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You hear his desperate, faux cries from your spot behind the couple’s cabin. You look down at your ring finger and admire the band that adorns it.

Such a charming man, your husband Remmick is. Always doing the heavy lifting so that all you had to worry about was sinking your teeth into your newest victim.

You also faintly heard the not-so-friendly words they were using. If anything, it fueled your desire to turn them. Normally, you prefer to make the vampirization process as quick and painless for the individual on the other end of your bite, for you still have a sense of “humanity”, as Remmick calls it.

You think it’s just common decency, but to each their own!

‘These is Klan folk, angel’ Remmick speaks to you through your hive mind. Of course they were, you couldn’t even be surprised at the surplus of hatred in this world, especially here.

Your ears nearly perk up once you hear the sound of horse hooves clicking against the hot dirt.

‘Hurry on up, Rem. They’re comin’

‘I got it—I got it. Don’t worry yer pretty lil head, honey’

You roll your eyes, even though you know he can’t see it. ‘I ain’t worryin’, I’m hungry’

“Hey, I got gold,” Remmick abruptly says to the pair, who still wield their weapons. “They ain’t get all of it, you can have it,” Remmick holds out the gold coin, in need of some sort of truce. “Jus’ don’t let ‘em hurt me,” he murmurs weakly.

You peek from around the cabin–still making sure that your body resides fully under the roof’s shingles–and you’re just barely able to make out the frames of the Choctaw that we’re hunting you and your husband.

You still hear the woman’s voice, meaning the man is with Remmick. Exactly how you planned.

What transpires in the next 5 minutes is truly a blur to you. You’re famished, so much so, that your head starts to ache. But you eventually peer over the wall and you’re met with the distant sight of the Choctaw’s backs.

‘How’s it lookin’, honey?’ You question your husband, but you’re met with no answer.

It was done.

You quickly glide to the front of the house as the hot sun beats down on your large hat that you stole from the next town over, your heel-covered feet float over the ground. You don’t want to scuff them up any further–not until Remmick gets you another pair, that is. You take a seat on the rickety chair that rests on the porch, you cross your legs and lightly pick at your nails to cure your boredom.

A sharp, piercing scream resonates within the vicinity of the cabin, the loud intrusion breaks the peace that the birds once had as they now scatter through the wind. You smirk at the sound, you look up and devilishly grin at the only winged-body that remained perched on the edge of the roof.

Rapid footsteps bounce off the wooden floors, you assume Remmick’s chasing her, leading her out to you. You adjust your hat as soon as she slams open the front door. She pants and shuts the door, keeping her hands on it as Remmick yells threatening nonsense at her.

A tear slips down her now rosy cheeks, you can tell when her soul leaves her body once she caught a glimpse of you in her peripheral vision. You tilt your head at her and just blink slowly at her, “Hey there, sugar!” You chirp.

She screams yet again, her voice raw, as red claws up her flushed skin.

You then pounce on her with ease; you jump on her and her back meets the floor boards immediately. You hold both of her hands with just one of yours, and your tight grip has her hands losing circulation. You don’t bother teasing or toying with her, not with your undeniable thirst consuming your mind.

You sink your pointed teeth into her flesh. You groan as she yells for what seems like the hundredth time.

God, isn’t she tired of doing that?

The door creaks open, but you don’t shift your focus from the blood that pools down from the side of her bulging neck. You do pout, however. ‘Klan folk always taste weird’

Remmick pauses and sighs blissfully, seemingly disregarding your statement, "I ever tell you how beautiful you look while feedin’, angel?”

You lick your lips as you finally get your fill, you look at him, your pout turning into something more cheeky, “Once or twice, yes. Don’t mean I don’t like hearin’ it, though.” You jump up onto your feet, and your heels thunk on the planks next to the woman’s head.

You walk over to the Irish man, who watches you lovingly, with crimson dripping from his grinning mouth and staining his ripped undershirt.

Remmick takes your hand in his, and his other arm wraps around your waist. He holds you tenderly, before slowly turning the embrace into a waltz, “Well, you look divine, baby,” he says before spinning you. You yelp as he dips you, before laughing and smiling like a madwoman.

He presses his bloody lips to yours, and you hum into the kiss while lightly tugging at his gold chain. Remmick’s hand slips out of yours and moves down to cradle your cheek. Remmick’s slight stubble lightly scratches against your chin in the best way possible as he deepens the kiss. Unfortunately though, you’re forced to part from your husband once the woman who you bit moments prior now rises up to a stand.

“Oh! My apologies, am I interuptin’?” She exults with a smile. Remmick plants you back on your feet as you both look at her, which is when you realize that her husband is also gazing at you both.

“So are they both jus’ gonna stare at us all damn day?” You huff.

“Awwe, don’t be like that, baby!” Remmick coos, making you scrunch your face up. The couple also let out similar words of approval. Remmick grabs your chin and guides your beaming red eyes to his with his thumb and pointer finger, “Y’see, with them here, we can finally get what we always been dreamin’ for.”

All you can do is sigh, as you look between the pair, who nod at you vigorously. You grumble some more before stepping off of the porch and leaping into the air.

You look down at Remmick before speaking, “Don’t bring ‘em home ‘til you got ‘em straightened out, don’t need none of their foolishness in my house, y’hear me?”

Remmick beams at your brightly, “Yes ma’am! Anythin’ for you, darlin’!”

Your dog, Beau, whimpers next to you, you pet him before he hops up and begins barking at the front door. Somehow, it’s like he had a sixth sense for his vampiric father. You listen intently; you hear one set of footsteps.

…And then two more.

You sigh without looking up from your book initially when your front door eases open. The scent of your husband floods your nostrils.

“Honey, I’m home!” Remmick jokes, making you huff.

“Take them shoes off if ya wanna keep ‘em,” you chide half-heartedly as you turn the page of your book. “That goes for our guests as well.”

“Lovely home y’all got here!” The same feminine voice that had screeched in your ears earlier exclaimed. You look up at this; Remmick’s cooing and rubbing Beau’s fuzzy stomach, the woman wearing her blue dress smiles at you, as well as her husband, who stands behind her in the door frame awkwardly.

You don’t say anything, opting to give a look to Remmick instead, and that’s when you notice his new attire: the button-up he’s wearing is slightly oversized, as well as his pants, which are so large, they have to be pulled up and held with flimsy suspenders.

“What in the hell—are you wearing his clothes?” You exclaim incredulously.

Your husband looks at you sheepishly, obviously searching for the right choice of words. “We-well, we had t’go through town—‘cause Bert ‘n Joan here ain’t strong enough to fly yet, honey, will be soon though!”He mumbles as you squint at him with fire in your eyes.

“That’s us,” The man who you assume is Bert, says eagerly.

“Will be soon!” Joan cheers.

“Washed sum clothes ‘fore ya came in..Come ‘n take these off,” you gaze up at the Irish man lovingly as you slide the suspenders down his arms; the way you look at him while murmuring softly has him hypnotized. He hums in response and you turn away, trekking down the hall with a light sway in your hips, never looking back at him once.

Remmick finally realizes that you wanted him to follow you, so he quickly dashes to the bedroom. He has to remind himself that the two of you don’t have the house to yourselves right now when he makes it to the door, so when you wink at him, it takes everything in him to fight the urge to ravish you in ways only he knows how.

