manoela

the building wasn't the worst you'd seen, but it wasn't great either. the kind of place that had probably been nice once, decades ago, back when the brick still had color and the windows still had all their glass. now it sagged under its own age, gutters rusted through, the front step cracked down the middle like something had tried to split it open from underneath. the buzzer panel by the entrance had half its labels peeled away, names scratched out or faded to nothing, and the door itself stuck in the frame so badly you had to throw your shoulder into it just to get it open.

inside, the lobby was barely a lobby at all. a bank of mailboxes lined one wall, most of them dented, a few hanging open with nothing inside. the tile floor was cracked and yellowed, curling up at the edges where water damage had crept in and never left. somewhere above you a pipe knocked against the wall in a slow, uneven rhythm, and the whole building seemed to breathe around it, settling and creaking like it resented every person who still lived inside it.

the stairwell smelled like damp concrete and old cigarette smoke, that stale gray smell that soaked into plaster and never came out. underneath it, faint and greasy, something fried drifted from a door on the second floor, garlic and oil clinging to the stale air. the overhead lights buzzed and flickered as you climbed, one of them dying in slow pulses like it couldn't decide whether it wanted to give out completely. your footsteps echoed too loud against the concrete steps, scuffed and grimed dark down the center where years of feet had worn a path.

the walls carried their own history. water stains bloomed across the paint in brown continents, graffiti tucked into corners where no one had bothered to scrub it off, a long gouge in the drywall at the second floor landing like someone had dragged something heavy and sharp along it once and never patched the damage. you kept climbing anyway, past the second floor, past a door with three deadbolts and a welcome mat that said nothing you could read anymore, the letters worn to ghosts.

third floor, end of the hall.

the hallway stretched out longer than was necessary, lit by a single working bulb near the far end, the rest either dead or dying, buzzing faintly like dying flies caught behind glass. the carpet runner beneath your feet had gone thin and gray, its pattern long since walked into nothing, and doors lined either side, each one closed, each one silent, like the whole floor was holding its breath along with you.

you double checked the text from your mutual friend, the screen glaring bright in the dim hallway. 

‘eric. apartment 3c. he needs a roommate, you need a place. don't let him scare you off. he's harmless!’

you'd never met him, only heard of him, secondhand and vague. a mechanic, a street racer, someone mara mentioned in passing with a kind of fondness that never quite explained itself. and now, after weeks of crashing on other people's couches and running out of favors to call in, you were standing outside apartment 3c, a stranger about to knock on the door of a man who had no idea you existed.

the hallway stretched quiet around you, the dying bulb ticking faintly overhead. you swallowed, steeled yourself, shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, and lifted your hand, and then knocked. for a moment there was nothing. just the pipe somewhere behind the walls, still knocking its slow rhythm, indifferent to you.

then heavy footsteps, uneven on old floorboards. a lock clicking, then another. the door swung open, and there he was.

he was taller than you expected, broad shouldered, built like he belonged anywhere but here, anywhere but this dying building with its stuck doors and dead bulbs. black hair, uneven from what looked like a home cut gone wrong, stuck up at the crown like he'd been running his hands through it all day. tattoos bled from his sleeves, ink crawling up his throat, cutting sharp and dark against pale skin. his eyes were dark, piercing, and they locked onto you with a kind of frozen, barely functioning confusion, like his whole system had hit a wall it didn't know how to process.

his lips parted, then pressed shut again. his brows pulled together, processing.

"who the fuck are you?" his voice came out rough, low, like he hadn't used it in hours, maybe longer. he blinked once, twice, then went completely flat, some circuit behind his eyes shorting out entirely. his gaze drifted slightly unfocused, mouth parting like a system error had just fried whatever was left of his ability to compute. his hand stayed locked around the door handle, knuckles faintly tense, like he hadn't even registered he was still holding it.

the silence stretched long enough that you started wondering if you should just turn around, walk back down three flights of stairs, and figure out somewhere else to sleep tonight. then he blinked again, hard, like he was rebooting from the inside out.

"i'm looking for eric. eric draven?" you shifted your bag on your shoulder again, more out of nerves than necessity. "mara said you needed a roommate."

his eyes flicked down to the bag, then back up to your face, then somewhere over your shoulder, like he half expected someone else to be standing behind you, someone who made more sense. a joke, a prank, something, anything, that explained this.

"mara didn't mention you were—" he stopped himself short, jaw working like he was chewing on the rest of that sentence and deciding against swallowing it.

"a woman?" you offered, raising a brow.

"i was gonna say short." a beat. "but yeah. that too."

you almost laughed. almost. instead you just stood there under the one working light at the end of the hall while he stared at you like you'd stepped out of some other dimension entirely and landed, inexplicably, on his doorstep.

"so are you gonna let me in, or should i just set up camp out here?"

that seemed to snap something loose in him. he stepped back from the door, still holding it open, knuckles white against the frame like he needed something solid to anchor to. "right. yeah. sorry. come in."

stepping inside felt like stepping into an entirely different world from the hallway you'd just left. the apartment smelled like motor oil and old coffee, cigarette ash ground so deep into the carpet it had become part of the fabric itself. a couch sagged under a mountain of band tees and torn flannel, one arm patched with silver tape. tools scattered across a coffee table beside a stack of unopened mail, envelopes yellowing at the edges. a guitar leaned in the corner, strings dulled with a fine layer of dust, like it hadn't been touched in longer than he'd probably admit.

it wasn't much. the walls were bare except for a few water stains of its own, and the window at the far end let in a thin gray light that did nothing to make the place feel warmer. but it wasn't the hallway either, and after weeks of borrowed couches and worn out welcomes, it looked like something close to relief.

he shut the door behind you, and the click of the lock felt louder than it should have in the small space. you turned to find him still watching you, arms crossed now, tattoos shifting with the movement, ink crawling from his knuckles up to disappear beneath his collar.

"you got a name," he said, "or should i just keep calling you the woman in my apartment."

"it's on the lease paperwork mara sent you."

"i didn't read it."

"of course you didn't."

something flickered at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one, uncertain if it was allowed to exist yet. "fair enough. so what is it?"

you told him. he repeated it back once, quiet, testing the shape of it in his mouth like it was a foreign language he was learning on the spot.

"eric." he said after, tapping his own chest, like you hadn't already known, like introductions were a formality he wasn't used to bothering with anymore.

"i know. mara covered that part."

"right." his gaze dropped again, taking in the bag slung over your shoulder, the exhaustion probably written plain across your face after a full day of hauling your life across the city in bags and boxes. something in his expression shifted, softened at the edges, the confusion giving way slowly to something quieter.

"guest room's a mess," he admitted. "wasn't expecting company. wasn't expecting—" he gestured vaguely at you, at the whole situation, at the fact that his new roommate had turned out to be someone who made him forget how words worked halfway through a sentence. "this."

"i can deal with mess."

"yeah." he stepped aside, finally, clearing the narrow path down the hall. "yeah, i bet you can."

and for the first time since he'd opened that door, the confusion in his eyes gave way to something almost like curiosity.

later that afternoon, eric took it upon himself to haul your boxes up from the curb without so much as asking if you wanted the help. you'd barely gotten the first bag off your shoulder before he was already brushing past you toward the street, rolling his sleeves up over the ink on his forearms like the whole task was already decided and there was no point discussing it.

you followed him down, half protesting, telling him you could manage your own things, that he didn't have to do this. he didn't answer, just grabbed the biggest box off the sidewalk, the one you'd been dreading most, packed with books and framed photos and anything else too fragile to trust to a duffel bag. he hefted it up against his chest like it weighed nothing at all, barely a grunt escaping him, and started back toward the building without a word.

you trailed after him, carrying what you could, watching the way he navigated the stairwell like he'd done it a thousand times, sidestepping the cracked step near the second floor landing without even glancing down, ducking his head slightly under the low pipe by the third floor door out of pure habit. three trips, then four, and each time he came back down he waved off your attempts to take something from his hands, nodding toward whatever was left instead, silently claiming the heavier load for himself before you could argue.

by the last trip, sweat had gathered at his temple, his shirt clinging slightly at the back, and he still didn't slow down. he set the final box inside the doorway of the guest room, the one he'd apologized for earlier, and straightened up, rolling one shoulder like it had started to ache somewhere deep in the joint. he glanced around at the small pile of your life now stacked against his walls, boxes and bags and the corner of a mirror poking out from bubble wrap, and something crossed his face, quiet, unreadable, like he was cataloguing the fact that this was real now. that you were real, and staying, and not some strange hallway hallucination he'd imagined into being.

"that everything?" he asked, wiping his palm against his jeans.

"that's everything." you looked at the boxes, then at him, faintly out of breath from the last flight of stairs. "you didn't have to carry all that."

"yeah, well." he shrugged, the motion loose, careless, like it cost him nothing to say. "didn't feel right letting you do it alone."

he didn't explain further than that, didn't seem to think it needed explaining, and turned back toward the hallway like the conversation was already finished in his head. you watched him go, the tattoos along his neck shifting with the movement of his shoulders, and something about the whole afternoon, the quiet effort of it, the total lack of complaint, settled into you slower than you expected it to.

he didn't get far before he stopped in the hallway, hand braced against the doorframe, looking back at the mess of boxes stacked against his wall like he was only now processing the full weight of what had happened. a woman lives here now. an actual woman with actual belongings, mirrors and picture frames and a rolled up rug leaning against his guest room wall, and something about seeing it all laid out like that seemed to catch him sideways all over again, same as it had on the doorstep.

he didn't say anything, just stood there a second too long, jaw working like his brain was still trying to reconcile the empty apartment he'd lived in alone for years with the one currently filling itself up around him. then he shook his head slightly, like he was physically dislodging the thought, and disappeared down the hall toward his room.

it kept happening after that, little moments where you'd catch him staring at something that shouldn't have warranted staring at all. a pair of your shoes by the door. a coffee mug that wasn't his sitting in the drying rack. your jacket slung over the back of a chair. he'd pause mid stride, eyes catching on the detail like it was foreign, like his apartment had quietly rearranged itself into something he didn't fully recognize yet, and then he'd blink and keep moving, never commenting on it, though you could tell it registered every single time.

one evening you came out of the shower to find him standing in the middle of the hallway just holding a bottle of shampoo, your shampoo, turning it over in his hands like it was some artifact he'd unearthed. he looked up when your door creaked, startled, like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have.

"this yours?" he asked, holding it up, entirely unnecessary given the flowers printed across the label and the fact that his own shower supplies consisted of a single bar of soap and nothing else.

"no, i just keep spare shampoo bottles around for fun." you crossed your arms, amused. "yes, it's mine. it fell off the shelf, i bet."

"yeah." he glanced at it again, then at you, then back at the bottle like he was still working through some larger equation. "just wasn't expecting it."

"it's shampoo, eric."

"i know it's shampoo." he set it back on the shelf, a little too carefully, like he wanted it to look untouched. "just weird. having stuff. that isn't mine. in the bathroom."

"you have a roommate now. that's usually how it works."

"yeah, i'm aware." he scratched at the back of his neck, tattoos shifting with the motion, and there was something almost boyish in the way he wouldn't quite meet your eyes, like the whole situation was still settling into him slower than he wanted it to. "just gonna take some getting used to."

it wasn't just the bathroom. it was the extra chair he'd pulled up to the kitchen table without thinking, then stared at like he didn't remember doing it. it was the way he'd start making one plate of food out of habit, then catch himself and make two instead, muttering something under his breath about needing to remember there were now two people who lived here. it was the pause, every single time, when he came home and saw the lights already on, when he heard movement in the kitchen before he even opened the door, some part of him still expecting the apartment to be empty the way it had been for years before you showed up.

you caught him once, standing in the living room doorway at nearly midnight, just watching you fold laundry on the couch with an expression that wasn't quite readable, somewhere between bewildered and something softer he didn't seem to have language for yet.

"you good?" you asked, folding a shirt without looking up.

"yeah." a beat. "just still weird. seeing someone else's stuff everywhere."

"you'll get used to it."

"yeah." he said it again, quieter this time, like he was convincing himself. "guess i will."

he didn't move from the doorway for another few seconds, watching you fold shirt after shirt like the domestic normalcy of it was still something his brain hadn't fully caught up to, some part of him still stuck on the moment he'd opened his door to a stranger and found his entire life quietly rearranged around her presence ever since.

one evening he came home late from the shop, grease still smudged along his jaw, exhaustion pulling at his shoulders, and found you asleep on the couch with a book open on your chest. he stood in the doorway for a long moment just looking at you, something soft and unguarded crossing his face before he caught himself, before he remembered he wasn't supposed to look at his roommate like that. he crossed the room quiet as he could manage, easing the book from your hands, setting it gently on the table, and paused there, close enough that his breath nearly stirred your hair, his fingers brushing your shoulder like he meant to wake you and then thought better of it.

you stirred anyway, blinking up at him through half sleep, and for a second neither of you moved, his hand still resting light against your shoulder, his eyes dark and unreadable in the low light, something caught there that looked a lot like want and a lot like fear all at once.

"you fell asleep out here," he said quietly, voice rough with something that wasn't just tiredness.

"guess i did." you didn't sit up right away, didn't put space between you, some quiet part of you unwilling to break whatever this was. "you're home late."

"yeah." he swallowed, throat working, and his thumb moved slightly against your shoulder, barely a motion at all, but you felt it everywhere. "didn't mean to wake you."

"you didn't." a pause, quiet, charged. "not really."

he held your gaze a moment longer, something flickering behind his eyes like he was deciding whether to say something he'd been holding back for weeks, and then he pulled his hand away, slow, reluctant, like it cost him more than he wanted to admit. he cleared his throat, straightened, put distance between you.

"you should get to bed. real bed, i mean." his voice had gone rougher, like he was fighting his way back to something steady. "couch'll wreck your back."

"probably right." you sat up slowly, and for a moment you were close enough that you could count the small scar above his eyebrow, close enough to notice the way his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before he forced it away, jaw tight.

"night," he said, too quick, already stepping back toward the hall.

"night, eric."

he paused at the sound of his name in your voice, just for a second, shoulders tensing like the words had physically caught him, and then he kept walking, disappearing into his room without looking back. you sat there on the couch a while longer, heart beating a little too fast for a moment that had barely lasted a minute, replaying the warmth of his hand on your shoulder, the look in his eyes he hadn't quite managed to hide in time.

the whole apartment had gone soft and slow, and you hadn't bothered getting properly dressed since rolling out of bed. one of his old shirts he had given to you instead of throwing away, worn thin at the collar, hanging loose enough to nearly reach your thighs, and nothing else beneath it besides a plain pair of panties you hadn't thought twice about when you wandered out of your room for coffee.

eric was on the couch, phone pressed to his ear, mara's voice tinny and rapid on the other end about some part he needed to pick up from the shop before monday. he was mid sentence, something about brake pads, half distracted, feet kicked up on the coffee table, when you crossed into his line of sight on your way to the kitchen.

the sentence just stopped, not trailed off, not paused for effect. stopped, entirely, mid word, like someone had reached into his skull and yanked the plug straight out of the wall. his eyes tracked you the whole way across the room, slow and helpless, gaze catching on the hem of the shirt riding up slightly with every step, and whatever brake pad he'd been describing to mara evaporated from his mind completely.

"—eric?" mara's voice crackled through the speaker, tinny and questioning. "eric, you still there?"

he didn't answer. his jaw had gone slack, phone still held loosely against his ear, eyes fixed on you with an expression that had abandoned all pretense of subtlety, somewhere between stunned and something far less innocent. you reached the kitchen counter, entirely unaware for a few seconds, pouring coffee like it was any other sunday morning, and it was the clink of the mug against the counter that finally seemed to reboot something in him.

"eric. hello?" mara's voice rose, sharp now, clearly repeating herself for the third time.

"—yeah. yeah, sorry, i'm here." his voice came out rough, distracted, eyes still glued to you even as he tried to drag his attention back to the phone. "say that again?"

you glanced over your shoulder then, catching the tail end of his stare before he could fully redirect it, and the way he flinched, just slightly, like he'd been caught with his hand somewhere it shouldn't be, told you everything you needed to know. his eyes darted away too fast, focusing hard on the ceiling, the wall, anything that wasn't you standing there in his shirt with your legs bare and your hair still mussed from sleep.

"brake pads," mara repeated, flat, clearly unimpressed by whatever silence had swallowed him whole. "the ones i've been asking about for ten minutes."

"right. brake pads. i got it." he cleared his throat, low, and shifted on the couch like he was suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin, dragging a hand down his face. "i'll swing by tomorrow."

you took your coffee and leaned against the counter, watching him with poorly hidden amusement now, and the second his gaze flicked back toward you, helpless, drawn like a magnet, he caught you watching him watch you, and something like actual panic crossed his face.

"gotta go, mara." he ended the call before she could respond, phone dropping onto the cushion beside him, and he sat there a second just staring at you, jaw tight, throat working like he was trying to remember how words functioned.

"everything okay?" you asked, entirely too innocent, taking a slow sip of coffee.

"fine." his voice cracked slightly on the word, and he cleared his throat again, sitting up straighter like that might help. "you, uh. you good? need anything?"

"nope. just getting coffee."

"right." he nodded, too many times, eyes flicking down and then snapping back up like he'd caught himself doing something forbidden. "cool. that's, uh. that's good."

you took your time walking back toward your room, entirely too aware now of the way his eyes tracked your every movement, the shirt shifting against your thighs with each step, and right before you disappeared down the hall you glanced back to find him still frozen on the couch, staring, phone forgotten beside him, looking like a man who had just witnessed something close to godliness.

the invite came from one of eric's old friends, some guy named dax who ran with the racing crowd, a weekend thing at a beach house a couple hours out of the city. everyone was going, mara included, and mara had spent a solid ten minutes on the phone trying to convince eric to come along, promising him it would be good for him, that he never left the garage or the apartment anymore, that he needed the sun on his skin for once instead of grease.

he'd turned her down flat, said he had a car to finish by monday, said the beach wasn't really his scene anyway, and that had been that. you'd watched the whole exchange from the kitchen table, quietly amused, already deciding you were going regardless of whether he came or not.

you spent the morning getting ready anyway, some petty, half formed idea taking shape in the back of your mind, and by the time you called his name down the hall, you already knew exactly what you were doing.

"eric? can you come here a sec?"

a pause, then the creak of the couch, footsteps approaching slow and unsuspecting. "yeah, what's—"

he opened the door mid sentence and the rest of it just died somewhere in his throat.

you stood in front of the floor length mirror he'd put together for you weeks ago, the one he'd complained about for a solid hour while assembling, still in your bikini, turning slightly to check the tie at your hip, entirely unbothered by his presence in the doorway. the sunlight through the window caught along your skin, and eric stood frozen there, hand still braced on the doorframe, throat working visibly as he swallowed whatever had gathered in his mouth.

