeeze until it’s bordering on painful. He doesn’t let go until you choke out a sob.

Remmick begins moving closer, and you process that it’s happening—really happening—and your eyes go wide. The weeping tip of his cock nudges at your entrance and you wail, hips jerking up before his free hand clamps on your hip and pins you to the bed. 

He nudges his hips forward, grip on your hip tight as the head finally pops in. Your thighs shake at the intrusion, your cunt already clenching tightly around just the tip, already trying to push him out—but he continues nudging forward. 

The fat length of him slowly pushes into you, the thick vein along the underside brushing along your walls. At one point, you feel a pinch and your legs kick out on an attempt to relieve yourself of the pain building.

You cry out for him to stop, that it’s hurting, but he continues nudging forward. Your hands plant on the bed and you try to drag yourself away from him—running from it—and he takes that as a challenge. Remmick’s hips give shallow thrusts as he forces your walls to accommodate the sheer size of him. 

The pinching feeling grows as he nears bottoming out, and your hands come up to his chest to push him away, eyes clenched shut as the pain grows. 

He stops for a moment, head rising so he can watch your expressions, and you think—for a moment—that he may see the pain he’s causing you and will just leave. 

Remmick stuffs you the rest of the way in one brutal thrust. Your throat seizes up on the choked gasp you let out, and he drowns it out with a loud moan. The feeling of your tightness gripping his throbbing cock nearly sends him over the edge. 

“Fuck, you’re tight…” his eyebrows furrow as he gives a few shallow pumps into you. “…you’re so warm too—damn—you’re real warm.”

You can’t breathe, chest tight, still in complete shock at the reality of the situation. Your mouth parts on a shaky exhale when his hips withdraw, cock dragging along your walls before shoving back home. You jolt, mind slowly coming back to yourself. A fresh line of hot tears roll down your cheeks as a silent cry escapes from you. 

The sheets feel wrong—everything feels wrong. The feeling of his thighs keeping yours open as he thrusts, testing out the feel of you wrapped around the girth of him, makes your stomach tighten. Your shift clings to your chest, and the sweat covering your body makes everything clammy. 

Remmick’s gaze shifts from your face to where you’re both connected, watching the way your cunt stretches around him each time he presses in with a dazed intensity. He groans low, giving a few more shallow thrusts before bottoming out again.

Your back arches, teeth instantly biting down on your bottom lip to stop any noises from slipping out of your mouth without permission. 

He notices. His hand leaves your thigh and rises to push his thumb on your lip, untucking it from under your teeth. You whip your head to the side, desperate to focus on anything other than his gaze, and his hand grips your chin. The pressure isn’t bruising, but it’s undeniable in its force as he turns your head back toward him.

“Mm-mm,” he hums, grip on your chin tightening slightly, “I want to see you.”

You inhale, hand curling around his wrist to give yourself something to anchor to, even if it is the man whose actions are causing the drifting. 

His cock jerks inside you as he begins to pick up the pace, eyes still locked on yours. There’s a color beneath the darkness that’s slowly bleeding through—crimson spilling into the blue of his irises. The hand at your jaw loosens and moves to cup your cheek, thumb rubbing underneath your eye. 

“See?” he murmurs, leaning close enough for his breath to brush your lips. “Your body’s openin’ up real nice for me.”

You want to disappear where no one can see you, where no one can touch you again. Every instinct begs you to fight, to do anything, but your body’s not listening. You can’t’ move, can’t stop him, can’t even stop the humiliating heat pooling between your legs that betrays the horror in you.

The sound—proof—of your body gradually growing aroused, filters throughout the room every time his hips meet yours. The sound of skin slapping together, and the wet noises of your slick soaking his cock sends another wave of shame through you. 

When a moan slips out on a particular thrust, your palm flies up to cover your mouth. His pace quickens at that, balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. 