He looks out down the hall to Bert and Joan, “Please, try not to touch nun…The missus likes her organization.” He smiles tight-lipped. He steps into the bedroom and closes the door, where he’s met with you: bent over in your soft and clean house gown, rummaging through a basket filled with freshly-dried clothes.

If Remmick actually had a live, beating heart, he thinks it’d be leaping out of his chest.

His breath does skip a beat, though, and despite his cold skin, he feels his pale cheeks warm.

He thinks about sneaking up on you—rushing over to you with supernatural speed without a sound even ringing out against these four walls of your shared sanctuary, but he knows you’ll sense it.

You stand back up, hands full with a shirt and matching pants for Remmick. You turn around and smile at him, already knowing that he was standing there, watching you.

“Seo dhuit, mo ghrá,” your tone is sugary sweet as you peer up at him through your lashes, but Remmick knows that look is everything but sweet.

“Here you go, my love”

If only someone had told Remmick that emotional restraint wasn’t a skill acquired once you’ve turned, because God—did he wish he could refrain from chubbing up in his large slacks when he heard you speak Gaelic.

It wasn’t a new thing, no, you’d been learning bits and pieces as soon as you met Remmick, since you had been enchanted with how effortlessly the foreign words rolled off of his tongue. But Remmick swears he falls deeper and deeper in love with you every single time he hears the familiarity.

It makes him feel like he’s at home.

Actually, it makes him proud to have a home with you: someone who makes life feel easy, especially given the fact that you both weren’t the typical couple that you’d find in this day and age—for numerous reasons.

‘Done fantasizin’ ‘bout me, handsome? Mighty tired of seein’ ya in these rags’

You speak, yet your mouth remains shut, and your eyebrow raises at him expectantly. Remmick chooses not to speak, instead, he grabs the clothes out of your hands and places them on the bed before starting to strip. You huff out a chuckle at his sudden shyness.

Fuck—you’re so obsessed with your husband, it’s unreal.

You decide to give him some privacy, even though he looks as if you threatened him with an arms-worth of silverware as you walk away. When you shut the bedroom door behind you, you walk down the lengthy hallway and unfortunately Bert and Joan are sitting on your antique couch, hands folded in their laps, necks craned to look at you.

“Y’all ain’t no friends of mine, y’friends of Remmick, so don’t go expectin’ nun from me,” you speak firmly, leaving no room for discussion or debate. “‘N get the hell off my couch,” you scold, making them jump up as if they were popping corn kernels. Their squirming made you laugh.

“Darlin’…Hope we’re not scarin’ our new friends too much now,” Remmick teases as he places his cold hands upon your shoulders in a calming manner, and his head rests against yours.

You exhale, “Maybe your enhanced hearin’ ain’t so enhanced, ‘cause I just told these folks they ain’t gettin’ no welcome party from me—anytime soon.” Remmick feels you tensing, and it doesn’t hurt his heart, it hurts his soul.

“I-I know, I know—but it’s only temporary, baby, I swear it.” Remmick whispers sweetly to you; some of his words wrapped in desperation. He turns you around so that you’re facing him.

Your eyes are fixed on the floor as you pout without realizing, “‘N how long will that be?” You ask, your attitude never leaving your tone; you didn’t even bother to speak through your shared minds. Remmick shifts his hands from your shoulders up to your cheeks, holding you and guiding your face upwards so that he could get a clear glimpse of you.

‘Just ‘till mornin’, then y’wont have to worry ‘bout them ever again’

You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t think your husband was just telling you what you wanted to hear. You knew of his plans of getting his people back, using music as a connector—so you knew damn well these white folk wouldn’t be gone by morning.

You let out what seems like your hundredth sigh, and walk to the kitchen, where you grab a glass of blood that you had stored for times like these.

Remmick grins lopsidedly, “Try not to drink too much, darlin’! Still gotta visit that ‘ole juke joint!”

“Are we sure that this joint even exists, Rem?” You groan.

“‘Bout as sure as I am Irish!” Remmick chirps, nuzzling his chin into your shoulder.

Tonight was going to be a long night.

“Well I’ll be damned…Y’werent lyin’, honey!” You exclaim, grabbing onto Remmick with just as much enthusiasm. He wraps his arms around your waist.

“‘Course not! What kinda man do ya take me for?” Remmick beams from pointed-ear to pointed-ear.

“Oh I’m just delighted to be here!” Joan giggles, quickly souring your mood.

Remmick immediately takes notice of this, and redirects the conversation. “Alright, now you stay right here sweets, me, Joan, ‘n Bert got this all taken care of.” He squeezes your waist once last time as he pecks your lips; you hum against him.

Remmick secures his instrument that resides strapped against his back, and the three head to the entrance of Club Juke. The music is so loud it pours out the rickety building as if it were the ocean; the melodies meld with the air like a salty tide. You see Cornbread guarding the door, and you can’t believe you’re back here.

The last time you were here, you were living with a man that wasn’t Remmick—you were married to a man that wasn’t Remmick. That didn’t stop Remmick from visiting you every night for months after he met you, though. The ring on your finger especially didn’t deter him when he had found your husband mistreating you in ways he knew he wouldn’t.

Some nights, your husband wouldn’t let you leave the house, no matter how many times you tried to convince him that you just wanted to check-in on the animals on your farm. Remmick used to wait outside, becoming one with the shadows by the barn until you skipped on up to him. If you hadn’t been outside an hour after lights out, he’d walk back into the woods with his head hung low and a heavy weight on his heart.

On one particular night, one where your lights stayed on longer than usual, Remmick hadn’t left. In fact, he had approached your house—specifically the window that led into your bedroom.

It was wrong of him, he knows that, and he’s not afraid to admit it to this day—but he’ll never regret it, because he can still picture your face after your dead-beat husband had tried to lay his hands on you.

You had tip-toed out of your house after your husband had fallen asleep, and you knew that Remmick would be gone.

You had just wanted some air.

But you were wrong, because Remmick was still outside, waiting for you, but closer than he’d ever been before. You figured that he saw, or at least heard what happened, since his face showed both anger and a twinge of sadness.

That was the night you had been turned by Remmick.

And in that same night, you ripped your husband’s throat clean out, and watched as his life drained from his eyes.

You left without a word the morning after; you didn’t spare a single goodbye to anyone that you called family.

Not the Moore twins, not their little cousin who you looked after, not even Grace, Annie, or your best friend, Mary.

Hence why you opted out of going with Remmick to the door and seeing all of the familiar faces that could possibly hate you.

Even if they don’t hate you for leaving, you know good and well you’ll be hated for becoming what you are.

What you are is unknown by most, different, even—and different kills.

You’re so enthralled by your thoughts, you don’t notice your husband slowly walking back over to you with a sullen look on his face, similar to Bert and Joan.

“‘Fraid our plan didn’t work, darlin’,” Remmick trails off as he sits next to you on the log, still holding his most prized possession: his banjo.

“What’d they say?” You ask all too eagerly.

Remmick chuckles sadly, both for you and for him, “They ain’t interested in us comin’ in, though I don’t blame ‘em, I suppose.” You take your thumb and rub between his furrowed brows.

“…Do ya want me to go in?” You ask hesitantly, Remmick immediately grabs your hands and rubs his thumbs over your knuckles.