"what—" his voice cracked, and he cleared it, trying again, eyes darting anywhere except where they clearly wanted to land. "what do you want?"

you caught his gaze in the mirror rather than turning around, a small, deliberate smile tugging at your mouth. "put sunblock on me, please?"

his jaw worked, some visible war happening behind his eyes between walking away entirely and the fact that his feet hadn't moved an inch. "you're not even going."

"i am, actually. just because you're being stubborn doesn't mean i'm staying inside all weekend."

"i'm not being stubborn, i have work—"

"eric." you held up the bottle of sunscreen, still watching him through the mirror, patient, unbothered, entirely too aware of the effect you were having on him. "please?"

he stood there a moment longer, jaw tight, something in his expression caught between resistance and complete surrender, and then, slow, like it cost him every ounce of dignity he had left, he crossed the room and took the bottle from your hand. his fingers brushed yours in the exchange, and you felt the small hitch in his breath even from where you stood.

"turn around," he said, voice rougher now, lower.

you did, presenting your back to him, watching him in the mirror as he squeezed the sunscreen into his palm, hands not quite steady. he hesitated a second before touching you, like he was bracing himself for something, and then his palms landed against your shoulders, warm and careful, spreading the sunscreen slow across your skin.

his touch lingered longer than necessary at your shoulders, sliding down along your back with a kind of deliberate care that betrayed exactly how affected he was, fingers pressing gentle against your spine, tracing lower before catching himself and pulling back slightly. you watched his face in the mirror the entire time, the tight concentration in his jaw, the way his eyes kept dropping despite clearly trying not to let them.

"you're real quiet," you said softly, watching him through the mirror.

"trying not to say something stupid." his hands paused at your lower back, thumbs pressing light against your skin. "not doing a great job of it."

"say it anyway."

he exhaled, slow, like the words were dragged out of him against his will. "you're doing this on purpose."

"doing what?"

"this." his hand gestured vaguely, encompassing you, the mirror, the bikini, the entire situation he clearly felt very ambushed by. "the bikini. the mirror. all of it."

you turned slightly, just enough to catch his eyes directly instead of through the reflection, an easy, knowing smile playing at your mouth. "maybe."

his gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before he forced it back up, jaw tight, knuckles nearly white where his hand still rested against your waist. "you're gonna be the death of me. you know that?"

"probably." you turned back toward the mirror, breaking the moment just enough to let him breathe, though the air between you stayed thick, charged, neither of you quite ready to name what exactly was happening here. "you missed a spot."

he huffed out something that was almost a laugh, almost a groan, and reached for the sunscreen again, hands less steady than before.

his hands moved slow across your shoulders, spreading the sunscreen with more attention than the task really required, and it was impossible not to notice the size difference between you the longer he stood there. his palm alone nearly spanned the width of your shoulder, fingers long enough to press into the muscle on either side, and when he dug his thumbs into a tight spot near your neck, you felt the full weight of how much bigger he was compared to you, how easily his hands could span places yours never could.

you let out a soft sound before you could stop it, some quiet, involuntary mewl as his thumbs worked into the ache sitting there from sleeping wrong the night before, and you felt him go still behind you for half a second, breath catching audibly.

"there?" he asked, voice lower now, rougher, thumb pressing again into the same spot like he wanted to hear that sound a second time.

"right there." your eyes fluttered slightly, head tilting back almost on instinct, and it landed nearly against his chest before you caught yourself, the solid warmth of him grounding in a way that made your whole body want to lean back further instead of correcting course.

his hands stilled again, and in the mirror you caught the way his gaze dropped to where your head rested so close to him, the two of you framed together in the reflection, your smaller frame nearly swallowed against the size of him, and something crossed his face, quiet and unguarded, like he was seeing the two of you the way anyone else might see you. easy. natural. like you fit there.

his fingers flexed slightly against your shoulders, and beneath his palms he could feel the small give of muscle, the softness of your skin warm from the sun through the window, and for a moment neither of you moved, caught in the reflection of something that felt a lot bigger than sunscreen and beach trips.

"fuck it," he muttered, almost to himself, like the words had snuck out before he'd fully decided on them.

you blinked, glancing at him through the mirror. "what?"

"i'm coming." he said it firmer the second time, like convincing himself as much as you, hands finally pulling back from your shoulders like he'd only just remembered they were there. "beach house. i'm coming."

you turned fully then, eyebrows raised, a laugh already building in your throat. "we're leaving in ten minutes, eric."

"i know what i said."

"you have to shower. and pack. and you're covered in—" you gestured vaguely at the grease still faintly visible along his forearm from earlier in the shop. "that."

"i'm aware." he was already moving, already stepping back out of your room like the decision had physically propelled him into motion, some renewed energy in his stride that hadn't been there a minute ago. "ten minutes."

"eric, there's no way you're—"

"ten minutes," he called again, voice already receding down the hall, and a second later you heard his door slam shut, followed almost immediately by the sound of frantic drawers opening, fabric being yanked out, the unmistakable chaos of a man trying to pack an entire weekend bag in record time purely out of spite for his own better judgment.

you stood there a moment, still in your bikini, sunscreen only half finished, laughing quietly to yourself at the absolute turnaround, at the fact that ten minutes ago he'd sworn up and down he had work to do, and now he was somewhere down the hall swearing at himself while hunting for a swimsuit he probably didn't even own.

the drive out to the beach house passed in a blur of open windows and mara's music blasting too loud from the front seat, eric quiet beside you the whole way, one arm slung along the back of your seat like it belonged there, like he hadn't spent ten frantic minutes swearing at a duffel bag not even an hour earlier.

by the time you arrived, the sun had climbed high and lazy over the water, the beach house sprawling out ahead of you, sandy paths leading down toward the shoreline where a few of dax's friends had already set up towels and a cooler. everyone spilled out of the cars in a scramble of bags and sunglasses, and mara looped her arm through yours the second your feet hit the gravel, already talking about which spot on the sand looked best.

eric hung back near the trunk, hauling bags out with the same silent efficiency he'd shown moving your boxes weeks ago, and it wasn't until you were all inside, dropping things onto the nearest surface, that he finally reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one easy motion.

you weren't prepared for it.

you'd seen glimpses before, the ink crawling up his neck, the shapes disappearing beneath his collar, but nothing had prepared you for the full picture laid bare in the afternoon light. tattoos covered nearly every inch of him, a chaotic, beautiful mess of ink stretched across broad shoulders and down defined arms, over a chest and stomach cut with lean, hard muscle, stars and eyes and things you couldn't fully make sense of all layered over each other like years of stories written into his skin. he was taller than you'd let yourself register before, broader, the kind of built that came from actual labor rather than a gym, and he stood there completely unbothered by his own effect, rolling one shoulder like he was working out a knot from the drive.

your hand found mara's bare shoulder before you even realized you were reaching for something to steady yourself against, fingers gripping just slightly too hard.

"you good?" mara asked, glancing at you sideways, an amused little smile already tugging at her mouth like she knew exactly why you'd gone quiet.

"mhm." your eyes hadn't left eric, who was now crouched over one of the bags, entirely oblivious, or entirely pretending to be, to the fact that you were staring at him like you'd never seen a shirtless man in your life. "yep. great."

"you sure? you're kind of digging into my shoulder there."

"sorry." you loosened your grip, though your eyes still hadn't managed to look anywhere else. "he's just. bigger than i thought."

mara laughed under her breath, following your gaze toward eric with clear, knowing delight. "yeah, he tends to have that effect. give it a minute, you'll get used to it."

"i don't think i will."

eric straightened then, catching the tail end of your stare before you could redirect it, and something shifted in his expression, a slow, knowing smirk pulling at his mouth like he'd caught you red handed and had every intention of enjoying it.

"you good over there?" he called, voice carrying easy across the room, entirely too pleased with himself.

"fine," you managed, tearing your eyes away at last, though the heat crawling up your neck told an entirely different story. "just fine."

"sure you are." he grabbed a towel off the counter, slinging it over one shoulder, tattoos shifting with the movement, and made his way toward the door leading down to the sand, glancing back at you one last time with that same maddening smirk still in place. "coming?"

it took you a second too long to answer, mara still snickering quietly beside you, and by the time you found your voice, he'd already disappeared onto the sand, leaving you standing there trying to remember how your legs worked.

the group made its way down to the pool at the back of the house not long after, dax and a couple of his friends already cannonballing in with more enthusiasm than grace, mara trailing behind with a drink in each hand, laughing at something someone said. you peeled off your cover up at the edge of the water, and when you glanced back once, you caught eric watching, towel still slung over his shoulder, dark eyes tracking your every movement with an intensity he didn't bother hiding this time.

you slipped into the pool slowly, letting the water settle cool around your shoulders, and when you surfaced and pushed your hair back, you found him still watching, jaw tight, towel now abandoned on a lounge chair like he'd forgotten he was holding it. you grinned, catching him fully in the act, and he had the decency to look almost sheepish for half a second before that easy smirk slid back into place, like being caught didn't bother him nearly as much as it should.

"you gonna get in, or just stand there," you called, treading water, entirely too pleased with yourself.

"thinking about it."

"thinking real hard, from the look of it."

he huffed, shaking his head, but he was already moving toward the edge, and the moment he dropped into the water beside you, the pool seemed to shrink around his size, water displacing in a wave that had you laughing as you pushed back from him.

mara's voice cut through the noise a few minutes later, loud and delighted, clearly hatching some plan of her own. "okay, we're doing chicken. teams, let's go."

a chorus of groans and excited shouting followed, dax already hoisting one of his friends up onto his shoulders with more confidence than his balance probably deserved, and mara turned toward you and eric with a look that left absolutely no room for argument.

"you two. obviously."

"obviously," eric repeated, dry, though there was something warm underneath it, some anticipation he wasn't bothering to hide.

"i haven't agreed to anything," you said, though you were already moving closer to him through the water, some part of you fully aware that protest was pointless at this stage.

"too late. mara's declared it." eric turned, crouching slightly in the water, broad shoulders angled toward you, tattoos rippling with the motion beneath the surface. "come on. up you get."

"if you drop me—"

"i'm not gonna drop you." he reached for you, hands sure and steady at your waist, easily hoisting you up onto his shoulders like you weighed nothing at all, and you grabbed at his head for balance, laughing despite yourself as the water settled around his chest below you.

it took a second to get comfortable up there, your thighs settling either side of his neck, his hands coming up automatically to brace against your knees like it was second nature to him, like he'd done this a hundred times before instead of never. once you'd steadied, though, his hands didn't stay still. they drifted, slow and unthinking, down along the outside of your calves, thumbs tracing absent circles against your skin like he wasn't even aware he was doing it, too focused on the coming fight to notice his own fingers wandering.

"comfortable?" he asked, voice tilted up toward you, one hand braced now against your thigh, the other still absently mapping the curve of your calf.

"surprisingly, yes." you settled your hands into his damp hair for balance, fingers curling slightly against his scalp, and felt him go still for half a beat beneath you.

across the pool, dax's friend was already hooting, arms raised, clearly ready for battle, and mara stood poolside with both hands cupped around her mouth like a referee about to start a real match.

"first team to go under loses! ready—"

"we're not losing," eric said, low, just for you, tilting his head back slightly to catch your eye, his fingers pressing gentle into the arch of your foot where it rested against his chest, like he needed something to ground himself in the middle of everything. "you hear me? we're not losing."

"that's a lot of confidence for a man who's about to get dunked."

"watch me."

"go!" mara shouted, and the pool erupted into chaos, water splashing everywhere as the two teams collided.

eric moved steadier than you expected, hips braced low against the pull of the water, one hand splayed wide against your thigh to keep you locked in place while the other kept finding new places to settle, your ankle, the back of your knee, small points of contact that had nothing to do with keeping you balanced. every time he shifted his footing to dodge dax's lunge, his grip would tighten, then loosen, then wander again, fingers trailing absent along your skin like his hands had a mind entirely separate from the fight happening around him.

you barely registered your opponent's hands grabbing for your shoulders, too distracted by the warmth of eric's palm dragging slow against the back of your thigh as he repositioned, and you tugged lightly at his hair for balance, feeling the low sound that left him at the touch, something caught between a laugh and a groan.

"you're supposed to be fighting," he said, voice rough, tilting his head back again.

"you're supposed to be holding still."

"can't help it." his hand slid again, absent, unhurried, along your calf. "you keep moving."

"eric."

"what." he grinned up at you, entirely too pleased with himself, fingers pressing once more into the arch of your foot like he simply couldn't help himself.

the fight ended a moment later in a tangle of splashing limbs, your opponent finally toppling backward off her partner's shoulders with a shriek, and mara declared victory with both arms thrown in the air, but you barely heard it, too aware of eric's hands still resting warm against your legs, his thumb still moving slow against your skin like the game had ended and he'd simply forgotten to stop.

he looked up at you and grinned, squeezing your calf, and you felt yourself swoon a little, some helpless heat spreading through your chest at the sheer easy confidence of it, at the way his hand lingered there like he had every right to touch you like that.

the win got them cheers and splashing praise from the rest of the group, but you barely registered any of it, too busy trying to remember how to breathe normally with his hand still curled warm around your leg.

dinner came and went in a blur after that, plates passed around a long table on the back deck, string lights strung overhead, laughter and stories told too loud over the sound of the waves somewhere beyond the dunes. eric sat close beside you the entire meal, his knee brushing yours more than once beneath the table, neither of them mentioning it, both of them entirely aware.

by the time the night wound down, one by one your friends peeled off toward bed, dax first, then mara not long after, yawning behind her hand and shooting you both a knowing look before disappearing inside that neither of you acknowledged. the pool lights dimmed low, the yard quiet except for the soft hum of the jacuzzi jets and the distant hush of the ocean beyond the fence.

you slipped into the warm water first, sighing as the heat worked into muscles still sore from the pool games earlier, and eric followed a moment later, settling in across from you, close enough that his knee brushed yours beneath the surface.

for a while neither of you said much, the quiet comfortable in a way it hadn't always been between you, the steam curling up around you both in the cool night air. his eyes kept finding you anyway, lingering longer than casual conversation really allowed, and you found yourself doing the same, the two of you caught in some slow, wordless orbit neither of you seemed inclined to break.

"good day?" you said eventually, breaking the silence, voice soft.

"yeah." his gaze dropped briefly to the water between you, then back up, dark and unreadable in the low light. "good day."

the space between you had shrunk without either of you quite deciding to close it, his knee pressed fully against yours now beneath the water, his arm stretched along the edge of the jacuzzi behind you, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him along your shoulder.

"you're staring." you murmured, though you made no move to look away yourself.

"yeah." he didn't deny it, didn't even pretend to. "kind of hard not to."

your breath caught slightly at that, at the low, honest weight in his voice, and when you met his eyes properly this time, there was nothing guarded left in them at all, just something open and searching, waiting to see what you'd do with it.

"eric—"

"i know." his voice had gone rough, quiet, like he was fighting something back even as he said it. "i know what this is. i've known for a while."

the water lapped gentle against the both of you, the space between your mouths shrinking by inches neither of you were tracking anymore, his hand finally leaving the edge of the jacuzzi to rest warm against your waist beneath the surface, thumb tracing slow against your hip.

"so what are we gonna do about it?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

his eyes dropped to your mouth, lingering there long enough to answer the question before he even spoke, and when he finally looked back up at you, something had settled into his expression, certain, unhurried, like he'd made peace with whatever came next.

"i think," he said slowly, closing the last of the distance between you, "we've waited long enough."

steam curls thick around the jacuzzi as eric pulls you through the water, his broad chest glistening under the low lights. he sinks onto the submerged bench and drags you onto his lap, thighs spreading wide over his. his cock presses hot and heavy against your belly through the thin fabric of his trunks, already thick and twitching.

"fuck, look at you," he rasps, voice low and rough. his hands grip your hips, thumbs stroking the curve of your waist. "been wanting this since the first night you walked through that door."

he leans in and kisses your neck, open-mouthed and hungry. teeth graze your pulse, tongue following the line of your throat. one hand slides down between your legs, fingers parting your folds under the water. two thick digits push inside you without warning, curling deep. you gasp, hips jerking. eric groans against your skin.

"so fucking wet already. christ." he pumps his fingers slow and deliberate, knuckles brushing your entrance with every thrust. his mouth stays on your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks, biting just shy of breaking skin. "that's it, baby. take my fingers. such a good girl for me."

your hand slips under the waistband of his trunks, fingers wrapping around his thick cock. you stroke him in time with the thrust of his fingers inside you, palm sliding over the head, thumb teasing the slit. eric's hips buck up into your fist. he buries his face in your neck, muffling his groans against your skin while you moan into his ear, mewling and whining.

"please," you beg, voice shaking. "don't stop. fingers feel so good. need more."

eric adds a third finger, stretching you wider, scissoring inside your cunt. the water sloshes around you both. his free hand cups your breast, thumb flicking your nipple until it pebbles tight. you jerk him faster, grip tightening as he leaks pre-cum over your fingers.

"ride them," he orders into your neck, voice strained and muffled. "show me how bad you need it. fuck, your hand feels so good on my cock."

you obey, rolling your hips, fucking yourself on his fingers while your fist works his shaft. eric curls those fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes your thighs shake. praise spills from him between kisses to your throat.

"fuck, you're perfect. so tight around my hand. gonna make you cum so hard on my fingers. good girl. my good fucking girl."

your moans grow louder in his ear, desperate little whines and pleas tumbling out as you stroke him faster. eric's teeth sink into your neck, muffling his own sounds while his fingers pump relentlessly. your walls flutter around him, orgasm building fast.

"please, eric," you beg, voice cracking. "make me cum. need it so bad."

his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles while his fingers thrust deep. your hand jerks him harder, twisting on the upstroke. eric groans into your neck, hips stuttering as you both edge closer. "cum for me, baby. let me feel this pretty pussy squeeze my fingers. good girl. so fucking good."

your orgasm crashes over you, cunt pulsing around his fingers, moans spilling into his ear as you mewling and whining. eric follows right after, cock throbbing in your fist as he spills hot cum over your hand under the water, face still buried in your neck.

then you're giggling into his ear, breath hot against his skin. "is your cock pierced?"

eric groans, low and guttural, and his head falls back against the jacuzzi with a heavy thunk. his chest heaves, fingers still buried inside you as he catches his breath. "fuck, baby... see for yourself."

you shift on his lap, lifting just enough to tug his trunks lower. his cock springs free under the water, thick and flushed, and there it is—a thick silver prince albert piercing gleaming through the head, catching the light. your fingers trace over it, feeling the cool metal against his hot skin. eric watches you through half-lidded eyes, jaw tight, hips twitching as your hand explores the piercing, thumb circling the ring while your other hand keeps stroking his shaft.