Remmick peels your hand away from your mouth and pins it to the mattress, fingers locking around your wrist before you can stop yourself—not giving you the opportunity to hide your noises from him. His other hand leaves your cheek, warmth dragging downward, tracing the line of your body until it hooks beneath your thigh. He lifts it higher around his waist, folding you open at an angle that makes your breath hitch sharp and ugly in your chest. Each time he presses forward, his cockhead smushes against your cervix, deep enough to rattle something inside you. 

Your body reacts before your mind can—hips twitching, throat tightening, a helpless sound slipping out despite yourself.

Remmick’s fingers dig into your leg, something sharp presses beneath his fingertips, and the sensation snaps through you hard enough to make you squirm. Your free hand comes up on instinct, grabbing at the wrist that has your other hand pinned.

Before your mouth can open again—before the plea can even shape itself—his lips crash down onto yours. The impact steals the breath from you, sudden and overwhelming, and your eyes widen in shock. You clutch at his hair on instinct, fingers tangling hard as you try to wrench his mouth away from yours. He barely moves, hand leaving your thigh and snapping around your wrist, pinning it down with the same unyielding force as the other. 

The mattress dips beneath the weight of him as he cages you in, both wrists trapped on either side of your head. His tongue forces its way past your lips, swallowing every broken sound you try to make. 

His hips snap against yours, rhythm breaking into something rough. Each thrust drives his pelvis forward, the blunt pressure catching your clit again and again and again until the sensation turns overwhelming. Your body responds despite you—heat building, slickness gathering, the traitorous evidence of arousal coating his cock as if it’s offering him permission you never gave. You hate it. You hate yourself for it.

Your clit throbs, swollen and aching from the repeated contact, your nipples pulling tight as they drag against the thin fabric of your shift with every jolt of your body forward. You clamp your jaw, bite down hard, trying—really trying—to keep the sounds trapped inside, but they slip out anyway: breathy moans, ragged pants, a thin whine torn from you when the swollen head of him knocks against that spot that sends a sharp pulse through your belly.

Guilt crashes in all at once, settling into every part of you. Your husband is dead. His blood is barely cold. You are being violated in the bed you once shared, in the house that was supposed to keep you safe. This is not supposed to feel like anything except terror.

And yet your body keeps answering him—tightening, yielding, reacting in ways that only encourage him to press harder, to take the sounds as proof instead of betrayal. The last thing you ever wanted is happening inside you and through you at the same time.

You can taste Malcolm’s blood in Remmick’s saliva, smeared across your tongue as the wet muscle of his explores your mouth. The realization hits you hard enough to make your stomach twist. You turn your head, desperate to break away, but he only follows, mouth chasing yours.

A sound slips from him when your body betrays you again—when you clench around him without meaning to. He groans into your mouth, hands tightening around your wrists as he ruts into you. 

The kiss turns messier—too wet—and you shake your head, trying to dislodge him, to erase the taste, the contact, the blasphemy of it all. When he finally pulls back, a thin string of spit stretches between your mouths, connecting you even in the space he’s created. It snaps when he glances down to where you’re connected. 

When he releases one wrist and drops his hand between your bodies, brushing against your clit, a sharp cry tears out of you before you can stop it, fracturing into a moan as his fingers begin to move. He circles the swollen nub, slow and knowing, and the pleasure hits hard enough to make fear bloom beneath it. It’s not just that he’s touching you, it’s how sure he is.

He looks up at you then, breath broken, mouth parted on a pant as his cock keeps driving into you, the bed frame knocking dully against the wall with every rough thrust. “I know how to touch you,” he says, voice thick with certainty. “I know what you like.”

The words slide under your skin and lodge there, sending a shiver through you that has nothing to do with his hand. 

His pace breaks into something frantic, hips snapping harder as he chases his release, grunts and groans spilling from him with every rough drive forward. The slap of skin echoes through the room, the bed shuddering beneath you as if he’s trying to force himself deeper than your body will allow.

You whimper at the onslaught. Your inner thighs and ass burn from the constant impact, skin stinging and oversensitive, your legs trembling uncontrollably as his thumbs keep worrying at your clit without mercy.  Your eyes fix on the ceiling. You can’t look at him. You won’t look at him—not when you’re so close to breaking and he’s the reason. 