“No—no! ‘Course not, baby! W-we’ll figure sum out.” He smiles at you both sweetly and crookedly, calming your nerves almost instantly. “In fact, I already gotta new idea! Bert, Joan, get ready to play.”

You tilt your head and your eyebrows mimic Remmick’s a moment prior.

“Y’remember that song I taught ya, darlin’? ‘Cause y’might wanna start warmin’ up.”

Will ye go, lassie go?

Remmick sings, making a smile shine on your face. Seeing him so happy in his element makes you feel as if you’re over the moon.

And we’ll all go together

Out of the corner of your eye, you see none other than Mary walking over, wearing a pink dress and matching heels.

To pull wild mountain thyme

As she gets closer, Mary’s eyes light up in shock as she recognizes your features that she knows all too well.

All around the bloomin’ heather

Will ye go, lassie, go?

Mary looks as if she wants to speak, her mouth opens then closes several times as she gets closer to you. You look at her with love and sincerity in your eyes as you sing.

As Remmick plucks the last few notes, a tear trickles down Mary’s face.

“_______? Is that you?” Mary asks breathlessly, wiping the tears from her rosy cheeks.

“Hi, Mary,” you whisper. You know she wants to say so much more, but then she faces Remmick.

She has a motive for coming out here.

As much love as you have for her nestled within your soul, Remmick is your top priority. Which is why you quickly get your head on straight as she sits down and conversates with your husband.

Remmick offers her the gold you two acquired, and she looks in disbelief, her eyes shifting from you to Remmick.

You can’t help but roll your eyes as Bert and Joan randomly decided to put their two cents in by repeating what Remmick says. But, you hold your composure, because you all have a shared goal to accomplish at the end of the day.

“Loosing a mother’s a hurtin’ feelin’.” Bert murmurs, Remmick hums, agreeing with him.

“And I wish in my heart that we’d met sooner.” Remmick empathizes, and Mary can't help but turn her head to you.

Despite being apart for all these years, you can tell that Mary’s getting riled up due to Remmick’s advances.

“I would’ve liked to have saved your mother from her fate,” Remmick muses, “I can still save you from yours.”

“No, you must have me confused,” Mary says with cynicism. “I’m sad is all, but I don’t need no savin’.”

“Yes. Yes you do. You all do.” Remmick looks at her darkly, his glowing red eyes now on display, as well as his fangs.

Mary jumps up from the log, holding her gun with an iron grip as it points at your husband. You look between her and Remmick, then really taking in his appearance.

“Dammit, Rem—y’droolin’ honey.” You scold him, slowly lifting a finger to his chin and wiping the dripping saliva, making sure Mary doesn’t get intimidated by any rash movements. Though this doesn’t make Mary feel any better.

“Petal, what the fuck is all this?” Mary gestures between you and Remmick, making you put your hands up defensively. Hearing your old best friend call you by your old nickname almost brings tears to your eyes.

Everyone around the Delta called you Petal, since somehow, some way, you always had a flower planted delicately in your hair. Sometimes you’d even leave petals behind where you walked.

“It’s a lot, Mary, ‘n I wish I could explain it all to you. But you have to trust me when I say that this is for the best.” You tread carefully with your words, trying to ease the tension in the air.

“W-what? No—what’s that supposed to mean?” Mary exclaims, seemingly growing more wary by the second as she begins to step back.

You decide to get up gently from your spot on the log, and inch towards her faintly. “I know I got no business comin’ here makin’ demands—trust me Mar, I know that.” There's a slight tremble in your voice.

“But I want ya to join us—me ‘n my husband. We can be a big ‘ole family, Mar, just like the old days. Elias, Elijah, Annie, all of ‘em! Please jus-”

“No! I ain’t joinin’ whatever you and your—” Mary snarls with hesitance, “Husband, got goin’ on. ‘M sorry, Petal, ‘n I love ya, but it ain’t happenin’! Not now, not ever.” Mary’s breath picks up as you continue walking towards her, but then, you stop. Mary’s rapid heartbeat doesn't falter, though.

Your lip quivers as you look back at your husband, sending a message not even through your mind—but through your eyes.

Just as Remmick nods at you, Mary makes her biggest mistake: she turns her back.

You thought you taught her better than that.

Maybe it’s because in a way, you turned your back on her all these years ago.

And right now, you have to turn your back to her once again as Remmick leaps into the air in her direction.

You walk with your arm linked with Mary’s; the music inside the joint sounds both riveting and inviting.

“Cornbread,” Mary greets him at the door, making him look up.

“Mary what’chu doin’ out here?” Cornbread questions as he then notices you.

“Petal? W-Where you been all these years? What’chu doin’ back here girl?” Cornbread’s jaw might as well be on the dirt right now with the way he’s looking at the two of you.

“You gon let us in, or just sit there blockin’ the door?” Mary quickly interrupts with a twinge of sass.

Cornbread uncrosses his arms and moves aside after a beat, “No, come on—come on in.”

You smile at him sweetly as Mary eyes him and guides you into the building.

‘Careful in there, darlin’ let me know if ya need me’ Remmick’s voice echos through your mind. Normally, you wouldn’t admit that his soothing tone grounds you in ways nobody else has been able to, but there’s no use in hiding it since he already hears everything.

according to her, vampires couldn’t cross a threshold unless you bid them, that holy water’ll make their skin slough off like boiled peaches. she said they couldn’t cross running water either.

that part, you’ve since learned, was nonsense.

it was a vampire who damn near carried you across the creek last week when your heel got wedged between the rocks. he didn’t flinch at the current—simply hitched up his trousers and waded through, big arms hooked beneath your thighs like you weighed nothing at all.

your mama was a wise woman, but there are things she couldn’t have known.

after all, she never met remmick.

he first came to you when the heat broke. the song of cicadas gone silent, purple bruised sky leaking copper. june’s breath turning sweet and spoiled like ripe fruit. you opened the door barefoot, porch boards sun-warm beneath your soles.

now he comes and goes as he pleases.

his skin is as cold than the river stones under your feet that day. cold even when he’s fully sheathed inside you, fucking into you nice and slow.

his pupils stay tar-black until he’s hungry. then they bloom red—rich and furious, red as poppies—just as he’s yanking your bloomers down, breathing hard against the inside of your thigh.

his mouth unhinges in such a way that can only be described as serpentine. you’ve seen the full spread of it. a row of fangs where a human’s teeth should be, gums slick and red like fresh meat. tongue, long and deft, moves with inhuman control—circling your clit, lapping at it in slow, surgical swipes like it was shaped for that purpose alone.

he keeps the claws tucked away most days. but you’ve seen them. curved obsidian sickles catching the lamplight, retractable like a cat’s. the first time he let them slip during sex, he raked them down your back mid-climax—tore your nightgown straight down the spine, left welts that stung for days. another time, remmick clawed through the headboard, splintered it clean, hips stuttering while his mouth stretched wide, teeth bared. you watched it happen from beneath him, utterly struck by the sheer violence of it. and the beauty.

he’s not entirely invincible, though. the smell of garlic makes him recoil in disgust. sunlight and silver blisters his skin on contact.

remmick is the monster you’ve been warned about. the thing with claws and fangs, glowing red eyes and cold skin.

you’re not stupid. you knew better. that’s why you keep a silver charm strung around your neck. holy water in a flask on your bedside table, and most importantly — a stake under your pillow.

but knowing hasn’t stopped you from letting him kneel between your thighs and lick you open with that obscene mouth in search of ripeness. hasn’t stopped those cold lips from murmuring “mo chroí… cailín milis…” against your skin as he pushes in slow, every thick inch of him dragging against soaked velvet walls.

you want him.

in ways that aren’t just carnal, even if you both pretend otherwise.

and maybe—just maybe—your mama wasn’t warning you about monsters.