"shit," he mutters into your neck, voice wrecked. his fingers curl inside you again, pumping slow and deep, thumb still working your clit. "feel that? all for you. been thinking about this since you got here."

you keep giggling softly, stroking him with both hands now, one focused on the piercing, tugging gently at the ring. eric's groans turn into muffled sounds against your throat, his free hand gripping your ass, spreading you wider as his fingers thrust harder. water splashes around you, your moans and whines filling his ear while he buries himself in your neck, body shaking under your touch.

you both dissolve into giggles, the sound light and breathless as the high fades. your bodies still connected, his cock softening inside you with the prince albert ring resting warm against your walls.

eric's chest shakes under your palm as he laughs, muffled at first until you ease your hand away. "fuck," he says, voice low and rough, "i can't wait to do that at home. just you and me, no one around to hear how loud we get."

you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling close. he shifts beneath you, muscles flexing as he stands in one smooth motion, lifting you both up and out of the jacuzzi. water cascades off your skin, dripping onto the tiles. his hands stay firm under your thighs, keeping you wrapped around him as he steps out, the cool air hitting your wet bodies. his cock slips free with a wet sound, the prince albert catching one last time before he sets you down gently on the edge, still holding you close.

But when he finally turned to face us, my eyes confirmed what my brain desperately wanted to deny.

Good news? I recognized the man I’d been so nervous to meet, which meant Margot and I weren’t going to end up as missing persons on the local news tonight.

Bad news? The man standing in front of me was the last person I wanted—or expected—to see.

Eric fucking Draven.

All six-foot-four of him stood before me, clad in dark jeans, a baggy white T-shirt that looked like it had seen better days, and a black windbreaker. He looked tired. But somehow better than the last time I’d seen him. His dark hair was an edgy sort of mullet—almost a mohawk but not quite, like he’d started shaving his head and lost interest halfway through; his still beautifully sculpted face was now marked by four tattoos near his eyes, and he’d filled out over the years—broad shoulders and solid muscles visible even beneath his clothes. Despite every instinct telling me not to, my gaze betrayed me, trailing down to the tattoos littering his neck, taking in each one before they disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt, and I found myself wondering, what other tattoos might be etched into the wide expanse of his pecs.

Damn, he looked good.

In the most dangerously handsome kind of way—the kind that sent a swarm of butterflies into a complete frenzy in my stomach, whether I liked it or not.

For a moment, I found myself hoping he’d recognize me too—maybe even think I was prettier than the last time he saw me. But when his green gaze landed on me, that flicker of recognition I’d hoped for never came. The only thing keeping me from giving up on that hope entirely was the way his pupils seemed to dilate, black swallowing green for a fraction of a second so quickly I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it. I watched with a mix of disillusionment and mortification swirling in my chest as his gaze swept over me, cool and indifferent, like I was nothing more than the cigarette butt slowly burning out at his feet before his eyes slid back to Margot.

I felt my shoulders slump at his reaction—or lack thereof—the butterflies in my stomach slowing with sudden disappointment before I quickly regained control of my emotions and steeled my spine. He wanted to pretend he didn’t know me? Fine. I refused to give him the satisfaction of provoking any discernible reaction from me. I’d spent years trying to forget Eric Draven, and I wasn’t about to let him think he still had the power to affect me now.

“Oh, um… my bad,” Margot said, biting her lip. “The guy I got your number from had you saved as Ric and—” She cut herself off with a frustrated huff. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. I’m Margot,” she jerked her thumb in my direction, dragging his attention back to me.

Eric’s forest colored eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment everyone else on that crowded patio ceased to exist. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears as his gaze swept from my made-up face down to the black lace corset hugging my torso, skimming over my leather mini skirt and black-stockinged legs before stopping at my platform boots. Then his eyes dragged their way back up, lingering a beat too long on the silver pendant resting against my cleavage, the metal suddenly feeling like it was branding my skin beneath his scrutiny.

Realistically, the whole thing only lasted a few seconds, but beneath the weight of his stare, it felt much longer. Long enough for my breath to turn shallow, my heart thudding so hard in my chest it felt like it might break through my ribs. Long enough for me to forget Margot was still talking, her voice barely registering over the pounding in my ears.

“And grumpy over here is—”

“Aurora.” Eric finished the sentence before she could, his eyes sliding back up to my blue ones in the same breath, holding my gaze. Still, I didn’t miss the way his lips twitched, like he was holding back a smirk—one that said got you.

And just like that, all the color drained from my face.

The butterflies plummeted—dead on impact.

Fucker.

He knew how much I’d hated my name.

Eeeekkk I love a friends-to-lovers with a little enemies moment for some extra spice. I’m so excited to finally introduce you guys to my first OC—my sweet n’ sassy lil bb girl that I birthed myself—Rory Reynolds!!! ❤️‍🔥

You didn’t often dwell on the past. You had a live in the moment kind of mindset. You didn’t know where you’d be tomorrow so you made the best of the moment. But sometimes, you wondered just where your bad decisions were taking you. You didn’t mean to end up here, in this awful bubblegum pink sweater and sweatpants, surrounded by people who didn’t care why you were here, or if you got better or not. The disappointed words of your mother played in your head, and the angry words of your father hammered in the back of your head. You were a fucking disappointment, and that’s why you were here. 

You thought about ending it. This mess your life had become. It wouldn’t be too hard to find a razor around here if you truly tried. Who would miss you anyway? What even was the point of it all? By day two you couldn’t take this shit anymore. And then you saw him in the yard. You were almost entranced by him. He was so tall, he towered over everyone he walked past, you couldn’t imagine how ridiculous you would look standing next to him. You could see his ink cover his hands and fingers, and you wondered just how far the ink traveled. You were intrigued by him, he was quiet, morbidly so, he didn’t say a word to anyone, no matter how much they pressed or tossed him around, he just stared. Whether it was the doctors, the counselors, the guards. He always chose silence. And he always had this look of defiance, of apathy, he took everything with a locked jaw and deadpan eyes. And that intrigued you.

Should you try to entertain anyone in this facility, let alone the loner covered in tattoos? No, absolutely not. But lord, something about him drew you in. 

You caught glimpses of him for a few days, in the cafeteria when you walked past him to your table, maybe he thought you didn’t notice, but you caught him turning his head to watch you walk by. One time, your eyes met, they were a pretty shade of green. It was brief though, as soon as he realized you caught him, his eyes were in front of his plate, but not before you managed to flash him a tiny smile. Welcoming, playful. 

Eric remembered that. 

The next time you saw him was out in the yard. They encouraged exercise in this place, for some dumb reason. The most people did around here was stand in a corner, feeling completely miserable under the scorching sun. But much to your surprise, after some time walking around the yard you found Eric, lingering by the gym equipment. It wasn’t much, just a pull up bar and that was barely tall enough to accommodate him. No weights, of course, because someone could hurt themselves, or someone else with them. It wasn’t much, but you couldn’t help but watch as he pulled his sweatshirt over his head, revealing even more tattoos going up both of his arms. You stood in a corner like a fucking weirdo, watching as he did pull up’s, as best as he could having to bend his long legs to accommodate the short bar. Why were you just staring at this man you’ve never even spoken to? Of that you had no clue. But you couldn’t take your eyes away. He had his back to you, but even under the material of his white t-shirt you could see the muscles in his shoulders tense, his arms flexing with each pull. And you could only I magine the true sight of him. Sweat dripping down his forehead, lips pulled between his teeth as he did each pull. God, you felt like such a pervert. You shouldn’t be eye fucking him like this, but you couldn’t help it, something about him twisted the most secluded corners of your mind.

Ultimately your trance was cut short, since it didn’t take long for a group of guys to take interest in whatever Eric was doing and went straight to push him around some more. You frowned, almost upset by the sight of him getting tossed around and hazed like this. You couldn’t hear what was happening, but Eric had his head down, chest heavy as he clenched his fists at his sides, but he otherwise did nothing. You didn’t care, any fucks you still had to give were gone the moment your parents and your ex-boyfriend conspired to send you here. You were about to walk over there, not caring about what weird opposite sex rules this place had. But when you started walking, Eric did too, getting shoulder checked as he pushed his way past the group of guys. You felt awful, you wanted to say something to him, but you were frozen when he walked past you, his green eyes shooting a quick glance at you, a bit of curiosity laced in them. But you were more focused on how his shirt was clinging to his sweaty chest. And just like that he was gone.

The next time you saw him was during a group meeting that afternoon. You were almost disappointed at first when he didn’t show. You sulked into your seat for the first minute or two, upset you wouldn’t get to see him today again. And then you saw him. His expression as apathetic as ever, like he would rather get beat up than sit through this bullshit. His hair was soaking wet, small droplets of water still falling from the tips of his raven hair. Great, now the image of him in the shower was ingrained into your brain. As if you didn’t feel filthy enough.

You bit your lip softly, sitting up as he sat across from you, his expression blank with disinterest as his tattooed fingers played with the hem of his pink sweater. You weren’t paying attention either, you were more entertained by the way his long legs spread open as he slouched on his chair, taking as much space as possible. You thought about how nice it would be to sit on his lap. You glanced at his hands, they were huge. How easily he could grab a hold of your ass, or hold you still by your neck. How his long fingers would feel so deep inside you. You thought about how easily he was doing those pull ups, and you thought just how easily he could hold you down, throw you around to as he pleased with you. Truly, you would happily let him use you. You could feel heat rush to your face as you crossed your legs, trying your best to ignore the heat pooling between your legs. Why were you lusting so hard over him? You didn’t even know his name. 

Almost as if he could hear your pounding heart, Eric looked up to find your eyes lingering on him, one leg crossed over the other tightly. He tilted his head with curiosity, and his fingers twitched around his sweatshirt as your eyes met. He didn’t feel like looking away this time. The longer his hooded eyes were on you, the more nervous you became. You could feel your breath hitch in your chest as his eyes burned you. You only looked away when the counselor said your name, followed by stares. 

Shit, were you supposed to say something? 

You opened your mouth, immediately closing it as you had nothing to say. You didn’t even hear the question. You pursed your lips and shook your head lightly. The counselor sighed softly and looked to the girl beside you instead. It was common for most people here to refrain from speaking so he didn’t think too much about it. But when your eyes found Eric again, there was a small hint of amusement in his eyes, a ghost of a grin tugging at his plush lips. For the first time since you’ve been here, you saw something other than disinterest on his face. 

Perhaps he was just as drawn to you as you were to him. 

~~~

You pulled your lips into a disappointed pout as you searched around the cafeteria for his black mullet, not being able to find him. And here you thought today would be the day you finally spoke to him. You were about to sit at the nearest empty table when you found him. Even sitting down he stood out. You smiled to yourself, your heart pounding in your chest with anticipation. You looked around for guards, none were paying particular attention to you so you did it. 

He lifted his head slightly to glance at you, a quick second before his eyes were back on his plate. You saw the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. You smiled to yourself.

“I like your ink.” Were the first words out of your mouth. You said them in one breath, afraid he would get up and leave. His eyes lifted from his hands to meet yours, his eyes then fell to your own hands, one of them covered in distinct patterns and colors from your wrist up to your fingers. He wondered what else you were hiding under your sweater, like him.

“Hm.” He gave you a small nod, his plush lips pulled between his teeth in a way that had you clenching your thighs. “I like yours.” 

You smiled, the first genuine one since you’ve gotten here.

“I have more.” You whispered, leaning close to him, like it was some secret only for his ears to hear. His eyes flickered with amusement and he gave you another hum, his eyes now looking everywhere they could in hope of finding said secrets. 

“Me too.” His lips curved up the slightest bit as he lifted one of his sleeves up enough to reveal more tattoos going up his arm. Your eyes lit up as you excitedly leaned down closer with the excuse of getting a closer look. Your proximity was certainly way too close for this facility.

Leaning impossibly close to him without actually touching him, you looked up at him and with a playful smile you pulled down the collar of your sweatshirt to reveal more designs along your collarbone, the rest of the design hidden by your sweater as the colors continued down your shoulder. 

“But don’t tell anyone.” You chewed on your bottom lip, trying to hide your smile. He gave you what sounded like a chuckle and he shrugged.

“Who would I tell?” Though his face remained expressionless, his eyes had a glint that mimicked your eagerness, he welcomed your proximity. “Here he comes.”

You were confused by his words and you opened your mouth to question him as he sat back, his head lifting in the direction behind your head. 

“Males and females can’t sit together!” One of the guards, one you had noticed had a particular thing with Eric shouted, roughly grabbing the back of his chair to force him up on his feet.

“Huh? Wait, why are you taking him?” You talked back to the guard. “Hey, he didn’t do anything! I was the one that sat here. I—I’ll move. Don’t be such an asshole! Leave him alone!” You tried to help, even going as far as standing up but the guard was already taking the new owner of all of your attention away. Your heart sank as you watched the guard shout at him as he dragged him away.

He had managed to turn his head back for a second, and when your eyes met, he half smiled at you. He was almost proud of the fact that you tried to stand up for him. “I’m Eric!”

You smiled. 

~~~~~~

“Found you.” You skipped into Eric’s room, finally seeing his door open.

You hadn’t seen him since you got him in trouble at their cafeteria the day before. You got in some trouble too. You had a one on one meeting with a counselor about your choice of words and your “temper” but it was nothing more than just a slap on the wrist. Truly, you felt worse about getting Eric in trouble more than anything. You didn’t mean to, you just wanted to talk to him. He must have gotten punished because you didn’t see him during gym hour. You leaned against the doorframe as he turned around to find you. Curiosity filled his otherwise empty eyes, and a glint of amusement replaced the usual apathy in his gaze.

“I never left.” He answered with a shrug as he shuffled through the mess that was made of his artwork. Sketch papers were scattered all over his room, torn off the walls. Perhaps after getting in trouble during lunch they used that as an excuse to go through his room. 

“I’m sorry for getting you in trouble.” You expressed with genuine regret, shooting back a glance to the hallway before inviting yourself into his room. Much to the protest of the rational voice in your mind. You looked at the floor as you almost stepped on a piece of paper, you happily picked it up, admiring the black charcoal coating the page before you set it on his bed.

“Is that why you’re here? To apologize?” Eric asked almost cynically as he glanced over at you, not moving from where he stood.

“Well yeah. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” You said sheepishly, a bit intimidated under his intense gaze. There was always a look of defiance in his green eyes, determination even. He gave you a sarcastic hum, which made you roll your eyes.

“Why did you yell at the guard? You got in trouble too, didn’t you?” He asked lowly, his head slightly tilted as he searched for that little thing you did around him, when you clenched your hands at your sides, or your thighs on your seat. His eyes irked with amusement when your fingers twitched at your sides and your lips parted open.

“‘Cause… You didn’t do anything wrong. You never do anything, or say anything. And everyone around here always pushes you around. It’s fucked up.” You answered quietly, daring to meet his eyes. He pulled his lips into a small pout and nodded slowly. His silence was always so nerve wracking to you.

“Yeah, so?”

You scrunched up your face, sighing heavily at his questioning. What did he what you to say? You didn’t know why you cared. You shrugged, picking up another piece of paper by your feet. You half glanced at it as you spoke.

“I dunno.. I just.. Oh my—” You cut yourself off as you gave the drawing in your hand a proper look. You narrowed your eyes, giving the drawing a closer look, and your jaw fell open. It looked like you, your hair falling over your face, dark scribbles covering your body symbolizing the unknown designs on your body, the only intelligible one being the patterns on your collarbone, the same one you had shown Eric. But what truly caught your eye was that you were in fact, completely nude. Truly, his imagination surprised you, he had imagined every curve of your body well, despite not having seen any part of it.

Based on your flustered expression, Eric could only assume which drawing you had picked up. He swallowed, his cheeks flushing pink being caught red handed. But he didn’t look apologetic, at all.

“This what you do in your spare time? Draw naked girls?” You asked with big eyes, the still working rational part of your mind screaming alarms, but a part of you also filled with excitement at his perverted mind. Almost as if you were on his mind as much as he was on yours.

He shook his head. “Just one.” He answered with a shrug, a challenging look in his eyes. 

Either you walked out right then and there, and that would be that, or you would go all in. He was trying to figure out which one it would be.

“You are very talented, this is—” You dragged your tongue over your lip as you walked closer to him, catching glances at his other artwork. Your heart pounded in your chest as you approached him, his gaze making you shudder. He said nothing as you stooped in front of him, now having to tilt his head down to meet your gaze. God this man was so goddamn tall. “You could totally sell this for some money.”

“But,” you continued, swallowing hard as you looked up at him, and the way his green eyes looked at you made your mind all fuzzy. God, you haven't felt this euphoric since you got here. This rush of adrenaline made you dizzy, but you pushed through it. “I see one flaw in your creativity.”

“Oh?” He bit down on his plush lip, head tilted with curiosity. You hummed and nodded, daring to bring your fingers up his chest. His breath hitched in his chest, but he said nothing.

“I fear you don’t have the full picture. My tattoos are more than just a scribble of ink.” You stated matter of factly, making him breathe out a small laugh.

“Sorry. I work with what I have.” He shrugged his shoulders, trying to ignore the feeling of your hands itching up his chest.

“Maybe I should give you more to work with?” Your hands found the back of his neck and you instinctively stood on the ends of your toes, itching to get closer to him.

Eric glanced down at you, his eyes lingering on your own for a split second before glancing at your parted lips, soft breaths escaping you as you anxiously waited. He didn’t have to think about it, he didn’t want to. His mouth was on yours so hard you whined. His large hand found your hair, tilting your head back to meet your lips better. 

You weren’t sure when you ended up against the nearest wall, your legs wrapped around Eric’s slim waist as he held you up. You were right, he could hold you up like you were nothing. Truly, the oversized clothes you were forced to wear didn’t do him any justice. You wondered what he was hiding under his sweatshirt.

His lips were messy on yours, his heavy breaths joining your soft whimpers. You were so caught up in the delicious feeling of his mouth claiming yours and his hands touching everywhere he could, you didn’t hear the loud voices of guards calling your name and patient number. Reality dawned on you when you heard shouting down the hall for everyone to get out of their rooms. You patted Eric’s shoulder, forcing your lips away from his. 

“Eric—Eric.” You said his name with urgency, making him look at you, eyes filled with greed as he chased your lips. “I have to go. I don’t want to get you in trouble again.” 

He nodded after a second, setting you down on your feet after pressing one last kiss to your lips. You had a stupid smile on your face as you successfully sneaked out his room, the guards being distracted as they probably ransacked some poor bastard's room like they had done Eric’s. You glanced behind you as you hurried down the hall, catching a glimpse of Eric peeking his head through his door. He smiled. And it made your heart race.