The paint above you is peeling in long, curling strips, and you latch onto them instead, counting cracks, praying—begging silently—that this will end soon.

His grip tightens around your wrist until pain sparks white and sharp, dragging a cry from you as you tug against him. His thrusts turn brutal and uncoordinated, the tip of him ramming into your cervix hard enough to make your vision blur. You’re crying beneath him again, tears spilling freely even as broken moans keep tearing their way out of your throat. The contrast is cruel. The sound of your own pleasure tangled up with pain and grief, your body betraying you all over again.

“Fuck—I—I’m coming,” he groans out, mouth parting in a ragged exhale as spit dribbles down your neck.

You hiccup, stomach tightening violently as the familiar coil of pressure builds, and one last circle on your clit sends you tipping over, shuddering uncontrollably on him. Your cunt clamps around him as your slick soaks his cock. He watches it all happen, tongue flicking out to lick at the drool on his lips.

“You…” he moans, voice thick, “…you want me to fill you up? Want me to give you the baby you and your husband had been tryin’ for.” 

Your eyes snap up to meet his, and the room spins. Shock collides with disbelief, anger, and grief, pressing so close together you can hardly breathe. How could he know that? The thought pierces deeper than any thrust, and tears spring unbidden as your teeth clench to stop yourself from screaming as he continues using your body to get off. 

Remmick’s hand leaves your overstimulated clit and grips your thigh, while the other releases your wrist only to hook the other leg. He lifts you, folding you open in a new angle that drags a breathy, involuntary cry from your throat. Every nerve feels raw and exposed as he pounds you into the mattress

His body tightens over yours, balls drawn up, pulsing hot when he bottoms out fully, cockhead pressing against your cervix. You feel it all—the relentless drive, the invasion, the relentless marking of you—as he empties himself deep inside your womb. Spurt after spurt hits, each one a cruel punctuation, his cock jerking in rhythm with the bed frame’s protest. Your body quivers and shakes under him, a vessel of everything you didn’t consent to but cannot stop feeling.

Tears keep sliding down your temples, silent now, your body too wrung out to even sob. You feel hollowed, emptied in a way that has nothing to do with him finishing. Something that was supposed to be tender, private, shared, has been twisted into something violent, and the knowledge etches itself into your mind with a permanent ache.

A weak hiccup slips from your throat as you turn your head towards the open door, searching for your husband’s body in the hall. He’s still there, still dead. 

Remmick’s movements slow to shallow, forcing the remainder of himself deeper as if he refuses to let any part of you go untouched. His gaze stays fixed on your lower belly, on the slight swell where he keeps you plugged. It feels endless—his body still giving, still emptying, long after you’ve gone numb.

His breathing is loud in your ear as he lowers his face to your neck, nose dragging along your skin in a slow inhale. When his eyes follow your line of sight and land on Malcolm

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, turning your face back toward him with a careful hand. “He’s still here…” He pats his chest again, the same place as before, as if it means something good instead of cruel.

Your eyes are unfocused as you stare at him, more tears spilling without resistance. He tilts his head, leaning down until his blood-dark tongue drags across your damp cheek. “You’re still so warm.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, breath stuttering as your body gives a small, involuntary tremor. He’s still inside you, still holding you down with his weight, with the certainty that you can’t go anywhere.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only enough to look at you properly. His hands come up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your skin with a gentleness that makes your stomach twist. “I don’t do this very much,” he says quietly. “But I’ll make an exception, just for you.”

Confusion knits your brows, your lip trembling as you try to understand what mercy could possibly look like coming from him.

His thumbs trace slow circles along your cheekbones before he leans in to press a kiss to your mouth—one you turn away from as much as you can. “I won’t kill you,” he continues, voice low. “Even though everythin’ in me is screaming to rip open this pretty throat.” He pauses, letting the words settle, then exhales softly.

“I think I’ll keep you.”