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

Ran your daddy’s general store with a steady hand and a sharp head for numbers. Never late to open, never short on change. You knew what folks needed before they asked. Darning needles, cane syrup, extra tobacco for the older men who swore they were quitting but never really tried. Folks came in more for you than the goods, if they were honest. You smiled easy. Listened well. Learned their names, their kids’ names, and how they liked their goods bagged.

You had a tight circle of friends, girls you’d known since church bonnets and petticoats. Played games on the porch after Sunday school and swapped lipstick behind the store when your daddy wasn’t looking. They called you the smart one. The grounded one. The kind that could hold a whole household together with one hand while balancing the day’s receipts in the other. They said if any of them were gonna marry a good man, it’d be you.

But somehow, that wasn’t the way the road bent.

You were always the one they leaned on. The one who helped fix their hems and cooled their heartbreaks and made sure they got home safe. But when they talked about love, the soft parts, the burning ones, the kind of hunger that made your hands tremble, they never looked at you.

You weren’t the girl men chased after. Just the one who made things easier.

And still, somehow, you were the one he chose.

He came in on a Tuesday.

Dead of night, just before closing. Long shadows bleeding in through the windows, sun already tucked behind the treeline, store mostly empty save for the sound of your broom brushing across the floorboards. You’d flipped the sign but hadn’t locked up yet. Wasn’t late enough to feel nervous.

Not until the bell over the door chimed, and he stepped through.

A white man.

Tall. Pale. Not from around here. And not the type of man who came this far across town, not without a reason. He didn’t belong on your side of the county line. Not unless he was lost. Not unless he meant trouble.

But if he was aware of how out of place he looked, he didn’t show it. He walked in easy. Calm. Hands in his coat pockets and a smile that curved slow and deliberate. He looked right at you, only you, and said,

“Evenin’, miss.”

Polite. Warm. Like this was a place, a side of town, he frequented.

He asked for flour. Then matches. Then something sweet. Said he had a long road ahead of him, but never said where it led. Moved like he had all the time in the world. Studied the shelves like they held more than goods. Like he was trying to learn something about you in the way you stocked your soap and stacked your salt.

His accent was Southern, but different. Smooth, syrupy, with a twist to his vowels, like every word had traveled through someplace older, foreign, before landing in his mouth. He didn’t speak like a man passing through. Spoke like a man digging roots. And when he left, he touched two fingers to the brim of a hat he didn’t wear, like tipping it to you was instinct.

You locked the door behind him. Stood for a moment, broom still in hand, wondering what to make of it.

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

He brought little things each time. His name, Remmick, the second time around. An odd name, you thought.

A ribbon he said reminded him of your favorite dress, even though you hadn’t told him which one it was. A book of poems with pages marked and underlined, left at the counter with a quiet “Thought ya might like this one.” A jar of thick, dark honey that looked more like molasses, wrapped in cloth and twine like a gift.

Remmick never lingered too long. Never pushed for more than you were willing to give. Just watched. Listened. Laid compliments at your feet like offerings. Not greasy or crude, but precise. Gentle. Like he meant every word and had studied you long enough to know they’d land.

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

Said you were the only person in town worth a real conversation.

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

And piece by piece, the walls you’d built without knowing cracked beneath the weight of his gaze.

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

Your friends never met him. Not once. But they could tell something had changed. The way you smiled at nothing when they were mid-sentence. The way your gaze would drift toward the door, or to the windows, or to some place in your head they couldn’t reach. You weren’t sharing like you used to. Not your stories, not your time.

Still, they were happy for you. At first. Said it must be something special, if you were keeping it close. But even then, there was a pause in their voices when they said it. A little squint in the eyes. A little too much emphasis on the word special.

They’d always said you were the one who’d settle down first. The one with the good head. The one who’d choose someone kind and steady, someone who knew what it meant to take care of a woman like you.

But you never gave them a name.

Never said what he looked like, what he did, where he came from.

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

Your mama stopped by more often. Just to check in, she'd say. But her voice always started a little high-pitched when she'd talk. Like she could see something in you she didn’t have the words for. Your daddy didn’t say much at all, but you could feel his silence stretching between you every time he stopped by the shop and found you humming without noticing, sorting flour bags with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

Remmick always had a way of making the world sound simpler than it was.

He made you feel beautiful. Sharp. Like the only person in the room worth speaking to.

Like his person.

And the things he said. God, the things he said.

Said you had the kind of soul people wrote songs about. That no one else had ever understood you the way he did. That all your life, people had been trying to water you down. Make you smaller, quieter, more convenient.

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

He didn’t like your friends, though. Said they talked too much. Said they didn’t get you. Said you always came back from seeing them with your shoulders a little tighter, your voice a little more unsure. That they didn’t want you to grow. That they only loved you when you stayed the version of yourself they could manage.

He said it so sweetly, like it hurt him to say it.

Like it was breaking his heart.

And when he asked, gently, softly, with his fingers stroking the inside of your wrist, if you could spend a little less time with them, it didn’t feel like control.

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

He said your parents were too involved. Too nosy. Said you were grown now. Said their worries weren’t yours to carry. And when you stopped accepting your mama's visits, when you quit your job at your daddy's general store despite the heartbroken look on his face, it didn’t feel like abandonment. Not then.

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

When he asked you to come stay with him, it didn’t feel like a decision.

Just the next step in the story he was writing for you both.

The manor was beautiful. Isolated. A pristine, white-columned thing hidden deep in the Delta, so far from town it didn’t even register on some maps. Every plank of wood polished. Every curtain soft and silent in the breeze. The kind of place where your voice echoed even when you whispered. Where the sky stretched endless above you, dark and wide and brimming with stars you hadn’t seen in years.

He said it would be safer this way. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

The room he gave you was sun-soaked and clean, decorated with strange antiques and velvet-upholstered chairs that looked too expensive to sit in but felt right under you. He stocked the closet with dresses in your size before you ever mentioned needing new clothes. Or giving him your measurements. Set your favorite tea on the windowsill beside a stack of your favorite books.

“Just figured ya’d need some comfort, darlin’,” he said, planting featherlight kisses on your hands. “A woman like you deserves softness.”

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

You didn’t think to ask how he knew what you liked.

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

The feeling of being watched. Not cruelly. Not even threateningly. But deliberately. Like the world outside had narrowed down to two hearts and one house, and all of it was his.

He made sure you loved him. Or at least that you needed him too badly to leave.

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

Until the night he came home with blood on his shirt.

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

Dark and wet and clinging, like the cotton had drunk its fill and was still greedy. His cuffs were stiff with it. His collar painted red. There were flecks on his throat, droplets drying like freckles, and his hands dripped steadily onto the hardwood, drawing crimson lines in a path that led straight to you.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just stood there in the doorway of the sitting room, chest rising slow. Watching you.

There was no panic in his eyes. No guilt. Just a feverish gleam, like he’d returned from something holy and wasn’t quite ready to step down from the altar.