You could not wait to see him again.

~~~~~~

“Eric!—” You slapped your hand over your mouth, attempting to quiet the desperate sounds leaving your mouth. But the way his tongue lapped at your sensitive clit and his long fingers rubbed against that one spot within your walls that had you squirming.

You didn’t mean to end up in this position, ass naked on top of one of the washing machines in the laundry room, with Eric on his knees and his face between your thighs. Truly you didn’t, you knew you would be in a lot of fucking trouble if you got caught. But the way his lips claimed yours, his tongue lacing with yours, his large hands grabbing at every part of your body like he didn’t know which one he craved to touch more. He just wanted you so fucking bad, your kisses and little rubbing here and there for the past few days wasn’t enough for him, or for you.

“I wanted to taste you so fucking bad.” He muttered against your clit, a groan rumbling in his throat when you pulled at the hairs on the back of his head, inadvertently holding his face closer against you. Not that he minded, he would stay here, with his fingers scissoring you open until you dripped on the surface underneath you. 

“Please—fuck. That feels so good.” You didn’t remember the last time someone made you feel this good. Not that you had much experience in this area, but this sure felt right.

Eric wrapped his free hand under your thigh, pulling you to the edge, closer to his mouth. He lapped at your pussy like he needed it, like it was the air in his lungs. The sounds leaving his mouth as your juices seeped around his fingers were almost as filthy as yours. 

You felt like such a slut, chasing his mouth with your hips, heaving like a bitch in heat, and quietly begging him to grant you your release, as quiet as you could be with his fingers so deep and his tongue drawing delicious circles around your clit. 

“Just like that baby… Just like that.” Eric mumbled, his fingers slipping and crooking against that perfect spot. 

Your release was so sudden, and it hit you so hard you were shaking, sobbing violently into your hand. Your head was thrown back, eyes rolled into the back of your head. Eric dug his fingers into your thigh, his tongue slipping into your hole when his fingers left you. 

“Shit—Eric—” You gasped, your thighs shaking as you weakly reached to grab his face. 

With a grunt he peeled himself from the warmth of your thighs, he stood to his full height before leaning down to capture your lips. The taste of yourself lingering on his tongue made you moan. Disoriented, you reached down to rub where his cock was straining against his sweatpants. He groaned into your mouth, his large hand flew to catch your wrist.

“It’s okay.” He gave your lips a soft kiss as he pulled your hand away. You gave him an adorable frown, your mind still spinning from your orgasm. 

“But you—” He pressed another kiss to your lips, shutting you up. He moved his lips to your neck, latching on to that one spot that had you whining. Neither of you cared if everyone saw the mark he left. 

“We’ll have time for that.” He mumbled against your skin. The way he slurred the words made your breath hitch. “Right?”

He pulled back to meet your eyes, blinking slowly as he waited for your response. You licked your lips softly, breath soft as you thought, how could he still question it. You were past the lusting. This was something else. You needed more of him, and it wasn't just sex you were craving. You wanted every part of him, even the parts of himself he didn’t want.

“Of course.. This isn’t.. Can’t you tell? What you do to me. I’ve never..” You couldn’t even form the right words, your mind still fuzzy with all these feelings you had no name for. You didn’t need to explain. Whatever it was, Eric felt the same. And he smiled, he genuinely smiled. And what a pretty sight that was.

“We should go.” He pressed his lips to the side of your head, smoothing down your hair and fixing your sweater. “Can you stand?”

You half nodded, gasping when he set you down on your feet and you instantly leaned on him for support. The sly smile on his face made you want to slap him. But deep down, you wanted to smile too.

~~~~~

The next time you saw Eric, he was walking down the hallway, his tall frame towering over the majority of people he walked past. He wasn’t hard to find. You bit your lip, unable to contain your excitement as you hurried after him. Your fingers brushed his, and almost as if he knew your touch by heart, he wasn’t startled, he didn’t flinch either. When he turned his head, his eyes grew big at the sight of you, the corners of his lips curving into a tiny smile. You flashed him a whole smile, unapologetic about how happy it made you to see him. Your obsession with him over the past two weeks wasn’t something you could explain, you knew it probably wasn’t healthy. But when were you ever known for having healthy coping mechanisms? You found something that filled you and you clung to it.

“Where are you going?” You asked him quietly as you walked beside him. He walked slower, but didn’t look at you much, as not to bring unwanted attention to yourselves.

“Laundry room.” He said quietly, his eyes dropping to meet yours. And you shared that knowing and malicious look. You couldn’t hide the smile on your lips. This time of day usually meant you could sneak off for a little while since most patients were having their once a week visitor, or phone call, which meant less guards were in every corner.

“I’m supposed to be out in two weeks.” You told Eric in between kisses, his lips trailed your jaw as his hands grabbed at your ass. 

“I’m out in four.” He answered as he pressed you against the nearest wall. He grabbed your face between his large hands, pulling you to meet his eager mouth. You whined, fists clenched around the front of his sweatshirt. You couldn’t go two weeks without seeing him, you would go fucking mad.

“I don’t want to wait a month to be with you.” You breathed out, your chest heavy as the words left your mouth. “I’m supposed to go back to my parents when I get out. They agreed to take me in to follow my treatment, but I don’t want to go. They’re the ones that put me here.” 

“I don’t have anywhere to go.” You barely heard him as he spoke, almost as if the words pained him, broke something deep inside him. It broke something in you, too.

“You can come with me. I have a little place and some money saved. It’s not much but.. If you want.. We could.. We could try something for real?” You trailed off, afraid he would reject you. It was one thing to mess around in here, where neither of you had anything else, anyone else to cling to, but this being anything other than a desperate bond by two lost souls was a different story. Outside of these walls, he could find anyone else, he didn’t have to keep the broken girl he fingered in a shitty laundry room.

“I would like that. I would like something real, with you.” His words were soft, as were his hands holding your face as he pressed his forehead against yours. You breathed out a laugh of relief. “Fuck this place. We’ll do it tomorrow, during shift change. There’s a vent up here that leads to the yard.”

You pulled him down by his sweatshirt, your lips crashing against his. He laced his fingers in your hair as he slipped his tongue into your mouth. You welcomed it, lips parting as you locked your arms around his neck. 

“Eric.” You said his name softly in a quiet plea. He opened his eyes to find your desperate gaze. He told himself he wanted to be better, he knew you deserved better, but when you said his name like that, when you looked at him like that. He was no better. “I don’t think I can wait anymore. Please, I… I need…”

“Need what?” His words were coated with arousal, he knew fucking well what you meant. But he wanted to hear you say it.

“Fuck—” You kissed his lips roughly, any sanity and restraint you might’ve once had, completely. You can’t trust an addict to have good self-control, now could you? “Take me. I’m yours, just take me.”

“Fuck.” Now it was his turn to lose his sanity. He gave your lips one last kiss as he squeezed your cheeks between his fingers, licking your lips before he spun you around to face the wall. “You’re a sweet girl, don’t forget that. I swear I will fuck you properly on a bed, with flowers and shit.” 

His words were rough in your ear as he pressed his lips to your jaw, his hands making quick work of pulling down your sweatpants and panties. They pooled around your ankles as he kicked your legs open as far as they went.

“I like carnations.” You gasped as the cool air hit your exposed cunt. You heard him chuckle beside your ear.

“Those are pretty. They’re pretty like you.” He hummed as he brought two fingers up to your lips. You happily took them in your mouth. Eric almost moaned at the sight. One of these days he needed to have you sucking his cock. One of these days. 

Eric pulled his fingers from your lips and with a kiss to the back of your head, he sunk his coated fingers into your hole. Your mouth fell open, your forehead falling against the wall. You were instantly chasing his fingers, soft whimpers leaving your lips as you happily rode them. You didn’t know how he did it, how he could have you dripping around his fingers in a matter of a minute or two. You were clawing at the wall, silent moans spilling from you when he pulled his fingers from you. He watched almost proudly as your slick coated your thighs. 

“Can I take this off?” He asked quietly, tugging at the hem of your sweater. You made a humming sound, as best as you could. As if he needed to ask. Eric was happy to rid you of your sweater, more happy to find more hidden tattoos going all over both of your arms. He craved to find every single one of your tattoos, and kiss every one. But he knew it would be best to be quick.

His own sweatshirt met the same fate, and with a kiss to your cheek, he grabbed one of your hips as he pulled down his sweats enough to free his cock. A groan left his lips as he dragged his cock between your folds, coating himself in your slick. You gasped, not being able to see him, but already knowing he was big. 

“Let me know if it hurts, hm? I’ll take it easy, I promise.” He pressed his lips to your jaw, inhaling your sweet scent as he slowly sank himself into you. Only his tip was in and you could already feel the sting of his cock stretching you wide open.

“Fuck. Fuck, oh my god—” You squeezed your eyes shut, fingers clenching around nothing as he slowly filled your further, inch by inch.

“It’s okay. You want me to stop?” He asked, shushing you softly as he sat still, allowing you to adjust to the burning feeling of his size. Fuck, you should have known someone as tall as him would be this big. Somehow, it didn’t occur to you.

“No. ‘m okay. Keep going.” You reached behind you to touch him, your fingers gracing over the side of his face. He nodded into your neck, one of his hands sneaking to the front of you to play with your clit to ease you as he sank into you until his hips rutted against your ass. He sat still, speaking filthy words into your ear until you were whimpering, needing to feel more. “Eric, please.”

You didn’t need to tell him twice. His pace was slow at first, slow strokes that allowed you to revel in the feeling of his cock in and out of your walls. But as you both began to grow desperate, pathetic sounds leaving your lips and groans of pleasure leaving him, his pace picked up. It was grueling, how he fucked you against that wall. You braced yourself with one hand, the other holding his face behind you as he leaned his head to capture your parted lips into a messy kiss. He swallowed your sweet sounds as the sting of his cock had you squeezing the life out of him.

“Fuck, I have been dreaming about this since I saw you. You always looked so pretty when you looked at me.” He whispered in your ear, his hand wrapping around your hair as he forced your head back, exposing your neck. You cried out, his roughness making you clench around him. He cursed, covering your mouth with his large hand. “I need you to keep it down for me, baby. You don’t want us to get caught, do you?” 

You shook your head, doing your best to contain the sounds he was pulling from you. His hand slowly left your mouth, trusting you could keep your sounds to a minimum. You bit down on your lip, eyes squeezed shut as his cock split you open. You swore you had never been this utterly fucked out, so cock drunk before. You had never needed anyone so badly. You had never felt so strongly about anyone. You had always found something to cling to, pain, tattoos, in your more miserable and recent years—drugs, and now him. But him? This feeling he gave you, it was like nothing you had ever felt before. You wanted to hold on to him until your final breath of air left your lungs.

“I wanted this—you—so fucking bad. I needed to have you.” Eric grunted, lips latching on to that spot on your neck where the previous hickey he had left was starting to fade. “I’m so crazy about you, no amount of rehab could fix me.” 

You moaned at his words, letting them sink in. He was down so bad for you, probably as much as you were. Two addicts, seeking refuge in each other, craving this adrenaline, it was a kick you had never felt before. It was a kick only lust and passion could bring. And he ignited that deep within your soul. 

“Me too.” You panted, lips parting in ecstasy as one of his tattooed hands loosely wrapped around your throat. Fuck, the way his whole hand covered your entire neck made you gush all over his cock. “I’ve never wanted anyone this bad. You—ah!—I need you all the fucking time.”

“Then you can have me,” His fingers squeezed your throat tighter, his thick cock so deep you swore you could feel him in your fucking cervix. “All the fucking time. Forever.” 

Tears filled your ears as you could feel your release near, your thighs shuddering as you felt your legs start to give out. Eric was quick to press you further against the wall, his back flush against your chest, sweaty forehead pressed against your cheek as his cock rutted against you, over and over, until you were chanting a string of uh-uh-uh’s, your mind too overcome with the pleasure he was giving you to even speak. 

“I want you to come on my cock so fucking bad. I need it.” Groans fell freely from his chest as he once again slipped a hand to your swollen clit. The pressure of his rough fingers made you gasp, your throat closing under his grip. Your release hit you so hard you were sobbing, though mostly muffled by his tight grip. Tears fell down your cheek as your orgasm left you a shaking mess. You had never felt this way before—so overcome with pleasure you cried.

“Shh, it’s okay baby. Good girl.” The hand on your throat left to wipe at your tears, soothing you as you came crashing down. 

Eric fucked you through your release, frantically chasing his own. His name left your lips with praise, sobs of your remnant pleasure as he pushed you to the point of overstimulation. But it wasn’t until he felt his own release near that he pulled out of you. Without saying a word, he grabbed one of your hands and wrapped it around his thick cock, his own hand guiding yours up and down his slick length, sweet praises leaving his lips until he was spilling himself. 

Heavy breaths and pants of exhaustion filled the small laundry room, the air smelled like sex, and the remnants of your forbidden times were left as evidence. Eric eventually spun you around to face him, a soft smile on his lips. You had only ever seen it once, after he ate you out days ago. It was rare to see Eric smile, but you made it a vow to yourself that you would always make him smile like this.

“How fucked up are we? Finding comfort in each other like this. Did it ever cross your mind?” You said softly as Eric helped you dress. He was bending down to grab your sweater and he stood up to his full height, towering over you, and his eyes were laced with an indescribable feeling.

“When I first saw you, I didn’t know what it was, but I was so drawn to you, I looked for you everyday, and I thought I would go mad if I didn’t have you. And right now, I can tell you it’s not just lust. I’m entranced by you, I need you all the time. And if there’s one thing I learned from this fucking place is that you have to latch on to something, otherwise you’ll drown.” 

You were speechless, nothing but your soft breaths could be heard. A smile fell on your lips and you leaned into his chest. Eric sighed softly, wrapping his arms around you, holding you close to his chest, he’d be damn if he ever let you go anywhere but here.

“Addicts will be addicts, no matter how much they try to fix us. But it’s not always to drugs we’re addicted to.” You sighed softly, closing your eyes as you sank into the feeling of his arms. “This feeling? I never want it to stop.”

“It doesn’t have to.” He mumbled into your hair, in his head reminding himself of your limited time, but he refused to let you go just yet. “Forever, right?”

You push a slow breath out through your pursed lips as you connect the last strand of red thread. Sixteen. Sixteen deaths in a small town over the course of the year. Well, alright, only four confirmed. But twelve missing that you know in your gut aren’t runaways. Prostitutes have kids. Even bums have places they consider home. People don’t just disappear. You grit your teeth, running your fingers along the crimson thread to the photo of the young girl with the blue wig and the bruises mottling her neck. People don’t just disappear.

*

You clutch your folder to your chest, trying hard not to spill the coffee in your other hand as you push open Section Chief Matthew Clark’s office door. He looks up, face falling. “No.”

“I brought caffeine.”

The man twists his mouth to the side. “Two minutes.”

You thank him, placing the coffee down on his desk and opening your folder. “It’s up to sixteen now, sir.”

“Sixteen… what?”

“Deaths or disappearances that are too suspicious to be anything other than foul play.”

“You got another body?” He asks, rotating the folder and pulling the mugshot of the hooker out from its paperclip.

“Turned up in a local park. Drained of blood, throat eviscerated. Like an animal, but I don’t know any animal that wraps the kill in silk sheets after, do you?”

He raises an eyebrow. “This is… more. It isn’t nothing.”

“We’ll look into it?”

He scoffs. “Don’t push your luck. I’ll make a call down to Hemlock County, see what the sheriff over there thinks. We don’t have enough to force our way in here.”

You nod, trying not to appear too eager even though your stomach is flipping over. This is the closest you’ve come to anyone taking you seriously since the first file had crossed your desk. “I understand. And thank you, sir. Really.”

Clark purses his lips. “No promises, kid. If they don’t want our help, you have to drop it.”

You agree, though you have no intention of dropping it. You just can’t. Not after getting the letter. The letter hasn’t made its way into the official FBI folder, because if anyone got a hold of it they’d pull you from the case. Too close, too personal.

But a nine year old girl in Hemlock Grove saw you on the news and wrote you a letter. About her missing sister. About the something stalking the people of Hemlock Grove. About how everybody said her sister ran away, but that she knows her sister. People don’t just run away. They don’t just leave. You kept that letter on your bedside table, propped up the fuzzy Polaroid of the child with her chubby arms wrapped tightly around a teenager sporting a crooked grin, so the little girl and her missing sister were the first things you thought about when you woke up and the last thing before you went to sleep. And Hemlock Grove had been leaking into the seams of your dreams, recently. The town had a shimmery quality around the edges in your mind, because you’d never been there and all the photos you’d seen were of crime scenes.

You settle into bed that night with the latest case file, reading over the pertinent details. Local woman, known sex worker. Booked twice for solicitation in the past two years, of no fixed address but often seen at the Grove Motel. Body found in Kilderry Park by a dog walker at approximately 3AM. That was a strange time to walk a dog, and you make a note to follow up with the witness.

Your work phone buzzes in your nightstand, and you pull the drawer open to read the short message from Clark. Hemlock want you to take a look. Off the books, for now. Report to Sheriff Sworn at 9AM Monday.

Your heart is a jackhammer in your throat as you read and re-read the message. You had a case. You had the case. You were going to be able to look that nine year old girl in the eye and tell her somebody was listening. You were going to find her sister.

*

Hemlock Grove is a chaotic sprawl of a place. The residential areas seem to have spread out into the surrounding forest with almost no regard for proper planning, though the main part of town is made up of a swirl of concentric circular streets like the turns of a whirlpool, centered around a jagged, ugly skyscraper at the heart.

You meet Sheriff Tom Sworn outside the station. He’s sitting on the hood of his car with two Styrofoam coffee cups, and he holds one out to you before you’ve even switched off the engine in your rental. “You the FBI?”

You shrug. “Not officially, not today. You must be Sheriff Sworn.”

“My men… don’t know about this. Hell, I don’t know about this. Your chief made it sound like… do you really think we got a serial killer working outta Hemlock?”

You twist your mouth to the side, choosing your words carefully. “I wouldn’t like to say that, not without all the facts. But I think with sixteen missing or dead in under a year? You got one hell of a problem.”

You let the Sheriff do the talking when you follow him into the station. “Guys, this is a lady detective from the FBI. She’s studying small town policing for some reason or other.”

“I’ll be working vice cases, and with your recently deceased sex worker the Sheriff kindly offered me a chance to look at the case.” You offer the men a tight smile, and not a single one returns it. Good. Great.

“FBI interested in one dead hooker?” A tall, thin cop with a hooked nose and a moustache asks.

“Not the FBI. Just me. Educationally, as it’s not high-priority.” You hate the words as you say them, but it has the desired effect. The cops shoulders relax, his beady eyes assessing you and deciding you’re one of them after all. Nobody cares about dead hookers. “I promise to stay outta your way whilst you guys get the real police work done.”

This is the right thing to say, because another cop finally flashes you a grin. “Well welcome to Hemlock Grove, young lady. If there’s anything we can do to help you out, just holler.”

You reach out a hand and shake his meaty one, trying hard not to grimace at the sweat slipping off his palm and onto yours. “Actually, there was one thing. Know how I can get in touch with the person who found the body? File says a dogwalker.”

“Oh, sure. Mrs Balkay. She lives over on Flynn Street, painted her house blue last year. You can’t miss it if you drive straight round the back of the tower and hook a left.”

You glance out the window at the tower. “What exactly is that thing, anyway?”

The Sheriff ducks his head to look up at the sharp peak of the building. “The White Tower. It’s the headquarters for Godfrey Industries, big biotech company. This used to be a steel town, and the Godfrey’s owned it all. Switched around the industrial revolution and now I guess they’re a big deal in science.”

“I’ve never heard of them.” You mumble absently, wrinkling your nose. “It’s a bit… much, isn’t it?”

The Sheriff scoffs. “It’s a fucking eyesore is what it is. And it never goes out. The lights all the way up that thing, I mean. The tower’s never gone dark in forty years.”

*

You stir your tea carefully, the delicate porcelain of the cup so thin and fragile you’re terrified that the clink of the spoon against it might shatter the whole thing. Mrs Balkay watches you, sipping from her own cup as the cloud of fur masquerading as a dog rubs around your ankles. “Three AM is a strange time to walk your dog, Ma’am. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

She chuckles. “I don’t sleep much, and neither does Sissy. Do you, my love?” She coos to the dog, who skitters over to her mistress and wriggles underneath her chair. “And Sissy has explosive bowels. I walk her at all manner of strange times, if she needs to go. Don’t want her messing on my roses.”

You glance out the window to the long stretches of perfectly manicured pink and white rose bushes. “No, I suppose not. It must have been quite a shock, to find the girl.”

“Trash.” Mrs Balkay says brightly. “Street-walking trash, dear. It was going to happen sooner or later, to a woman who chooses to demean herself like that.”

You blink. “I… okay. Can you tell me about what happened before you found her?”

“Before?” Mrs Balkay frowns. “I was just walking Sissy. I was whistling, as I often do on the night walks. Keeps me from getting the jitter out so late, you know.”

“Do you remember what you were whistling? A song you know?”

The woman smiles. “Of course I do. We’ll meet again, by Vera Lynn. Do you know it?”

“I do.”

“One of my favorites. One of Sissy’s too.”

“It’s a classic. So you were whistling the song, and Sissy was about to do her business. Where abouts in the park were you? How close to the playhouse?”

“Oh, I don’t know. There was a fog that night. Eery, which is why I was whistling. And I about jumped out of my skin when he came out of the mist. I hadn’t heard his footsteps, even.”

You freeze, cup pressed to your lips. “When who came out of the mist?”

The woman shrugs, placing her cup down on the matching saucer. “Why Roman Godfrey, of course. I told the Sheriff as much.”

You scan over the report on your knee. No mention of a man at the scene. Coming out of the mist, coming from the direction of the playground. Acting strange, seemingly in a hurry. It was a huge piece of the puzzle, and it was completely absent from the report.

You thank Mrs Balkay for her time and head back to your car, already opening a search engine on your phone and typing the name Roman Godfrey.

Roman Godfrey, CEO of Godfrey Industries. A puff piece for TIME Magazine on how, as the youngest CEO in history, he’d managed to improve quarterly profits by eighteen percent in the 12 months since assuming control of the company. A pretty boy with big green eyes and a wolfish smirk. You don’t need to ask Sheriff Sworn why his name is missing from the report. You don’t need to ask for directions to the White Tower. The jut of it sticks against the sky no matter where you are in Hemlock Grove, an obnoxiously phallic symbol of the Godfrey’s influence over the town.

The Receptionist at the front desk looks you up and down before fixing a polite smile on her face. “Can I help you?”

“I’d like to speak with Mr Roman Godfrey, please.”

Her smile tightens. “Of course. You have an appointment?”

You sigh. “No. But I really need to speak with him.” You pull your credentials out of your pocket and place them discreetly on the desk. “A matter of some importance.”

The woman’s smile drops completely as she reads your badge. “You have a warrant?”

“Do I need one?” You ask, fixing a polite, false smile on your face.

“Stand down, Jane.” You look up, polite smile still in place as you meet emerald eyes. “I always have time for the police.”

You tilt your head to the side. “You find yourself in the company of law enforcement often, Mr Godfrey?”

“Roman, please.” He purrs, holding out a hand for you. You take it, feeling the hairs on your arm raise at his cool, firm grip. He wears a gaudy signet ring on one finger, and the metal of it presses sharply into your skin as he wraps his long fingers around yours. “When you’re the CEO of the biggest employer in the state, you’d be surprised how often you’re summoned for this or that.”

“Well I appreciate you taking the time for me, Mr Godfrey.”

His smile tightens just a little, the full pout of his lips thinning almost imperceptibly. “Would you mind if we had this discussion in my office?”

“Not at all.”

You follow him across the glass lobby and into an elevator. Roman presses a button for the top floor, and you reach to brace against the mirrored wall as the elevator jolts and begins its ascent.

Roman’s office is an enormous box of glass and chrome with sleek, black leather furnishings. Stylish and completely lacking personality. There are no photos on his desk, no personal effects of any kind. If you’d been presented a picture of this office at the academy, you’d have said it belonged to a sociopath. Roman leans back in his chair, offering you a seat across from him.

You perch on the edge. “What were you doing in Kilderry Park on the night Nadine Lang was murdered?”

Roman doesn’t flinch. The little smile on his face doesn’t so much as flicker. “Murdered? I thought it was an animal attack.”

“You encountered Mrs Balkay walking her dog around 3AM. What were you doing in the park at that time?”

“Weird time to walk a dog, isn’t it?” Roman asks, steepling his long fingers under his chin. “You sure she’s a reliable witness?”

“Are you saying you weren’t in Kilderry Park at 3AM on the night Nadine Lang was murdered?”

Roman hums, pushing up from his seat and coming around the desk to lean on the glass. This puts his crotch level with your face, and he knows it as he smirks down at you. “You keep saying that word. Is the FBI treating this as a murder case?” He runs a pale hand down the length of his thigh, and your eyes drop to watch the movement. There’s the slightest twinge of arousal in your core as you watch his long, graceful fingers move against the dark fabric of his pants, but you ignore it, lifting your eyes to meet his disconcertingly unblinking stare instead.

“Are you usually this uncooperative with law enforcement?”

Roman huffs a laugh, shifting his hips in a way that drags your gaze unwillingly back to his crotch and the very obvious tightening of fabric over his cock. “Law enforcement doesn’t usually look like you.”

There’s a blush creeping across your cheeks, and Roman feels his cock throb in response at all that pretty blood rushing under your skin. It was going to be so much fun, peeling your flesh from that pretty face and licking the red slick beneath. His mouth waters at just the thought, precum soaking into the front of his boxers. But he can’t. Not yet. Not until he knows everything that you know.

“Are you going to answer my questions, Mr Godfrey?” You’re still pretending you’re not affected by him, and Roman thinks that’s adorable. Pointless, but adorable.

“I like to walk at night. I’m an insomniac. Walking late at night helps clear my head. I’ve been doing it for years.”

You press your lips together. “Alright. Thank you. And when you were walking in the park, you didn’t come across the body of Nadine Lang? Or see anything suspicious.”

Roman opens his mouth, and you cut him off. “Other than Mrs Balky walking her dog at 3AM.”

Roman grins, showing too many teeth, and your heart stutters over a beat. “No, nothing. All quiet.”

“Alright. Well, thank you for your time, Mr Godfrey. I hope I can call on you again, if I have any more questions?”

Roman extends a hand to you, and you let him tug you from your chair even though you don’t need the help and you really don’t want to touch him.

“You can call on me for anything. Anytime.” He looks you up and down, his gaze appreciative and a little lecherous. “Seriously. Anytime.”

You nod curtly as you reach for the door handle. “Oh, one more thing. Can you think of any reason why your presence in the park that night might have not made it into the Sheriff’s official report?”

Roman shrugs. “Filing error, maybe? I guess you’d have to ask Tom.”

You nod, though you both know you won’t be asking Tom anything. “I’ll do that. Thank you again, Mr Godfrey.”

“Roman,” he sighs, watching your ass as you step out of the office and make your way back down to the elevator. You’ve got a nice ass, a tight, plump thing that Roman is pretty sure he could bounce a quarter off of. He wonders whether he’ll get a chance to fuck you before he has to kill you. That ass bouncing against his cock? That’d be something.

*

It’s a complete fucking fluke. You’re standing in line at the gas station on the other side of town because you’d been seized with an uncontrollable urge for a twinkie, despite having avoided the toxic cakes since you were a teenager after hearing a rumor that they sat in your gut undigested for a month. You’re looking out the window as a cherry-red vintage jaguar pulls in, and the driver honks his horn without getting out.

“Asshole,” the attendant mutters, and you offer him a sympathetic smile. “I can wait, if you need to-“

“He can wait while I ring you up. Entitled Godfrey asshole.”

That gets your attention. “Godfrey as in Roman?”

“The very same. Always expects everybody to drop everything and fall to their knees for him. Asshole.”

“I got that impression.” You mumble.

“You know a couple weeks back he came blazing in here at, oh, musta been about two in the morning. Sat in his car honking at me to come out and fill ‘er up. Really laid on the horn like I wasn’t doin anything better than runnin right out to him.”

“Two in the morning?” You ask. “What was he doing out at two in the morning?”

The man shrugs. “You know, it was the night before they found that bum dead in the storm drain. I’d say the spooky fuck had something to do with it if I thought a Godfrey would ever set foot in the sewer.”

You swallow hard, pulling your badge from your pocket and flashing it to him. “You wouldn’t happen to have tapes from that night, would you?”

Roman watches you through the glass, his knuckles white on the steering wheel as you flash your little badge at the attendant and he nods. God fucking damn, you were digging fast. Faster than he’d thought. Faster even than Olivia had thought. It wasn’t good at all; to have you scuttling about connecting him to things you had no business looking into. And Roman knew he hadn’t been careful enough. That he should have let his mother clean up the mess. But his pride had won out, and now there was a bombshell FBI agent poking at the thin veneer of human civility he’d wrapped himself in, and he was going to have to deal with it.

The attendant hands you a slim gray case, and Roman knows what it is. He feels it in his gut. You nod your head and turn, stepping out of the gas station, and Roman fixes a smile on his face as he climbs out of his car.

“Quantico!” He calls, and you turn as though you hadn’t known he was there. All a game.

“Mr Godfrey. Nice car.”

Roman shrugs modestly. “It was my dad’s. Costs about a million bucks to keep her running but I guess I’m sentimental.”

You slip the gray case into your bag as you approach. “You know you can pump it yourself.”

Roman blinks at you, his smirk slipping a little. “What?”

“Your gas. Pennsylvania state law allows self-service at gas stations. You don’t have to honk for the attendant to come out and do it for you.”

Roman blinks at you again. “I know.”

“So you just… prefer making other people work for you?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t like to get my hands dirty.”

You glance at his hands; pale, long fingers and the pulse of veins running across his knuckles and feel an unwelcome bolt of heat pulse through your core again. “I bet.”

*

You’re staying at the Grove Motel. Roman doesn’t know why it bothers him to see your little rental car parked outside such a shitty place. He doesn’t know why he’s still here either, parked across the lot in one of his jeeps and smoking his ninth consecutive cigarette. Three hookers have knocked on his window so far, and if another one tries it he’ll break her goddamn fingers for touching his car. He isn’t here for that, not tonight. He can see the fuzzy halo coming from the TV in your room, bleeding blue light out around the edges of the curtains. You’re watching the tape from the gas station, the one where a very agitated Roman Godfrey berates the gas station attendant for making him wait a minute for service. The blurry image won’t show the dark bloodstains soaked into his coat or the caking of dirt under his nails, and Roman can only hope the pixelated image doesn’t pick up the sludge of sewer run-off he’d kicked from his boots on the forecourt.

He pulls his little notebook from his breast pocket, scratching the word onto a fresh page. CCTV. He’d been making a list of things to check for, evidence to eradicate during cleanup. He should have thought about CCTV, or better filled up before he’d gone anywhere near the shanty town of homeless people under the bridge, but he hadn’t been thinking straight. The hunger had been overwhelming, tunnelling his vision to pinpricks of light focused only on the pulse of blood, and if he hadn’t gone hunting right there and then he’d have eaten a member of the household staff.

He flips the notebook back to the third page. DO NOT EAT: Relatives, household staff, Godfrey Industries employees. Children under sixteen, law enforcement or relatives of law enforcement.

The opposite page, entitled SAFE TO EAT: Homeless, hookers, pimps. Addicts, Elderly if no immediate relatives. Runaways, patients cleared by Pryce.

Roman tucks his notebook away, drumming his fingers against his pocket. Olivia would shit a bowling ball if she knew he was keeping all this in a book, but it was the only way Roman could make sense of it in his mind. Things got… clouded when he was hungry, and he was always fucking hungry. He’d been nothing but an appetite for a year now, since he’d cut his wrists and awoken as an Upir, lying in his mother’s lap.

Olivia’s pride in him had dried up real goddamn quick, as soon as the novelty wore off. As soon as he started to make mistakes, to show weaknesses. She’d returned to the harsh, cold matriarch Roman had always known her to be, and Roman had learned how to live with that now that he had nobody else at all. Because Shelley had disappeared, and Letha had died. And Peter had run away and left him, and Roman had nobody. Nobody at all.

So what if he’d killed a couple of kids from high school? So what if he’d drained that pretty college girl from the next town over? She’d squeezed her cunt around his cock so viciously his teeth had snapped down and closed around her throat all by themselves, he hadn’t been able to stop that any more than he’d been able to hold off the most violent orgasm of his life. It had been an accident, anyway.

*

You’re sipping the worst cup of coffee you’ve had in a long time, grimacing at the sharp, burnt taste of it as you flip through grainy pictures of the cemetery where a twenty year old girl had been found by the cemetery caretaker, half-buried in a hundred-year-old plot. Chipped black polish on her nails, sticking out of the ground and her fingertips eaten away by scavengers. No leads, no clues, no witnesses. She’d been at a club earlier that night, there was a stamp on her hand that had washed away in the elements but left a trace behind, visible under a blacklight.

“Sheriff, could I ask you something?”

Tom approaches, his face paling at the autopsy report in front of you. “Awful, that one.”

“The autopsy found an imprint of a logo on her hand. Did you follow up on that?”

“Sure. Belonged to a club in the city, we figured she’d met somebody there and he dumped her passing through here on his way someplace else.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Hemlock Grove isn’t on the way to anywhere else.”

Tom shrugs. “Well, we spoke to the club owner, and the guys working the door that night. They didn’t remember seeing her or anyone with her. Dead end.”

“Nothing on the CCTV?”

Tom’s eyes drop to the floor. “We didn’t ask.”

Screaming at the Sheriff will do no good, might even do harm to your precarious position here, so you shrug. “Probably a dead end.”

You step outside to make a call to the club, and try to hide your disappointment that the tapes are wiped every 30 days. You’d missed vital evidence by less than a week.

“Who shit in your lucky charms?”

You roll your eyes as you pocket your phone, turning to watch as Roman struts towards you like he owns the sidewalk. “Mr Godfrey.”

“Roman.” He reminds you, a teasing smirk on his face. “What’s up with you?”

“I just… got some disappointing news.”

“About the hooker?”

“No.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

You scoff. “You able to unwipe CCTV from a shady club in the city?”

Roman hums. “Unwipe? No. But I can probably get you access to the servers where everything is stored digitally. Which club?”

“The Red Room.”

Roman’s smirk widens as he steps forward, dipping his head close as though he’s sharing a secret. “Oh yeah. I can get you whatever you need from there, agent.”

*

Sitting beside Roman Godfrey in his cherry-red Jaguar is unnerving on account of how at ease you feel. Roman is by nature an awkward and unsettling individual, but he’s so relentlessly charming that you feel yourself sinking into a sense of security the longer you sit beside him.

“You’re young, for FBI.”

“I joined the academy straight out of college. I’ve always known what I wanted, I guess.”

“That’s good.” Roman says, shooting you a soft smile. “It must be nice.”

“You didn’t always want to be the big bad CEO of a global powerhouse?”

Roman’s smile drops, a look of regret passing over his face. “It never occurred to me that there was a choice. That’s the thing about privilege, I guess. The name opens a lot of doors, but it closes some, too.”

It’s deeper than you’d thought Roman Godfrey capable of, and it does something funny to your stomach as you press your thighs together and focus on the blur of grey outside as the car passes into the city limits. “You know the guy who owns the club, then?”

“Marty.” Roman nods. “He’s dirty, of course. But he runs a discreet establishment, and that’s important when you’ve got shareholders breathing down your neck.”

“Sounds like you’re under a lot of pressure.” You say softly, and Roman’s smile is soft and genuine as he looks at you.

“You’d know about pressure, right?” He says, his voice straining. “Solving murders.”

“Murders,” you hum. “I’m not so sure, actually.”

Roman’s head snaps to you, eyes searching your face, and you fix your expression into one of bored neutrality. “You don’t think that hooker was murdered?”

“Oh no, I think she was. But she was a hooker. Occupational hazard, isn’t it?”

Roman’s shoulders sag but his fingers tighten on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under the force. “I guess so.”

You let the silence stretch, listening to the steady in and out of his breathing. “But this girl, the one from the cemetery? Not a hooker.”

You hear it, the catch in his breath, and your stomach flips over as your heart sinks. Yeah. Yeah, Roman Godfrey’s interest in the case isn’t that of a bored millionaire or a guy trying to get his dick wet, though you’re pretty sure you could have him like that if you wanted. Roman had something to do with it. With all of it.

*

He puts his hand on your knee, and you almost jerk away from him. His palm is a warm weight against your skin, his fingers curling around the inside of your thigh as he sits too close on the small leather couch in the manager’s office at The Red Room. You steal a glance at the side of his face, but his eyes are fixed to the screen, watching the pale, flickery shape of the victim stumbling out of the front door of the club. Drunk, sure, but alone. Definitely alone.

“This clear it up for you, agent?” The club owner, Marty, asks, running his finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. Roman clinks his signet ring against his own glass, the fingers on his wandering hand kneading at the flesh of your inner thigh in a way that has your clit throbbing and your face heating.

“Sure does. Thank you for…” you swallow as Roman’s fingers drag higher, breaching the hem of your skirt. “Going out of your way to assist.”

“Yeah appreciate it, Marty.”