You froze where you were. Half-curled on the sofa, book in hand, mouth parting without sound.

He stepped inside and told you the man's name. Simply. As if announcing the weather.

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

Loud. Unfiltered. Scrambled back until your spine hit the armrest, and the book hit the floor with a thud that didn’t register beneath the roar of your pulse.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

Just watched you with that same slow-burning affection he always wore, like this was something you would come to understand in time. Like it was natural. Expected. A truth you’d learn to live inside.

When your voice cracked from shouting no, when your sobs doubled over into heaves, he knelt.

Right there. Blood and all.

He didn’t bother to wash his hands first. Didn’t even take off his coat. He just knelt at your feet like a knight returning from battle, like something ancient and humbled and sure of its place.

“Don’t cry, sugar,” he hummed, reaching for you.

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

He closed the gap gently, slowly, as if calming a startled animal.

“Wasn’t for no reason,” he said, voice low and honey-thick. “Ya believe that, don’t ya?”

You shook your head. Weak.

And still, when his bloodied hand cupped your face, you didn’t pull away fast enough.

“There’s things ya don’t know,” he whispered. “Things I can’t tell ya yet. But ya don’t need to know them to be mine.”

You tried to twist free. Failed. His grip was firm, but not cruel.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

The wet heat of him radiated through your clothes as he leaned in close, shoulders still trembling with leftover adrenaline. You could smell it. Copper and something else. Something rich. Like old rust and soil and bone. Like the breath of something deep in the earth that hadn’t surfaced in a long, long time.

He exhaled slow.

“I ain’t want to scare ya,” he said. “But I had to show ya.”

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

“Because this is me,” he continued. “This is what I am. And if ya love me, if ya mean what y’said, then ya have to see all of me.”

“I never said I loved you,” you almost answered.

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

He brushed the fabric aside, dragging the edge of his sleeve across your skin.

And the blood marked you.

He wiped it deliberately. Across your jaw. The hollow of your throat. The slope of your collarbone.

You gasped, jerking instinctively, but he only shushed you like he was soothing a frightened child.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Just want ya to wear a little of me. That’s all.”

His voice was trembling now. With restraint. With something else.

“I’m not angry,” he added, and it was true. “I’d never hurt ya. Not ever. You’re the only thing in this world I couldn’t break if I tried.”

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

He leaned back finally, just enough to look you full in the face.

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

“Y’don’t have to help,” he said. “Not tonight.”

You didn’t answer.

He rose, slow and deliberate, and walked to the kitchen to wash. You sat frozen. Couldn’t bring yourself to look down at your hands.

When the water ran, you heard him humming again. That same lullaby cadence he always used when he thought you were asleep. And when he called your name, voice gentle, it wasn’t a summons.

It was a question.

And you answered.

You stepped into the kitchen on legs that didn’t feel like yours, and you helped him mop the floor. Scrub the blood from the baseboards. You didn’t ask what he did with the body.

You didn’t want to know.

But you watched the way he scrubbed his nails clean, the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you.

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Now, months later, the blood doesn’t shock you like it used to. You don’t ask who. You don’t ask why. You just wait by the door with towels and vinegar and steady hands.

You still don’t watch him do it. Never have.

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

The house is quiet now. Filled with the sound of dripping water, your own heartbeat, and the hushed, weary creak of the manor’s bones.

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

He lets the teeth stay long, the nails a little sharper. Lets you see the red light behind his eyes when the moonlight hits right.

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

Tells you you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

And he’s made damn sure you’ll never leave.

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

Not the vague kind. Not a creeping hunch. No. This was the real kind. Deep and certain, rooted in the marrow of your bones like an old warning. It had shape now, weight. You knew it as easily as breath.

And sure enough, when your lashes parted and the room slowly unblurred, there he was.

Remmick stood over you like some towering monument carved out of shadow, tall and still and all but glowing in the thin streak of dawnlight filtering in through the curtain seam. His shirt hung half-open, pale chest streaked faintly with water. He must’ve bathed again before slipping in. His hair, dark and heavy, was still damp at the ends, dripping in slow intervals down the edge of his throat.

His jaw was slightly parted. And at the corner of his mouth, just barely catching the light, sat a thick bead of drool.

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

Like he’d been watching you sleep for a long, long while and hadn’t once closed his mouth.

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

Instead, you shifted slowly beneath the blankets, tucking your arms beneath your cheek. Your voice was low, rough with sleep. “You been there long?”

His eyes lit like someone had sparked a fuse. And then that crooked grin curled across his face, proud and toothy. Too many teeth for such a soft expression.

“Couldn’t help it,” he drawled, voice slow and lazy at the edges. “Ya look so pretty when you sleep.”

You huffed quietly. It wasn’t really a laugh, but it wasn’t a complaint either. You didn’t pull the blankets higher. Didn’t hide. Just turned your face into the pillow to block the light.

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

He climbed in slow, but sure. As he always did, never asking if you needed the space. You felt the heat of him even before he touched you. Always too cold when he wasn’t holding you, always too much when he was.

One arm slipped under your waist. The other folded over your middle. And then he was there, wrapped around you like a vise, breath ghosting against your neck, chest rising and falling in sync with your own. You could feel the edge of his belt buckle press into your lower back, the weight of his thigh hooked over yours, the solidness of his body where it pressed along every inch of you.

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

But this morning, you just felt still. Heavy. Grounded.

He kissed the back of your shoulder. Once. Then again, slower.

You closed your eyes and listened.

“Made breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “Berries. Biscuits. Got that jam ya like. And tea. Not the bitter one. The kind with the hibiscus.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

Just lay there with the weight of him curled around your body, his words threading through the fog in your mind. Your limbs felt like wet cotton, and your heart… well, it didn’t race anymore when he held you like this. It just kept time. Careful. Steady.

Some mornings were like this.

Gentle. Sweet. The world in perfect balance, even if it was only for a breath.

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

No warning. No clear offense. Just a quiet closing of the door between you. A change in the air.

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

You’d move through the house like a ghost in your own skin, tiptoeing around the silence. You'd replay every moment from the days before in your head like a broken record, trying to pinpoint the crack. The wrong word. The wrong breath. You whispered his name sometimes, just to see if he’d flinch.

He never did.

And the longer it lasted, the more desperate you got.

You’d sit at the edge of the bed, fingers clenched in your lap, watching the door anxiously. Or trail behind him through the house, trying to make yourself useful. Fixing his tea, folding the blankets, laying out the towels just the way he liked them. Hoping he’d notice. Hoping it’d be enough.

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

Not loud. Just soft and constant, curled into a corner of the couch, the fabric beneath you growing damp from the weight of it all. You didn’t ask him to come back. You just wanted him to see.

And eventually, once the sun had vanished and the stars were out, once you were past the tears and into the shaking, silent part of grief, he would return.

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

He’d find you there, face raw, eyes swollen, mouth trembling with all the things you couldn’t say.

And he’d kneel.

Press his hands to your knees. Pull your face up to his.

He used to wipe your tears, once. With the pads of his thumbs. Gentle. Sweet.

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

Dragged his tongue across your cheeks, pleased sounds always escaping his mouth as if he was tasting a delicacy.

“Ain’t mean it,” he’d whisper. “Ain’t mean to go so cold, darlin’.”

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

You felt his fingers shift under your nightdress, splaying wide over your stomach like he was anchoring himself with the shape of you.