“Anything for my favorite Godfrey. You sticking around for another drink?” His eyes slide over you, and you press your lips together as his gaze drops to Roman’s hand disappearing under your skirt. His mouth pulls into a smirk, and you tug your legs to the side until Roman’s hand slips off your thigh.

“I can get a cab back to town.”

Roman scoffs, pushing off the couch with an obnoxious groan and tugging you up without asking. “I’ll drive you.”

“Some other time,” Marty says, eyes raking over the back of your legs as Roman pulls you towards the door. You wish you’d worn a longer skirt. Or pants. Two pairs of pants.

The moment you’re free of the oppressive, dark environment you pull away from Roman, rubbing your palm against your skirt like you can stop the tingling from where his fingers were wrapped around yours.

“I’m sorry that he couldn’t help.”

You turn, raising an eyebrow. Roman’s the picture of collected as he runs his hand back through his hair and flips open a fancy cigarette case.

“It was a long shot.”

Roman shrugs. “Well I’m sorry you wasted your time.”

You bite your lip as you watch him light his cigarette, sucking smoke into his lungs and exhaling expertly. “You okay to drive?”

Roman shrugs. “I didn’t even finish my drink.”

You hum, turning on your heel and heading for the car because watching smoke curl out from between his full, pouty lips is doing something disconcerting to your pussy and you’re not going to entertain this with the guy who is as close to a suspect as you’ve got.

You slow as you approach the car, frowning at the… wrongness of it. “Uh.. Roman?”

You feel him more than hear him, he makes surprisingly little sound on the sidewalk as he slips in beside you. “Fuck.”

The wheels are gone. All four wheels just… gone. “We should call the cops.”

Roman turns his head, the smirk on his mouth at odds with the sharp irritation in his eyes. “You are the cops.”

“I mean like… this is theft, right?”

Roman huffs, sucking hard enough on his cigarette to hollow his cheeks over the sharp bones of his face. “It’s an inconvenience, is what it is. Wheels in good condition are hard to get hold of for this car.”

“And we’re… stuck. Here.” You sigh. “Shit. I’m sorry about your car. I’d offer to pay for the wheels but…”

Roman flicks the dying stub to the ground and kicks the toe of his shoe against the concrete. “I wouldn’t accept it anyway. I’ll get someone to come pick us up, but it’ll be a while. You hungry?” His eyes rake over you, and you shiver. The man never blinks when he’s watching you. It makes you feel hot and itchy and exposed.

“I could eat.”

*

When Roman had suggested you slip into a restaurant to wait for rescue, you’d assumed quiet conversation over dinner and a chance to dig into his psyche a little. But sitting across from him while you eat and he… watches, is the most uncomfortable experience of your life. His enormous eyes drink in every bite you take, his tongue gliding over his lips as a thin drip of pink liquid slips out of the corner of your mouth. “Sorry.” You mumble, reaching for a napkin. Roman is there faster than you can fathom, his thumb dragging down over your chin before returning to his own mouth.

“You like it raw?”

“No.”

Roman smirks, leaning back in his seat. “It’s the only way to eat it. Overcooking kills the flavor.”

You cut a sticky chunk of steak off, trying not to look at the sickly blue-purple color of the inside. “You want some?” You hold your fork out, and Roman shakes his head.

“Not hungry.” But his eyes devour you, his tongue darting out to wet over his mouth again, and you feel a chill skitter down your spine.

“If it’s about the cost, we can go dutch. I’m not expecting you to pay. It’s not like this is a date.”

Something flickers on his face for a fraction of a second, there and gone so quickly you might have imagined it if not for the tightening of his smirk. You feel his foot kick against your leg, a jab hard enough to make you wince. “There are worse things you could be doing.”

“Did you just kick me?”

Roman’s smirk widens. “Of course not.”

His cock is throbbing with an actual ache as he watches you chew messily through the practically raw meat bleeding on your plate. It only gets worse at the wince of pain when his foot connects with your shin, and Roman can practically smell the blood spreading under your skin, blooming to form a bruise he’d put there. He’s definitely going to have to fuck you before he kills you. His cock will never get over it if he doesn’t.

“I think I’ll get a cab home after all.” You say, pushing your plate away and standing. There’s a flush to your cheeks and Roman can’t tell if it’s arousal or if you’re really, genuinely pissed off. And usually he wouldn’t care either way, but there’s a note burning a hole in his little book that says keep your enemies close and so he stands himself, wrapping a hand around your wrist as you try to pass him.

“Let me call a driver. It’ll be a whole lot more comfortable than the back of a cab, trust me.”

Trust him. You don’t trust Roman Godfrey, you’d be a fool to get in the car with him. “You gunna kick me again if I say no?”

Roman forces his smirk into something a little less cruel. “I was only playing.”

“We’re not five.”

Roman huffs, wriggling his fingers down your wrist to lace in your own and you suppress a shudder. “Duly noted, agent.”

Riding back to the city in the wide backseat of Roman Godfrey’s town car, one of Roman Godfrey’s town cars, is completely different from the easy ride in. Roman is agitated, bright green eyes like luminous beacons in the low lighting. And still, he never blinks. You sit as far from him as you can, pressed right up against the door, but that’s a mistake. Because when he unbuckles his seatbelt and slides across the leather, there is nowhere to go. Nowhere to go when he presses his thigh against yours, or when his fingers slide up under your skirt to graze over the front of your panties.

“Mr Godfrey, this is inappropriate.”

He hums, thumb finding the soft protrusion of your clit against the cotton and rubbing against it. “Roman,” he purrs, dipping his head to press his lips to the corner of your jaw. “It’s Roman. And we’ve had a nice time tonight, haven’t we? Dinner and a movie.”

You feel his lips turn up at his own little joke, and your stomach flips over with nausea. “This wasn’t a date. This was work. I’m work-“ you break off, your voice catching in your throat as two of Roman’s long fingers slither inside your underwear to prod against your entrance.

“You’re wet.” He mumbles, easing his thick fingers inside you as his thumb continues to rub circles against you through your underwear. “You want me bad, agent.”

FBI Academy training had been grueling and intensive, and you’d been taught how to get out of scenarios you could never imagine happening in real life. But you’re thanking the special agent that had made you run the maneuver forty times, until you had every single motion down perfectly, as you slip your cuffs from your jacket pocket and cinch one around Roman Godfrey’s wrist. The other you yank into place against the door beside you before slipping out from underneath him and climbing into the seat on the opposite side, shoving him hard as you go.

Roman yanks on the cuff, hissing at the bite of metal into his skin. “Fuck is this?”

“I’m detaining you before you get yourself arrested for sexual assault.”

Roman’s face smooths into something lifeless. “You’re detaining me? Putting me in a goddamn timeout?”

You huff, tugging on the hem of your skirt and grimacing at the feeling of arousal sticking your underwear to your pussy. “Having money and power might get you whatever you want in Hemlock Grove, Mr Godfrey. But it doesn’t get you me.”

You can’t know the challenge you’ve set him. You can’t know the game that has started, as Roman pulls against the metal cuff on his wrist just to feel the bite of the steel. He could break it easily, he could reach across the car and pull you into his lap and impale you on his cock as he rips out your throat. Tom Sworn assured him that you’re nothing. That there’s no FBI investigation, that you’re poking around and then you’ll be gone. But there’d been a little jump in his heartrate when he’d said it, when he’d lied for you.

Roman lets you think that he’s helpless, leans back in his seat and spreads his legs wide. He watches your eyes drop to his crotch, to the shameless bulge of his erection. You don’t look away, and Roman wanders his fingers against his own length, rubbing the length as he keeps his eyes fixed on your face.

“What are you doing?” Your voice is small and breathy.

“You’re a tease.”

Your head snaps up then, eyes narrowing. “I’ve never given you any reason to think that.”

Roman scoffs, fingers flicking open his fly and dragging the zipper down so he can reach into his boxers and tug his cock out. You look again, pupils blowing wide as he runs his thumb over his leaking tip. “Wearing that little skirt. That FBI approved attire, agent?”

You bristle. “I’m not working officially, Mr Godfrey. I told you that.”

“And yet,” he continues, wrapping his fist around the base of his cock and gliding his palm against himself, “you flashed your badge at me and demanded my attention.”

You feel your cheeks heat. “You’re a busy man.”

“I’m so fucking busy,” he groans, squeezing himself tightly at the tip before jerking back down, hips lifting to fuck into his hand as his head drops back against the seat. “You think I’d cancel my day to take you on a wild goddamn goose chase like this?” He hisses, releasing his cock to stick against his stomach for a moment as he lifts his hand to his face and spits into his palm. Heat builds in your core, arousal soaking your underwear, and you tilt your hips down to apply some pressure to your aching clit. “You think I’d drive you out here to help you with your stupid little case?”

You swallow. “Not a concerned citizen after all, then?”

Roman huffs a laugh as he fists his cock again, jerking harder, rougher now as his head lolls back against the headrest and he fixes his eyes on the way your hips shift forward to drag your clit against the seat. “I’m concerned that you’re chasing ghosts. Looking for shit that isn’t there.”

You watch a pink dusting spread over his cheeks as he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, hips bucking up to meet his own hand as he nears his climax, and you climb across the car to sit next to him. This close you could wrap your own hand around his and feel the hot, silky press of his cock in your palm. You could dip your head and taste the salty pearls leaking from his slit. You could do a lot of things, but you won’t. Instead you lean in, pressing your palm lightly to his throat.

Roman moans, eyes rolling back as his hand becomes a blur against his cock. “There’s a monster hunting people in Hemlock Grove, Mr Godfrey.” You say softly, letting your nails drag up the side of his throat as you press down. “I think you know that. And I think you’re concerned that I’m going to find exactly what I’m looking for.”

Roman cums with a strangled groan, thick ropes of his release painting his hand and staining the dark fabric of his pants. He squeezes around the head of his cock, milking his own cum from the twitching, sensitive tip, eyes never leaving your face. His gaze dips to your mouth, his swollen lips parting, and you lean in.

You let your mouth brush his, the barest of electric touches. “You disgust me, Roman.” You whisper against his lips. “I’m going to find where they’re buried. Every. Last. One.”

The car has slowed, you’d felt the rumbling deceleration as the driver had crossed into the town limits, and you yank the door open and roll out without sustaining much more than a grazed knee. The last thing you see is Roman’s shocked, fucked out expression as the car passes you, and you’re up and running before he has a chance to order his driver to return for you. You can see the tower from here, as you can from anywhere, and you make your way towards it, cursing Roman Godfrey and Hemlock Grove and your own stupid, traitorous cunt as you stomp through the forest on the way back to your motel.

*

Obsession. It’s a dangerous word. It’s written in his notebook, underlined. Because Roman has a problem with obsession. With latching on to things that can’t hold his weight. With drowning in how much he wants. As he sits in the motel parking lot, eyes trained on the door of your room, he feels the word like it’s etched in his own skin. His phone pings in his pocket and he pulls it out, reading the irritating You owe me message from Marty before opening the attached file.

The footage is grainy, but it’s unmistakable to anyone who has spent more than a few minutes with him. The girl stumbles out of the club and then back in again, called over by a man standing just out of frame. By luck, actually. Roman hadn’t been thinking about the cameras when he’d followed her up from the main club. He’d been thinking about the ache in his cock and the burning, roaring hunger clawing up his throat. The girl had let him hook an arm around her waist and she’d sagged against him as he dragged her away from the club. He’d looked up, searching the street for his town car, and the camera had caught the strange, reflective quality of his eyes, flashing green like a cat even in the low resolution of the CCTV camera. Roman imagines what your face would have looked like if Marty had shown you this footage, and he thinks yeah maybe he owes that piece of shit something after all.  

Obsession is a dangerous word, but Roman finds himself rationalizing the fuck out of his impulses as he scrolls through your Instagram. It had been locked down, along with your Facebook, but it hadn’t cost him more than pocket change and a phone call to get it all unlocked for him. He’s looking at your life in pixels, and his stomach twists with a jealous longing so severe he almost smashes his phone right there on the asphalt. You with your arms around friends, a big, genuine smile on your face. You with your face smooshed up against the wrinkly face of a puppy, your eyes actually sparkling with how happy you are. Roman has never seen a light as bright. He’s never wanted to extinguish something so badly. His hand is already creeping over the front of his pants again, sensitive cock stirring to life as he flicks through post after post. There are videos too, little clips of you singing karaoke at a bar in DC, and one of you sitting in a restaurant while the waitstaff serenade you for your birthday. “I hate you,” you mouth to the camera, and the man behind it laughs.

Roman grits his teeth as he slides his fingers into his boxers and squeezes the head of his cock harshly. He replays the video, cutting it just before that awful fucking laugh, until it’s you on a loop looking right at him. He can even hear the words in your voice, in his head. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

It’s the worst orgasm of his life, cumming around a sob and hissing at the rough friction of his boxers dragging over the wet tip of his cock. He’s thinking about the way the dead college girl looked when he rolled her into that shallow grave, about the way the dirt got stuck in the creases of her thighs. And he’s looking at you, at your pretty mouth and the way you glare at the camera. Roman wipes his hand against his thigh with a grimace and pulls his notebook out, thumbing to a clean page and writing your name at the top.

*

You’re shoved out the way as you try to step into the Sheriff’s office two days later, and you blink at the unapologetic deputy who pushed you as he barrels past. “Where’s the fire?”

Sheriff Sworn doesn’t smile as he looks up at you. “Two more missing. Pair of college kids from the city.”

You frown, feeling ice douse your stomach. “Two? At the same time?”

“I know.” Tom purses his lips. “Your boss already called. He wants you to have full access to this case, ongoing.”

“In an… official capacity?”

The Sheriff scoffs, pulling open his desk drawer and sliding a badge across to you. “No fucking feds until we have to. Consider yourself deputized, agent.”

You’re fixing the badge to your jacket when you feel the tension behind you, and you don’t need to turn around to know whose darkening the doorway. The Sheriff’s face tightens. “Mr Godfrey, how can we help you today?”

“Tom.” Roman steps into the room, his fingers brushing against your hip as he steps around you and reaches for the Sheriff’s hand. “It’s me helping you, hopefully.” Roman’s eyes slide over you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when he sees you’re wearing another short fucking skirt. “I heard about those boys.”

Your spine straightens. “How?”

Roman turns, perching on Tom’s desk with his back to the Sheriff like he isn’t even there anymore. His attention fixes on you. “Small pond. I’d like to offer a reward for any information leading to their safe return. I was thinking ten grand.”

Tom coughs, and you shoot him a pinched look with a tiny shake of your head. He clears his throat before speaking. “That’s too generous, Roman.”

“Not at all.” Roman says, eyes still fixed on you. “There’s a monster hunting people in Hemlock Grove. I just want to make sure the beast is caught and collared before we’re drowning in federal interference.”

Tom’s shoulders sag. “You’re worried the FBI will want to look into your company.”

Roman’s smirk widens, and he licks his tongue over his bottom lip. You feel your face flush, hating the visceral reaction you have to how absurdly, indecently sexual he is. You school your features into neutrality, knowing that all Tom can see is the back of Roman’s stupid head. “The FBI isn’t interested in embezzlement or fraud cases when there’s an active serial killer in town, Mr Godfrey. Your books are safe.”

Roman quirks an eyebrow at you, splaying his palms over the wide spread of his thighs. “Your cynicism wounds me, agent. I’m just a concerned citizen.”

“I’d advise against it.” You say to the Sheriff, bypassing Roman altogether.

Roman twists at the waist. “You’re the boss.”

Tom looks like he’d welcome a lightning strike to the chest. His eyes slide from Roman’s to yours and back again. “I’d be an idiot to ignore advice from the FBI, I guess.”

You nod sharply, and Roman’s smirk slips just an inch. Just enough to reveal the ripple of cold, calculated fury underneath. This is not a man used to being overruled, and Tom fights the urge to shrink at the ice in his stare.

“Suit yourselves,” Roman says pleasantly. “Walk me out, agent?”

“You know the way better than I do, Mr Godfrey.”

Roman stops in the doorway, holding the doorframe and staring at you like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. When you don’t he huffs, an unamused little laugh. “Suit your goddamn self.”

You’re sipping on a terrible cup of coffee at the makeshift desk they’ve made up for you in the bullpen when Tom Sworn steps out of his office. His face is green and ashy. “Sheriff?” You’re already getting to your feet, feeling dread settle over you at his expression.

“Man the phones, people.” He says gravely. “We’re about to get buried in shit.”

“Sheriff?” You ask again. “What’s going on?”

Tom doesn’t answer you. He clicks a button on the remote in his hand, and a thick old television mounted high on the wall flickers to life. You suck in a breath as bright green eyes bleed out of the screen. Tom cranks the volume, and you brace your hand on the edge of the table as you watch Roman Godfrey derail your entire case with the smooth, measured tone of a practiced PR pitch. “That’s right, ten thousand dollars for useful information. If you think you’ve seen the boys, even if you’re not sure, please, please call the Sheriff’s department. They’re ready and waiting to take any and all calls. All leads will be explored.”

You snap your teeth together, grinding your jaw tightly at the mocking smirk to his mouth. “Bastard.”

“Entitled Godfrey asshole.” One of the deputies says in agreement, folding his arms over his chest. “He’s going to bury us. Every crazy motherfucker in the state is gunna be calling with bogus tips.”

You narrow your eyes at him, and Roman’s smirk seems to widen as though he can see you through the screen. “I’m just a concerned citizen.” He says into the camera, and your hands curl into fists at your sides.

The phone closest to you rings, and you snatch it up. “Hemlock Grove Sheriffs Department.”

“Agent,” he purrs. “You watch my on-screen debut?”

You press your lips into a firm line to stifle a frustrated scream. “Mr Godfrey.”

“You like it?” He asks. “Watching me get you wet?”

You do groan then, a furious growl of sound that delights Roman more than he can say. “You’ve fucked us.”

“I know why you said no to my help, but I decided you’re acting against the best interests of my town. You’re overruled.”

“That isn’t how this works.” The shrill ring of a phone on the next desk makes you jump, and Roman chuckles.

“It sounds like valuable leads are about to start rolling in. You’re so fucking welcome, sweetheart.” He hangs up, pocketing his phone with a triumphant grin on his face. From where he’s standing he can see you staring at the dead phone in your hand. You slam the receiver down on the desk, and Roman is giddy.

*

His good mood lasts all of about thirty minutes. He’s leaning back in his big, black leather chair scrolling through your Instagram when the door is opened and Olivia Godfrey struts in like she owns the place.

“You got an appointment?”

Olivia raises an eyebrow at her son. “You were on the news.”

Roman smirks, forcing the easy expression onto his face even though his pulse is racing. He hadn’t considered the implications of his stunt outside of the game with you, and there’s cool murder in his mother’s eyes. “I’m staying close.”

Olivia narrows her eyes at her son, crossing the room and rounding the desk like the physical barrier isn’t even there. She pinches Roman’s chin sharply, forcing his head up. “You’re showboating. This isn’t like paying off the Sheriff to look the other way when silly cheerleaders made their accusations in high school. This is serious, Roman. The FBI are here.”

Roman grits his teeth, your face flashing in his mind. If Olivia gets her claws into you you’ll be disappeared without a trace and Roman won’t get to have you. “I’m handling it.”

Olivia scoffs. “You want to fuck her, don’t you? That’s what all this is about.”

Roman flushes, squirming in his seat under her withering glare. “She doesn’t have anything. I’m covering my tracks. Now.” He adds, swallowing thickly.

Olivia purses her lips, reaching out to card her fingers through his hair, and Roman shivers at the scrape of her nails against his scalp. “You have a week, darling.” She says softly. “Tie up your loose ends, get rid of her.” Her fingers twist and tighten in his hair until he whines. “Or I’ll do it for you. And so help me God, Roman. If I have to get my hands dirty cleaning up your shit you will pay for it dearly.”

She releases his hair and Roman slumps back in his seat, five years old and fresh from a scolding. His fingers itch to reach for her, to cling to her skirt and beg for her forgiveness and a tiny, meaningless morsel of affection, but he doesn’t do it. He watches his mother swan out of his office with burning cheeks and a sharp hurt in his chest. Your face flashes in his mind again, and he reopens the window with your Instagram page on his computer. Pretty smile, kind eyes. You’ve tagged a friend in one of your photos, and Roman clicks on her profile next. He learns about your high school boyfriend, and which subjects you liked best. He memorizes the name of your childhood pets, and wonders whether the concerning number of deceased hamsters was down to bad luck or improper care. He watches a video your dad took of you crossing the stage at your college graduation, and a simple photo of you with your arm around an older version of yourself, your mother he guesses, at your FBI Academy graduation just a few years later.

Roman catalogues every moment of your life, his hand scratching pertinent details into his notebook under the heading of your name. Your favorite food, your coffee order. The movies you saw last year that you liked enough to post about. Your political opinions, the charities you supported publicly.

There’s a tension headache brewing behind his eyes and the sun is setting low over Hemlock Grove when he finally stops, dropping his pen and lifting his hand to caress against the pixels of you on his screen. There’s a tension headache brewing behind his eyes and an awful, gnawing ache in his stomach. Because Roman has been cataloging all the things that matter to you, and he’s come to the realization that there is nothing he can do to put himself in that category. You value loyalty and kindness and selflessness in your friends. You value soft men who volunteer at animal shelters and call their grandmothers in your romantic partners. And Roman Godfrey is a lot of things, but he isn’t loyal or kind or selfless. He doesn’t know how to be.

He taps his fingers against the glass top of his desk and reads the caption on a post you’d made just a few days before your arrival in Hemlock Grove. You’re standing outside your apartment building, leaning against a fancy car that is definitely not your own, and the caption reads Fake it til you make it, baby. “Fake it til you make it, baby,” Roman repeats softly, running the tip of his finger over the slightly fuzzy image of your smile. “You want a good guy, agent? I can be a good guy.”

Roman sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, pulling out his phone and calling one of his least favorite people. “I don’t give a fuck that you’re in the middle of something. I call, you come. That’s the law of the land.”

The man on the other end says something snippy and Roman hangs up, leaning back in his chair and pretending to look out of the window at the setting sun. When there’s a knock on his door he waits a full ten seconds before standing up and crossing to it.

“Really, Roman?” Dr Johan Pryce asks as he steps into the office. “Is all this pompous nonsense necessary?”

Roman hums, reaching out to clap Dr Pryce on the shoulder. “I need a favor, Johan. A big one.”

*

Johan Pryce has been cleaning up Godfrey messes for more years than he cares to remember. It had been different under JR, of course, but Johan didn’t let himself think about JR too much. About the visionary the man had been, and the waste of his suicide. About the years since, spent at the will and whim of a volatile, spoiled Upir woman with a taste for her own reflection.

Because despite the controversial topic of his research, Johan Pryce did not like killing. He certainly did not approve of the wasting of human life for something as trivial as appetite. But Olivia Godfrey had controlled the purse strings, and she hunted women with variations on her face and her waning youth, and Johan had been commanded to clean up the mess afterwards. Creating a substance capable of satiating the Upir appetite had been a necessity designed only to free up his own time.

That Roman had so wholly embraced his own monstrous nature was decidedly a major pain in the ass. Because Roman would drink the substance by the gallon, but he would still slip out in the middle of the night to fuck and feed and leave a trail of bodies scattered across the town like so much trash. The boy-king standing in front of him does not possess one single ounce of humility over his request, and Pryce’s fingers curl into his fist with the impending promise of caving the smug prick’s face in. “Where did you bury the bodies?”

Roman scoffs. “I didn’t have time to do that. They’re at the steel mill. I know it’s mom’s favorite place to stash hers.”

Pryce presses his lips into a fine line. “And you’re certain they’re both… deceased?”

“Ohhhh, they’re deceased alright. Tore their heads off and sucked them dry like fucking juiceboxes.”

“Lovely.” Pryce says tightly. “You know, the forensic evidence is just one small part of the puzzle, Roman. I can scrub every trace of them from that mill, but the world is made up of glass eyes and red lights. Someone, somewhere would have captured you herding them into your jeep, or passing a traffic camera at just the wrong time. You need to be more careful.”

Roman hums non-committedly, but there’s a ripple of tension in his shoulders as he straightens. “I don’t know how the FBI put it together.”

“The FBI?”

“A couple of dead hookers and some runaways. Shouldn’t have raised so much as an eyebrow outside of Hemlock County.” He muses. “Unless somebody tipped them off.”

Pryce huffs an incredulous laugh. “You think I would risk Godfrey Industries, risk my projects, to squabble with you over a handful of dead unfortunates? Really, Roman.”

Roman hears the dismissal, and Johan’s heart remains steady. He isn’t lying, he didn’t bring you here. All the better, really.

“Just take care of the fucking bodies and find me a monster to pin the killings on.”

Pryce freezes. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Roman spins on his heel, closing the gap between himself and Pryce in two steps. “I want the FBI out of Hemlock Grove. I want things to go back to normal. Best way for that to happen is for the police to find the monster they’ve been hunting. Sure as shit isn’t going to be me in a cage, so figure it out. Let one of your goddamn abominations out to play.”

Johan shakes his head. “My… projects are not… I don’t have a monster for you to pin your crimes on. Not in the lab. But-“ He raises his voice as Roman opens his mouth. “I have some ideas. Leave it with me, Roman. And please, please don’t eat anybody else in the meantime.”

*

Roman does not like being told what to do, and his impulse to eat somebody else is almost too strong to ignore. He’s watching the tall woman in the leopard-print skirt saunter from car to car, leaning heavy on the windows. If she approaches him, if she puts her arms on his window when he’s so obviously here for you, he’ll invite her inside and rip her heart out of her chest. What’s one more dead hooker, when Pryce was about to fix everything anyway? He’d gotten a call not fifteen minutes earlier, a tight explanation and a short list of instructions that had made him bristle with indignation. But these things came with an assurance that it would work, and so Roman had grit his teeth and agreed to it all.

The hooker is half way to his goddamn car, and Roman’s mouth fills with saliva at the thought of sinking his teeth into her when the door to your motel room opens and you step out. The hooker disappears into irrelevance the moment you do, and Roman’s vision tunnels on you. You look left and right, like there might be traffic in an almost empty parking lot, and Roman files the note away to write later. Cautious.

He waits until you’re safely in your car and pulling away before he even starts his engine, and then he backs out of his space and follows you. The hooker flips him off as the car passes, with no concept of how close she’d been to becoming minced meat, and Roman forces himself to keep his focus on your taillights to stop himself from backing up and running her the fuck over.

He pulls up opposite the police station and watches you pause at the door before shaking your head with a little smile on your face. His interest is well and truly piqued, and he’s getting out of his car and following at a safe distance until you dip into a coffee shop.

Roman doesn’t go in, but he watches from across the street. He can see you through the glass front, laughing and chatting with the barista as he makes your drink. Roman knows it’s a skinny cappuccino with a shot of caramel. He knows that you’ll put two packets of Splenda into it, and that you’ll pop the lid off to lick at the foam. His mouth waters and his cock twitches when you do that, your pink tongue curling into the cup. The words cappuccino foam are written in his notebook, and he’ll underline them as soon as he gets the chance.

You head back to the police station, and Roman waits until he’s absolutely sure you’re staying before he climbs back into his jeep and returns to the motel. The hookers swarm towards him as he gets out, but they back up at the look on his face. “Didn’t come to play, ladies.” He calls as he makes his way to your door like he belongs there. The lock gives easily with a sharp twist of his wrist, and he steps inside and closes the door. Nobody knocks, nobody questions him. It isn’t worth it.

Inside your space, Roman feels his shoulders relax even as tension pools in his gut. He’s been in this room before, he’s been serviced in this room before. The idea that he’s cum on the sheets you’re sleeping in makes his cock ache, and he lets himself indulge in the scent of your shampoo against your pillow as he climbs onto your bed and nuzzles his nose into the fabric.

He’d like to believe he’d broken into your room to look for evidence. Clues about your case, any hints that you had something on him. But Roman doesn’t really give a shit about any of that now, not with Pryce about to fix the whole damn thing. He knows that his time with you is short, that you’ll be on your way with a closed case soon enough, and he wants something. He rolls off the bed and crouches in front of your bag. You hadn’t unpacked, hadn’t planned on staying long. Roman pretends that doesn’t bother him as he slides the zipper open and sifts through your clothes until he finds a pretty pair of cotton panties. Plain black, very practical. Very you. It isn’t what he wants, but it’s something.

Your kindle rests on the bedside table, and Roman returns to lie against your pillows as he opens it and flicks through your library. “Oh, agent,” he coos to himself as he memorizes the titles of your last five reads. “You like it dirty.”

He doesn’t exactly feel like it, or at least not as much as he usually does, but Roman tugs his cock out of his jeans with a resigned sigh anyway. Too good an opportunity to pass up, to paint your pillow with his cum and have you sleep right up against it.

*

If Roman Godfrey thinks he’s got a career in espionage ahead of him, you’ll have to let him down gently. He’s too tall and too intense, you can feel his eyes on you from across the street. And maybe you lick the foam off your cappuccino like a porn star, just to make him sweat. Serves him right for trailing you like the world’s worst stalker, in fact. He leaves you alone after you reach the police station, and you slump into your chair at your makeshift desk with a sigh.

“Anything new?” You ask Tom as he approaches.

“I’d have called you if there was. Just the goddamn tipline. I’ve had to put two guys on it full time.”

You bite your lip. “Do I even need to ask if there’ve been any credible-“ You cut yourself off at the dark expression on his face. “Right. Well… I mean, I could take a shift. If it would be helpful.” Say no, say no, say no.

“That’d be a big help, agent.” Tom says, his shoulders sagging like you’ve brought him actual, physical relief. “I could send a couple guys home for some sleep.”

You think about the full seven hours you got last night, and nod with a forced smile. “It’s not a problem.”

As if on queue the phone in front of you begins to ring, and you pick it up before either of the haggard-looking cops on the desks opposite have a chance to move. “Hemlock Grove tipline.”

There’s nothing but moaning on the other end of the line, and you grimace. “Hello? Are you calling with a tip for the Sheriff? Do you need any assistance from the police department?”

The groans get higher in pitch. “Yeah, keep talking, you cop bitch,” the caller moans, his voice gravelly. “I’m almost there.”

You hang up, slamming the phone down with such force the table shakes. “Pervert.” You explain, and Tom offers you a sympathetic smile.

“Been a lot of those, I’m afraid. Public tip lines bring out the crazies.”

Hours later you’re cursing Roman Godfrey when you get a call that has your spine straightening. “There’s… I think I know what you’re hunting.”

The dull ache at your temples dissipates. “You’re calling about the missing boys?”

“No. Uh, I mean, I guess.” The man on the other end sighs. “I think there’s a… shit, I don’t know what it is. Some kind of animal. Like a bear. It’s out by the barrens.”

“The barrens?”

“You know, the storm drain where all the bums live. Under the bridge by Kilderry Park.”

“A bear, you said?”

“I sad like a bear. It’s as big as a bear, that’s all I can see. I’m not getting any closer than this.”

“It’s there now?” you ask, already getting to your feet. You glance towards Tom’s office, but the Sheriff isn’t at his desk. And the monster that’s been hunting and killing people is out there now.

“I’m lookin’ right at it.”

“Alright, okay. The-the police are on their way, sir. Do not approach the creature. Stay where you are - or get somewhere safe.”

The man hangs up, and your heart is in your throat as you run from the building and climb into your car. Your hands shake so badly you almost can’t turn the key in the ignition, but you manage it and soon the town is dissolving into the sprawl of suburbia.

*

Roman lets out a low whistle. Pryce had said he’d deliver, and Pryce had fucking delivered. The beast was at least seven foot tall standing, though it crouched like a coiled spring in the corner of the cage, its enormous yellow eyes narrowed on Roman. Whether it identified him for what he was, or merely saw him as the holder of its leash, Roman didn’t know and he didn’t much care either.

“Here doggy, doggy,” he called.

“Roman.” Pryce plasters a tight smile on his face. “You understand the risks here, don’t you? Once the cage is open, I have no way of… recalling the creature. If you get in the way, it will likely try to kill you.”

Roman hums, kicking at the bars and sending the werewolf inside into a mad frenzy. “Then I’ll snap its neck. You said nobody’s looking for him?”

“No.” Pryce tilts his head, regarding the creature. “No pack, human or otherwise. No family. It likely wouldn’t have survived long alone anyway.”

Roman nods like this means anything at all to him, and turns to pull his phone from his pocket, hovering over your name in his call log. “Show time, baby.”

*

The dirty patch of earth underneath Kilderry Bridge is aptly name. Not so much as wild grass grows in the fallow earth, and the shanty town of tents and makeshift shelters are bleached white as tombstones in the moonlight. You shiver as you shut off the engine and step out of the car. If there were a bear attacking people down here, there’d be noise, wouldn’t there? There’d be chaos. You feel a sinking sense of dread, realizing you’d ignored every single safety protocol you’d been taught in rushing down here into what was very likely a trap.

Then you hear it. A low, rough growl like the purr of a motorcycle. You turn slowly on your heel, knees buckling at the impossibly large wolf crouched just meters away. Where the fuck had it come from? How had you not heard it approaching?

You raise your hands slowly, palms up. “Okay,” you say softly. “I’m not gunna hurt you.” Absurd, to talk to this immense beast like it were a common housecat and not a monster responsible for the deaths of at least eighteen people. Though you suspected now, looking at its sharp canines and long claws, that the total is much, much higher.

The wolf leaps. You see it move through the air, see it get so much bigger as it blots out the moon above you, and then there’s a sound so loud you think your eardrums have shattered. The wolf yelps and rolls to the side, missing you completely. It staggers to its feet, massive paws thumping the earth as it turns, and there’s another sound like an explosion too close to your ears. You drop to the ground, covering your ears with your hands, and the wolf jerks in your direction before collapsing onto its side.

“You can get up now.”

You lift your head to find Roman Godfrey standing in front of you with a sleek, silver gun in his hand. And, oh. Gunfire. It was gunfire you’d heard. And you should know that. You’re a federal agent with training and even some field experience under your belt, and you should be the one holding the gun.

“You… killed it.”

Roman smirks, running a hand back through his hair. “It was gunna eat you, little red riding hood.”

You swallow thickly. “It… I mean, is that it?”

Roman quirks a brow. “You wanted it to be bigger? You wanted more monster for your-“ He’s cut off by the force of his body being thrown to the side as the wolf barrels into him, knocking him to the ground in a flail of fur and fangs.

“Roman!” But Roman has been buried under the hulking weight of the wolf, and it releases a snarl as it brings an enormous paw down against Roman’s face. You hear him scream, a wrenching, awful sound, and you scramble around to grab Roman’s gun. You don’t hesitate before pressing the muzzle to the side of the wolf’s head. It rolls one golden eye towards you, but it makes no move to attack as you squeeze the trigger and blow its brains out in a thin spray.

Roman shoves the deadweight of the wolf off himself, rolling onto his side and coughing air back into his lungs. You drop to his side, reaching to check his pulse even though you can see he’s clearly, vocally alive. But it’s process to check, so you do. Your fingers come away slick with blood.

“Roman, you’re bleeding.” You squeak.

Roman grins, blood staining his teeth. “Tis but a scratch.”

A bubble of hysteria surfaces as a high-pitched giggle, and you reach a shaking hand to cup his jaw and turn his head to the side. The gash marring the flesh of his throat is deep and long, weeping a sickly dark sludge that you know cannot be good. Roman’s face is ashen, dark circles under his eyes and a sheen of sweat on his brow. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

Roman shakes his head, wincing at the stretch of his ruined flesh. “Take me home. I’ll be fine… at home.”

“I should take you to the hospital,” you say again, fingers fluttering uselessly over the wound.

Roman’s hand wraps around your wrist, pulling your hand up and pressing his mouth to your palm. You feel the words he whispers against your skin and a shiver runs down your spine. “Take me home.”

*

Roman Godfrey lives in a mansion. You should have known that, obviously, but you’d always pictured him living in an enormous monstrosity of chrome and glass, like a bond villain. Like his office at the White Tower. But the mansion is old and warm, lavishly furnished with tapestries and drapes and oil paintings you’re sure are worth a fortune. It isn’t very Roman, but you don’t question it as he leans against you, his breath hot against the side of your neck as he gasps through the pain. “My room is… up there.”

You look up at the winding staircase with dread. “I can’t carry you, Godfrey.”

Roman huffs a laugh, tugging you past the staircase. “We have an elevator.”

Right, of course he does. Roman eases himself into the small cage, reaching a hand out for you. You feel your stomach flip with anxiety at the thought of being closed up in a little box with him, but his eyes are closing and there’s blood and dirt caked on the palm he holds out and he looks like that because of you, because he saved your life. So you take his hand and wrap an arm around his waist as he pushes a button and the elevator creaks to life.

Roman’s bedroom is a reflection of the rest of the house, with touches of Roman if you knew what to look for. A snake wrapped around a cross is painted on his door, and you raise an eyebrow at the motif. “Band logo.” He says, and you nod like you believe him even though you can’t imagine a scenario where Roman listens to death metal or whatever the fuck other band would have a logo like that.

There’s a bar in the center of the room, the top littered with expensive looking liquor bottles, and Roman makes his way there first, pouring himself three fingers of whiskey and knocking it back with a satisfied hiss.