“Ya smell like sunlight,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Like warmth. Like somethin’ I wanna keep forever.”

He didn’t say it to get a rise out of you.

He meant it.

He always meant it.

You could feel the edge of a smile pull at your mouth, but it didn’t quite reach the surface. It never did on mornings like this. You couldn’t tell if it was dread or hope that kept it from blooming fully.

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

“Come eat, baby. Gotta keep ya strong.”

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

He led you down to the kitchen like you were the only woman in the world who’d ever deserved to be walked anywhere.

His palm rested against the small of your back, guiding, not pushing, and he moved with slow, deliberate steps like each one was part of some silent ceremony only he knew the meaning of. You didn’t rush. You never did, not with him. It didn’t feel right to.

The kitchen was already warm with sunlight slanting through the curtains, soft and hazy, painting the wooden floorboards gold. The stove clicked gently as the kettle cooled. Something citrusy hung in the air alongside the hibiscus. Orange peel or lemon zest, maybe. It was always hard to tell with him. He had a way of combining scents until they no longer smelled like anything but home.

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

He’d made the biscuits from scratch. Just the way you liked them, topped with honey and butter. A few berries had burst open on the side of the pan, their juices bleeding into the crust like bruises, and he placed those pieces carefully at the edge of your plate, like he knew you’d want them last.

There were eggs, too. Soft-scrambled, barely set. And jam. The good kind, dark and smooth and homemade.

He didn’t eat, of course. He never did.

But he sat across from you, arms folded on the table, chin resting on one hand as he watched.

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

You didn’t feel self-conscious anymore. Not the way you used to. Not even when he studied the curve of your fingers or the way your mouth parted slightly with each bite. Not when his eyes lingered on the bridge of your nose, the full shape of your lips, the high frame of your cheekbones. Features that other men overlooked, or worse, tried to make smaller. Not when he traced your every movement like he was trying to memorize it.

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

“You’re gonna spoil me,” you said after a few moments, tone light and quiet.

His mouth curved. “Good.”

You raised a brow, chewing. “That all you gonna say?”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table. “What else is there? A woman like ya’s worth spoilin’. Worth feedin’. Worth watchin’. I get more outta sittin’ across from ya than most men get in a lifetime.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t mean for it to. You knew he liked that kind of reaction. Thrived off it. But still, it happened. He had a way of saying things that left you undone. Like he meant them. Like there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that it was true.

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

That was the danger of mornings like this. The sweetness. The calm.

You’d forget, just for a moment, what he was.

Let your guard slip.

And he’d let you. That was the worst part.

He never forced it.

Never had to.

“I’ll be headin’ out later,” he said, finally breaking the stillness. “Just before sundown.”

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

Not because you trusted him, not completely, but because you wanted to. Needed to. Trust was a gift, and he treated it like one. Collected it. Stroked it. Cradled it in his arms like something he’d stolen.

He reached across the table and brushed his knuckles down the side of your face.

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

“I’ll bring ya back somethin’ nice,” he said. “New necklace, maybe. Somethin’ that'll bring out that pretty mouth of yours.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” His hand slid down your arm, resting over your wrist. “Ya always act like ya ain’t allowed to be treated soft. But I told ya already, anybody that didn’t see your worth before me was blind.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

He leaned in and kissed your forehead. Soft. Gentle. Reverent.

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

Like you were just a girl in love, waiting for the evening to fall.

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

And prayed that the quiet wouldn’t turn. That tomorrow wouldn’t shift. That tonight, God willing, tonight would still be kind.

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

Still, the stillness of the day had tricked you. It had crept in through the floorboards and settled into your chest, soft as fog, convincing you that peace might last. That today would stay gentle. Safe.

He’d been kind all morning. Sweet, even. Kissed your shoulder while you dressed. Detangled your hair with slow, worshipful hands. Called you baby in that voice like melted sugar as he danced with you to a jazz record. It had been so easy to believe in the calm, to believe he meant it.

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

You’d spent the day in the parlor, patching a hem that didn’t really need fixing, listening to the wind scratch against the shutters. He passed through every hour or so, always with something to say.

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

Always with a kiss to your hairline. A graze of his fingers at your elbow. And you let him.

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

Remmick lit the lamps earlier than usual. Shadows hadn’t even grown long across the floor yet, but he moved like he couldn’t stand the dim. A low, strange hum sat under his breath. His movements were slow but measured, pressing the collar of his shirt, combing his hair with surgical care. He changed into a dark button-up, freshly pressed, the fabric stiff and lined with faint charcoal pinstripes. He didn’t fasten the top button. Let his collarbone show. The buttons themselves were a pale ivory, too round and too polished to be anything but bone.

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

But when he passed you near the kitchen door, he paused. Tilted your chin up. Kissed your forehead like a benediction. His lips were too warm, too careful.

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

The door opened hours later, at a time when you had long retired to your bedroom.

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

You didn’t recognize the man who entered. Not at first.

Older. White. Expensive. That was the word that came to mind first. Expensive. The coat, the cane, the posture. He moved like he owned everything he looked at, and when his eyes slid over the staircase where you watched from just out of view, he barely registered you at all.

He smelled of clean money and fragrant cologne. His voice, when he spoke, had a practiced warmth. Used to making deals, used to being obeyed.

Remmick welcomed him like an old friend. No introductions. Just a nod, and a hand at the man’s back as he ushered him toward the parlor, the two of them murmuring low between each other. You didn’t catch what was said. Didn’t want to.

You slowly closed your door.

But that didn’t stop your heart from picking up.

Didn’t stop the feeling crawling into your bones. The kind that knew this was punishment, even if you didn’t know what for.

You hadn’t said anything wrong today. Hadn’t wandered too far. Hadn’t said no.

He’d kissed your forehead. Cooked for you. Danced with you.

So why?

Why this?

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands pressed to your thighs, jaw clenched until it ached. You wanted to pace, but you knew better. He hated when you fidgeted.

Time bled slowly by. A drip of unease with every second.

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

You couldn’t hear much. Just muffled voices beneath the hum of the hallway light. At first, it was civil. Calm. Two men talking. Glasses clinking. Something poured.

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

It didn’t come as a cry at first. Just a thump, low and heavy.

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

The screaming didn’t start with words. It started with breath. Ragged, sharp, begging. Then the voice rose. Screamed so hard it cracked, pleaded, cursed. The sound of it ricocheted through the walls like thunder. One drawn-out, blood-curdled no, followed by a scream that didn’t end, just collapsed.

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

Because he didn’t need for you to hear it.

He wanted you to.

This was never about the man in the parlor. Not really.

It was about you.

What you’d said. Or done. Or failed to do.

You didn’t know what you were being punished for.

But you felt it, in your gut.

Your punishment had a heartbeat, a voice, a body now. And it was breaking somewhere below your feet.

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

Not just for the screaming to stop. Not just for the silence to settle. But long after.

You waited until the walls stopped humming with sound. Until the floorboards cooled beneath your feet. Until even the wind outside held its breath.

And then,

You heard it.

The soft groan of the parlor door unlatching. A low creak. A shift in weight across the boards.

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

Too soft for a man who’d just done what he’d done. Like he was walking through a church. Or a dream.

You didn’t move. Stayed curled in on yourself at the edge of your bed, arms locked around your knees, eyes fixed on the door like it might rattle open any second. It didn’t.

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

Each step slow and steady, deliberate. Like he was giving you time.

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

Time to realize nothing was going to stop him from reaching you.

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

It opened with a click and a hush, and there he was.

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt. Thick and wet in some places, half-dried and flaking in others. It clung to his throat, painted his collarbone, pooled beneath his nails. His sleeves were still rolled, but the pale skin of his forearms was nearly lost beneath the spatter. There were streaks along his jaw where he’d tried to wipe his mouth clean. Too late. Too messy. A smear of it curved across his cheekbone like a smile.

And his claws, long, edged, still drawn, glinted in the low light of your bedside lamp.

But what knocked the breath out of your chest was his face.

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

His eyes, those strange, shifting, ancient things, shone soft in the dim. Not wild. Not frenzied.

Just… peaceful.

“Darlin’,” he said, soft as a sigh. “Can ya come here?”

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

You hated it. How your limbs betrayed you. How your feet swung over the edge of the bed and touched the floor. How you stepped closer to him, one foot, then another, then another, drawn toward him like gravity had chosen sides.

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

And when you reached the doorway, when your bare feet kissed the hallway light, that’s when he touched you.

Both hands to your face. Fingers gentle, claws grazing soft against your cheeks.

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

His thumbs brushed just beneath your eyes. Not to wipe your tears, there weren’t any yet, but to cup the place where they would be. Where he knew they would be.

“Ya did somethin’ wrong,” he whispered. “Ain’t ya?”

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

The tears came all at once. Thick. Hot. Your chest heaved and you shook your head, hands flying up to press against his wrists. “No, please- Remmick, please, I didn’t- I can’t-”

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

“I’m scared,” you sobbed. “Please don’t make me-”

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

The blood on his mouth smeared onto yours, warm and metallic and thick enough to make you shudder. You didn’t kiss him back. Couldn’t. But your lips parted. And that was enough.

He made a sound, something like a purr, and pulled back, smiling like you’d just said I love you.

“There ya go,” he whispered.

Then, lower: “C’mon, now. Just a little bit of help.”

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

His thumbs smeared them. Not away. Just… further. Down your face. Into your mouth. Into the collar of your nightdress.

“Remmick, please-”

“Ya can,” he said again, voice even gentler this time. “Ya will.”

And when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like comfort.

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet, slow and drawn out like they knew what was coming. The air back here always felt colder. Damper, too. Like the walls remembered every secret ever whispered against them.

One clawed hand pressed low to your back. Not shoving. Not dragging. Just guiding. A lover’s touch, if you ignored the sharp curve of his nails and the way they caught on the cotton of your dress.

The other hand gripped something heavy. Bundled tight in a canvas sheet. Edges stiff with dried blood. You didn’t need to ask what it was.

You didn’t want to know how long it had been wrapped like that.

You didn’t want to know anything.

“Take the feet, darlin’,” he said. Soft. Encouraging. “That’s it. There ya go.”

You hesitated.

Stared at the length of fabric that formed the shape of shins, then ankles, then shoes that had once gleamed polished and proud beneath the parlor light.

The man’s feet were cold.

You flinched as your fingers made contact. Felt the stiffness through the layers. The weight of it settled like stone in your stomach.

You choked.

Your knees bent beneath you, buckling under the weight of it, legs shaking, arms burning.

“That’s alright,” Remmick said quickly, already crouched beside you again. “You’re strong. Stronger than ya think.”

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

Just walked backward, slow and steady, leading you through the back door as the hinges groaned open.

Outside, the air hit sharp.

You breathed it in too fast. Coughed once. The scent of blood clung to your face, your hair, your hands. And beneath it, rot. Curling at the edges of the canvas like the world had already started reclaiming him.

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

The trees pressed in around you, branches brittle with late summer’s death. Moonlight pierced the canopy in sharp slivers. The path was narrow. Familiar. You’d taken it before, but never like this.

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

Low and tuneless, like it was something he didn’t know he was doing. A sound of habit. Of focus. Of ritual.

You didn’t ask how he knew where to dig.

You didn’t ask how many times he’d done this before.

You just stood there, trembling, as he knelt in the clearing and began to carve the earth apart with his hands.

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

They split the dirt like butter, curling soil and root alike with mechanical ease. He worked fast. Efficient. With a kind of composure, almost, like he was preparing a bed, not a grave.

You stayed frozen until he glanced up at you, face slick with sweat and moonlight.

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little more, sugar.”

He stood.

Wiped his brow with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and blood across his temple.

Then he turned to you, lips stretched into a smile.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Let’s lay him down.”

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

He unwrapped the top half. Not all the way. Just enough for the face to show. Slack-jawed, eyes glazed, neck at the wrong angle.

Your stomach turned.

Remmick crouched again, slipped his arms beneath the man’s shoulders.

He looked up at you. Expectant.

“Go on,” he said, nodding toward the legs.

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

You took a deep breath, grasped the ankles again, and followed his count.

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

You gagged once and turned away, bile stinging your throat. He didn’t chastise you. Didn’t rush you. Just stood there in the moonlight, waiting, the grave yawning at his feet.

When you finally turned back, your face pale and your hands filthy, he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

It stuck to your fingers and your wrists, coated your forearms, gathered beneath your nails like it wanted to crawl inside you.

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

His eyes shone in the dark, wide and wild and glowing faintly red.

He cupped your face again, blood dried into the creases of his knuckles.

“Ya did good,” he whispered. “So good f’me.”

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

The gesture was slow, deliberate. Like everything with him. He could’ve pulled out anything. A blade, a scrap of skin, a love letter scrawled in someone else’s blood, and part of you would’ve just watched, quiet and ready.

But instead, his hand came back gloved in shadow and something glinting beneath a soaked cloth.

He held it out to you. Waiting.

“I brought ya a gift,” he said, voice low and soft, almost shy. Like he was offering you a bouquet.

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

The fabric, silk, maybe, once cream, was red now. Mottled. It clung wetly to whatever was wrapped inside, dark lines seeping into the seams.

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

Sapphire, deep and cold, surrounded by a constellation of diamonds so small and fine they looked like frozen tears. The pendant caught the moonlight, sparkled like a drop of river water in the sun.

But the chain, thin and gold, was streaked with blood. Still tacky. Still warm.

He held it up between both hands, letting the pendant sway gently between you.

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

“Don’t worry. She didn’t put up much of a fight.”

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

You didn’t ask what he meant. Not exactly. Didn’t ask if that meant she begged. Or wept. Or just stood there, quiet, waiting for her turn.

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

The necklace still dangling in his hand, catching on his fingers. Blood smeared his palm now. Streaked down his wrist. You didn’t move as he reached up, lifted the chain, heavy and wet, and looped it behind your neck.

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

He fastened it with a soft click, the clasp brushing the nape of your neck, cold as a knife.

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

“There,” he whispered, his voice nearly trembling. “Look at ya. My beautiful girl.”

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

You felt the weight of it though. The cold metal against your chest. The stick of half-dried blood just beneath your collarbone.

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

You stood there like a statue. A monument to something twisted and holy. Let him praise you. Let him touch you. Let him cover you in devotion and blood and the sweetness of a love that could burn down a world if it meant keeping you in the ashes.

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

But his hands, slick and reverent, cradled your face like you were sacred. Like you were his altar. His salvation.