“You got a first aid kit?”

Roman nods, pointing towards an adjoining room. “Bathroom cabinet.”

You cross the room and open onto a bathroom that’s bigger than your entire motel room. There’s a row of cabinets, and you find the first aid kit in the third one. You head back to his room, tossing it onto the bed before grabbing one of the glasses from the bar and returning to the bathroom to fill it with warm water.

When you return Roman is sitting on the bed. Well, he’s trying to. His back is pressed to the headboard, head thrown back to expose the still-leaking tear on his neck, and you swallow against a bubble of panic at just how out of your depth you are here. You’d had basic first air training at the Academy, and you knew to shove a tampon in a bullet wound, but this was different. You could see muscle and the faint, white shock of bone through the blood. This was different. “Shit, Roman.” You sink onto the mattress beside him, taking up a pillow and tugging it out of its silk case to soak the fabric in the cup of water.

“You gunna patch me up, agent?”

You shush him, pressing the soaked silk to his neck, and Roman groans. “I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m doing.”

Roman laughs then, the sound harsh and grating. “That’s reassuring.”

You remove the cloth and soak it again, the water turning murky with his blood. “I can still take you to the hospital.”

“No hospitals,” Roman mutters. You press the fabric against his neck and drag down just a little, clearing the cake of mud from the ragged edges of the scratch, and Roman whimpers. His hand drops to your thigh, fingers tightening against your flesh as he wriggles underneath you. “Where’d you learn your bedside manner, GITMO?”

You ignore him, leaning closer to inspect the fresh damage revealed as the dirt and blood is washed from his skin. “It isn’t as bad as I thought.”

Roman’s eyes roll, his fingers dragging up the inside of your leg, tracing the seam of your jeans. “Feels worse.”

You nod, dunking the silk in the water for a final time before squeezing the water over his neck to wash the last of the blood away. Roman gasps at the flooding of cooled water soaking into his shirt. “Don’t be a baby.”

He huffs, prodding the tips of his fingers against your clothed core. “Don’t you wanna help me feel better?”

He juts his bottom lip out childishly, and you roll your eyes. But your clit throbs at the thought of his long, thick fingers pushing inside of you, and you shift until his palm is pressed firmly against you. “Is it just this?” You ask, scanning over his clothed torso. “It didn’t… get you anywhere else?”

Roman shifts too, hips rolling to flash the hardening bulge in his pants. “You wanna examine the patient?”

It’s pretty privilege. Roman Godfrey doesn’t know how to act right or how to talk like a person, and yet your underwear is soaked through with arousal because he’s so goddamn pretty. His full lips quirk up into a smirk as his bicep flexes under the strain of grinding the heel of his palm against you, and his cheesy lines shouldn’t be working. But he’s so goddamn pretty that they are.

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” he teases, licking over his mouth. You lean in, brushing your lips against his as your fingers skitter down his chest and press against his erection, and Roman moans softly into your mouth.

“You sure you’re up to it?” There’s the mocking suggestion of a smile on your mouth as you pull away to watch him struggle into a seated position, and Roman feels the challenge like a bolt of adrenaline right to his cock.

It was always going to end here. Granted he’d assumed you’d be the one bleeding, but that didn’t matter much. Not with you underneath him, looking up through hooded eyes as your lips part around little gasps. Roman works a second finger into you, and your knees dig into his hips as you whimper.

“Please, Roman,” you moan, and Roman thinks your begging is the best sound he’s ever heard. He stretches his thumb up to rub at your clit, pistoning two fingers in and out of you faster, hard enough to rock you back and forth on his hand.

“I wanna taste you,” he mumbles, and you barely have time to register the shift before he’s splaying his free hand on your thigh to open you up. You feel his breath against your core, and then Roman’s thumb is replaced with his tongue as he licks a long stripe against you.

“Jesus fuck!” You almost shout, so immediately overwhelmed by the sensation of his mouth on you. The inside of his mouth is cooler than you’d expected it to be, and his tongue is almost rough against your sensitive, overstimulated clit, but your eyes roll back and your hips roll up anyway.

Roman moans, the vibration electric against you as he sucks your clit into his mouth and flicks his tongue lightly against it. Your hand drops to his head, lacing in his hair as you tug the strands. He looks up at you, the sight of his hungry eyes enough to send you over the edge as you cum hard against his face. Roman’s fingers fuck you through the high, curling against your most sensitive spot over and over again as he grinds his face against your soaked pussy.

Roman’s face is a mess when he finally pulls his fingers out of you and props himself up over you. You feel the hard throb of his cock pressed against you, and you can see the shine of your arousal glistening on his face. “Do you want me?”

You blink, taken aback by the question. With your cunt throbbing for him and your cum all over his face, he was asking if you want him? You reach a hand up to touch his face, rubbing your thumb over his swollen mouth. “You need me to say it?”

Roman’s eyes darken as he reaches down to line himself up with your entrance. “Guess not.” He pushes into you in one long thrust, bottoming out with a little shudder. “Fuck.”

You hum in agreement, your whole body thrumming with the sensation of being filled so completely. Roman’s cock is both thick and long, and whilst you’d assumed he was packing something considering his height and his obscene confidence, the sheer size of him steals your breath. Then he snaps his hips back and forward, fucking you open, and you let out a sound that might be a moan or a cry or some new blend of pain and lust that you’ve just invented and will be embarrassed about later.

“Too much?” Roman asks, his own voice breathless as he thrusts into you. He doesn’t slow down or ease up, so you don’t bother to answer the question.

“No.”

“Good,” he hums, dipping his head to press his lips to yours. He’s moved around so much the wound on his neck is weeping again, blood trickling down the smooth planes of his chest and dripping onto your tits. It looks phenomenal, you look phenomenal all covered in his blood like that, and Roman’s cock throbs against the tight compression of your walls. “Shit you’re tight.”

You squeeze hard around him, and Roman lets out a startled gasp. You lean up to peck his lips, the tensing of your stomach reflexively clenching your pussy even tighter, and Roman’s head drops. “I want to ride you.”

Roman’s head lifts again, a hopeful sort of hunger on his face. “What?”

“Lie down, Roman. I wanna ride you.”

Roman does not need to be told twice, but he’s glad to hear the words leave your lips again. He eases his cock out of you and rolls onto his back, shifting to get comfortable and licking over his mouth. His cock leaks where it curves against his stomach, and you rake your eyes appreciatively over him as you kneel either side of his hips and reach down to grip him around the base. “You know,” you whisper as you sink down onto his length. “I -ah,” you drop down, taking him completely, and Roman almost sobs at how fucking good it feels to be squeezed so tightly. His hands lift to your hips, pinning you to him so he can feel the pulsing press of your cervix against his sensitive head. “I thought.”

“Yeah?” Roman’s voice is strained as he finally releases you enough to let you move. You lift half off him and drop back down, impaling yourself on his full length once, twice, three times before leaning forward to press your hands into the mattress either side of his head. You begin to grind against him, tight, deep circles as you fuck yourself on his cock, and Roman is completely beside himself.

“I really thought it was you, Roman.”

Roman doesn’t bite back, he can’t with how tightly you’re gripping him and how good your tits look as you bounce on his cock. He just can’t.

“You were such a good suspect.” You groan, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth and nibbling on the plush pink flesh until he moans again. You release his lip and sit back, leveraging your weight onto your knees so you can lift up and drop down more harshly. “Textbook, actually.”

Roman hums, digging his fingers against your hips to help lift you as you ride him. “Sorry to disappoint you, agent.”

You shake your head, biting the corner of your own lip in a way that makes Roman want to flip you under him and bite clean through the meat of it.

“I’m glad it wasn’t. I’m so fucking glad. Because-“ you break off again, throwing your head back and exposing the unblemished column of your neck, and Roman’s cock twitches as his orgasm nears. “Because I wanted to fuck you the first time I saw you. And you know it-“

You reach down to cup his jaw, tilting his head to the side so you can examine the jagged claw marks on his neck. “Knowing that you’re not a fucking murderer? Shit.” You shake your head, releasing his jaw and dropping to kiss him, your hips rocking back and forth against him again. Roman decides he likes this position best of all, because maybe he can’t see your tits bouncing but he can feel the silky drag of your nipples against his chest and your pretty, flushed face is right fucking there. “So thank you, I guess.”

Roman swallows thickly, pinning your hips down so he can fuck up into you at the pace he needs to get off. “You’re thanking me?”

You nod, nuzzling against the unbroken side of his neck before sucking a piece of Roman’s flesh into your mouth and biting down. Roman cums then, sobbing your name as he shoots his load deep inside you, and you squeeze rhythmically to milk every last drop of it out of him as he jerks his hips up.

He pulls out and presses his face between your breasts, and you reach up to cradle his head against you. “You’re weird, Roman. You’re really weird.”

Roman hums against your skin, lips parting to lick at the sweat pooling between your breasts.

“But you’re not a murderer. You’re just a man.”

Roman’s mouth curls into a smile against your skin, and you shiver as his tongue licks up over the swell of your breast and he takes a nipple in his mouth. You’re met with his sharp green eyes again, sparkling with a dark amusement you don’t understand.

He releases you with a wet pop. “You don’t have to worry anymore, sweetheart.” He coos. “I killed the monster for you.”

He rolls to the side and closes his eyes, though his hand wanders across your stomach to rest there, a possessive weight against your skin. You listen as Roman’s breathing evens out, though it’s a long, long time before your eyes close. The last thought you have, the last unsettling, gut churning thought is a question. What the fuck was Roman Godfrey doing in the barrens tonight?

*

You wake to a crack of light like a laser beam drilling into your skull through your eye socket, and wince as you roll to the side. The breath leaks out of you like a deflating balloon at the sight of him lying beside you. In sleep, Roman Godfrey is a vision. He really is. No mocking smirk on his mouth, no unsettling, unearthly intensity in his eyes when they’re closed. His face is smooth and cherubic in sleep, the tiniest frown creasing between his brows and his hair a mess of loose, short waves against the silk of his pillow. Your eyes drop to the ugly, jagged scratch running from the corner of his jaw down his neck, and you swallow thickly at the memory of the blood and the violence and the terror of the previous night. Your fingers reach to brush against the puffy, swollen flesh bracketing the wound and Roman moans softly. The sound sends a bolt of heat through you, your clit throbbing to life at the memory of what happened after. Of Roman’s lips on yours, his tongue lapping against you. The hot, heavy weight of his cock and the stretch of it pushing inside you. You shake your head, slipping from the bed and scrambling on the floor for your jeans. A mistake. Last night had been a mistake, fueled by adrenaline and relief and gratitude. You’d been caught up in the moment, that’s all. It wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t happen again. You tug your jeans up and button them, locating your bra and shoving it into your back pocket as you reach for your shirt. You’re scrambling to scoop up your sneakers, already reaching for his bedroom door when you see it.

The shoes drop from your hand, the doorhandle forgotten as you reach instead for the necklace resting on top of his dresser. You’d missed it last night, too caught up in blood and heat and the drowning pools of his eyes, but the silver chain and the fat, unusual pendant hanging from it is unmistakable now. You straighten, shaking fingers running carefully over the shiny face of the stone.

“G’morning,” his voice is a rumble of thick sleep, and you jump as warm arms snake around your waist and pull you against the hard muscles of his bare chest. “Sneaking out?”

You shake your head, trying to turn in his arms, but Roman is a solid weight against you. “Needed the bathroom.”

Roman hums, fingers splaying wide over your stomach before pressing harshly into your skin. “Yeah?”

Your breath stutters out of you at the pressure of his palm against your bladder. “Fuck, Roman.”

He chuckles, lips dipping to press a kiss to the top of your head before he releases the pressure on your stomach. “You wanted a souvenir?”

You shrug against him, flicking your fingers dismissively. “Just being nosey.”

“You jealous?” He coos, reaching around you to hook the delicate chain over his fingers. “You worried it’s for some other girl?”

“No.” You whisper, but your voice is gone and Roman is unconvinced. He releases your waist completely and pries the tiny clasp open, brushing your hair to the side as he fixes the necklace around your throat. The pendant drops to your sternum, and Roman’s hands slip down your body to rest on your hips as he rolls his own against your ass with a sigh.

“Do you like it?” He mumbles, lips caressing against the soft pulse point where your throat meets your collarbone.

You struggle to control your breathing as Roman’s fingers caress against your waist, slipping up under the fabric of your shirt to graze against your stomach. “I… it’s lovely. Where did you get it?”

Roman hears the stutter of your pulse, and his fingers tighten on your flesh. “It suits you. Matches your eyes.”

You hum, forcing your body to relax against him even as your brain is screaming at you to get out, to run! Run! Run! Because you’d seen that necklace before. Around the neck of a pretty teenager in a polaroid that had sat on your nightstand ever since her little sister wrote you a letter. “I should really… get going. The Sheriff will be expecting me to come in this morning.”

Roman hums against your flesh, the hand on your stomach snaking round to press into the small of your back as he bends you deliberately over the dresser. “We’ve got time.”

“Roman,” you huff as he grinds his stiff cock slowly against your ass. “Look, last night was great, I mean it really was.”

Roman grunts in response, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and yanking them down to your knees. “I can’t figure it out.” He says, pressing his palm against your hip as he nudges the head of his cock against your ass.

“Can’t-“ you suck in a shaky breath at the press of his throbbing tip against your entrance. “Figure what out?”

He pushes into you then, slowly, the stretch a pleasant burn over the residual soreness from how roughly he’d fucked you last night. “What changed. What I missed.”

You swallow, eyes shuttering closed as Roman pulls half out and pushes back in, the tight, hot grip of your pussy making him weak at the knees. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Roman hums, fingers digging into your hips as he pulls all the way out and thrusts back in with a vicious jab. His hand splays over your back, pressing you harder against the wood, and the necklace scrapes against the surface.

You watch it happen in real time, as his eyes drop to the offending silver chain. “Oh.”

“Roman,” you whisper, trying desperately to meet his eyes in the mirror even as you’re dragged back and forth harder and harder on his cock. You’re so full at this angle, the thick head of his cock pressing into your g-spot over and over with each rough thrust, and the fluttering of fear in your stomach mixes with the heat of arousal into a confusing, irresistible cocktail.

“How did you know?” He asks, breath harsh with exertion, eyes still fixed on the necklace. “How did you know it was hers?”

You squeeze hard around him and he stops moving, buried in you to the hilt. You can feel the living pulse of him right up against your cervix, and you shift your hips against the sharp edge of his dresser. “Her sister wrote me a letter,” you whisper, tears filling your eyes from the revelation and the overstimulation and the terror. “There was a picture of Lisa wearing it.”

Roman’s eyes close even as a beatific smile graces his lovely face. “Kid fucking sister.” He groans, cock pulsing and thickening inside you. He almost doesn’t want to come, even though your pussy feels like the closest thing to nirvana and he knows it’s gunna be one hell of a load. But he also knows that when he’s done this is over, that now you know what you know he can’t let you leave the house alive. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?” He asks softly, leaning forward to hook an arm around your sternum and drag you up against him. Your back presses flush to the soft heat of his chest, and you whimper at the sensation of this new angle as Roman pushes your hips away and pulls you back, fucking you on his cock. “I gave you the perfect monster.”

Tears spill over now, rolling down your cheeks, and Roman pulls you closer so he can lick the wet salt from your skin. “Please, Roman.” You whisper.

“It’s too late,” he sighs, free hand dropping between your legs to circle your clit. “I really tried to get you out of this, sweetheart. Gave you the performance of a fuckin lifetime.”

You don’t bother to beg, or to tell him you’ll forget the whole thing if he just lets you go. It’s a lie neither one of you needs. “What do you do with the bodies?” You ask, because if it’s the last thing you get to do on this earth you’d like to go out knowing you got to the bottom of the whole gruesome affair.

Roman’s smile is sad, and then it isn’t. The corners of his mouth seem to split open as he parts his lips, jaw popping too wide on too many fucking teeth as he licks over the side of your neck. He leans in close again, the sharp point of his nose nuzzling at the corner of your jaw with a tenderness that has you quivering around his cock as his fingers work against your clit. Then you feel it; the hot, sharp agony of all those teeth sinking into your flesh and pulling you apart like you’re made of butter.

The blood burns your skin as it soaks down your front, sticking your shirt to your tits in a way that has Roman’s cock leaking heavily against your cervix as he continues to snap his cock into you. Your ass bounces off his pubic bone in just the right way, just like he knew it would, and Roman’s tongue pushes into the ruin of bites in your neck to lave at the pulse of your blood as he feeds from you. “God,” you whisper, and you’re almost annoyed at yourself for making that the last thing you ever say as Roman’s fingers work you over the edge.

You cum hard, clit pulsing through waves as his cock brutalises you and your legs give out. Roman lets you brace against the dresser, licking gore from the sides of his mouth as he refocuses on the in and out of his cock. He dribbles pink-tinged saliva onto your ass, working the bloody slick into your skin with his thumbs, and the moan that rumbles out of him is so indulgent it ripples right through you, too. “Shit,” he groans as his cock twitches one final time and he cums with more force than he ever has before. He bites down on his own tongue to stifle a scream, and the metal of his blood mixes with yours. Roman swallows this unholy sacrament greedily, hips still jerking lightly against you as you quiver and pulse around his sensitive cock.

He pulls out of you with a slow wince, even as your body tries to lock him inside you. You can’t really control your muscles, not with your head swimming and your legs dead weights underneath you. He wraps an arm around your stomach and pulls you close, bracing under your thighs and carrying you back to his bed with a careful gentleness that makes you sob. “I don’t feel good,” you whisper, shaking fingers reaching to brush over his cheeks like you’re searching for the splits in his face that hide the monster.

“I know,” he mumbles, hands rubbing over your thighs and lingering to brush through the slick mess spilling from inside you. “Not long now.”

You sob, head falling back against his pillows. Too heavy. And too tired. You’re too fucking tired. “Roman.”

He snuggles against you, pressing his lips to yours, then lower to your cheek, your jaw, the sore, bitten flesh of your throat. “I know,” he coos against your skin. “I know, I’m here.”

You close your eyes against fresh tears as his teeth part your flesh, the blood soaking to heat your chilled skin as he groans against you. His hands roam once more, groping at your tits as he drags you back against his chest.

Roman knows he’ll be sad to see you go, but what a fucking sendoff. You’re wet and warm and clinging to him, and even though you don’t say it, even though you’re too overwhelmed with all of him to admit how much you want it, Roman knows. He knows he’s going to keep you forever. That there are no losers in the little game you’d been playing since your arrival in Hemlock Grove. He presses his stiffening bulge against your ass and his hand dips lower, finding the swollen bud of your clit as blood fills his mouth and his cock and he feels your slowing heartrate pulse a rhythm that sounds like his name.