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

He’d ruin himself for you. Had already ruined others. And he’d drown you in that same ruin, over and over again, if it meant keeping you his.

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

The kind of light that made the dust in the air look like something alive, like smoke rising off a battlefield no one ever won. It filtered through the bedroom curtains in streaks, bleeding across the wooden floorboards, catching on corners like dried rust.

You stood in front of the mirror with your fingers curled around the edge of the sink, knuckles white, wrists aching from how tightly you gripped. The weight of the necklace still hung heavy on your collarbone. It hadn’t come off. Not when you undressed. Not when you bathed. Not even when you’d scrubbed at it with a rag soaked in rosewater, trying, foolishly, desperately, to pretend that was all it was. A speck. A blemish. A piece of someone else's story, not yours.

But it was yours now.

All of it.

And it wasn’t just blood that had soaked in.

It was his voice, still echoing. The way he whispered encouragements as you dropped that man’s arm into the grave. The way his smile widened when you didn’t run.

The way the man’s eyes stared up from the dirt in your dreams.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d closed your eyes and drifted just long enough for the screaming to follow you in. His scream. Ragged. Human. Then the wet sound of Remmick tearing into him. Again and again and again. It kept looping, each time more vivid than the last.

You looked at your own face now, and all you could see was that man’s.

Mouth open. Arms limp. That flash of horror when he realized he wouldn’t make it out of this house.

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

You never did. That was the trouble. He moved through space like something meant to haunt. Silent, smooth, inescapable. The door didn’t creak. The floor didn’t shift.

But you knew.

Your body always knew before your eyes did. The hairs on your arms rose. The air cooled. The stillness deepened into something you could taste.

“Y’ain’t even touched your tea,” he said gently from the doorway, voice all breath and softness. “I kept it warm for ya.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at yourself in the glass, hands trembling against the porcelain. You tried to draw a breath that wouldn’t shake.

Behind you, he stepped closer.

“I’m not mad,” he added. “If that’s what you’re wonderin’. ’Bout last night.”

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

But you didn’t need it to. His voice wrapped around your waist like a second pair of arms, like silk stretched over barbed wire.

“Y’did so good. Did exactly what I needed.” He stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. “That ain’t small, y’know. What I asked of you. It was big. It meant somethin’.”

You blinked hard, but the tears still clung stubborn at the corners. You clenched the sink edge tighter, like maybe it could tether you. Anchor you. Stop you from suffocating in what you’d done.

“I didn’t want it to mean anything,” you said.

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

You pressed your lips together to keep from making a sound, but your shoulders betrayed you, shuddering once, sharp and tight.

You felt him move in behind you, his presence stretching out like a shadow cast by firelight.

“I know, darlin’,” he comforted. “I know.”

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

And the necklace stayed right where it was. Cool against your skin, glittering like something beautiful, something earned.

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

You didn’t hear him move. Not a creak of floorboard, not a shift of breath. But suddenly, his arms were around your waist. Strong, steady, certain. Like they’d always been there. Like they belonged there.

You startled, just a little.

But he only pulled you closer, pressing his body to your back with the kind of patience that wasn’t really patience at all. Just control. You could feel the way he held himself, as if something inside him had to be kept still. Contained.

His breath ghosted over your shoulder, cool and damp like a lingering mist. He smelled like clove. And sage. And copper. Always copper.

He rested his chin near your temple, nose nudging lightly into your hair.

“I can take it off,” he offered, voice low and humming. “The necklace. If it’s too much.”

You didn’t answer.

His fingers brushed lightly over the jewels. A whisper of a touch, reverent and slow. He let it linger.

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

Your eyes stayed locked on the mirror. On the glinting sapphires. The dried blood now fully gone but not forgotten. You swallowed hard.

“Why?” you asked, barely above a breath.

He leaned in.

Close enough that his lips brushed your neck this time, not your temple. A soft, trailing kiss pressed just beneath your ear. Not hungry. Not rough. But not gentle either.

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

The words were quiet, but they landed like a hand on your throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. Your face stayed calm in the mirror. Your shoulders held.

But inside?

Something gave.

A small, buckling thing. Like a part of you that still wanted to believe you could carry this without changing shape.

He kissed your cheek once, slower now, mouth warm and oddly careful for someone so often careless with your breath.

Then he stepped back.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Won’t be long. Won’t go far. Just need to stretch my legs.”

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

Not enough to invite the wind in. But enough to make a point.

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

But you never did. Not because you couldn’t.

Because he’d folded himself into your bones. Threaded his voice through your thoughts. Left kisses on your pulse like warnings.

Before the door closed behind him, his voice drifted back up the stairs. Just loud enough to reach you.

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

The one Remmick had planted for you, despite his disdain for sunlight. He never called it a gift. Never made a show of it. Just started tending the earth one day, sleeves rolled, mouth quiet, movements deliberate. No shovel. Just his hands. Just his claws, raking slow furrows into the dirt and patting them soft again like he was taking care of something fragile.

You’d watched from the balcony that day, unsure if it was kindness or authority. Maybe both. With him, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

The vines curled over the trellis like they were reaching for something they’d never touch. Lavender bloomed in thick patches near the roots. Moonflowers tilted their faces upward, shy but greedy. He must’ve come through while you were sleeping, added new things. Nightshade, maybe, or something less honest. Plants you didn’t recognize, but that hummed with some secret you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You crouched beside a clump of jasmine. Ran your fingers along a bloom. Soft, white, too perfect for this place. You et your breath shudder out.

This was what he did.

He gave you things. He built them into your days. Little comforts, stitched between the horrors.

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

It was obsessive. Demanding. It carved pieces out of you, asked for silence when you wanted to scream and closeness when you needed distance. But it wrapped around you, too. Warmed your tea. Laid your slippers out. Whispered your name like a prayer in the middle of the night.

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

Real enough to wear the necklace. Still cool against your skin. Still shining in the light.

You traced the petal again. It trembled slightly beneath your fingertip.

You stood there until the sun dipped low again, until the cicadas started to hum and the air went thick with evening. That slow, syrupy hush that pressed against the back of your throat like a warning. The garden dimmed into blue shadows. The wind stopped moving.

You didn’t need to look at the sky to know it was time.

You went inside.

Back through the back door. Back into the red quiet. The warmth that never left the floorboards. The smell of sugar and copper that clung to the curtains like an old friend. The faint creak of the stairwell. The clock ticking too slow, or maybe just loud.

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

And there, waiting for you by the parlor door, was a new pair of shoes.

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

They didn’t look expensive. Not flashy. Just thoughtful. Too thoughtful. A little too perfect. The soles hadn’t touched ground. The leather looked like cream. Soft enough to bend, strong enough to last.

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

And on top, a note. Folded twice, edges crisp.

For when you feel like walkin’. But only if I’m with you.

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

You just sat down in the chair beside the box, touched the ribbon. It gave under your fingers, like it had been tied gently. Like it had been placed there just moments before.

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

You looked around the room once. Let your eyes pass over the mantle, the mirror, the empty hallway. Then back to the shoes.

Blue as blood in moonlight.

He wanted you to wear them. To remember him every time you moved. To know you weren’t alone.

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

You rested your hands in your lap. Smoothed your palms over the hem of your skirt. And waited.

Because you knew he’d come through the door soon.

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

The front door swung open on its silent hinges, just wide enough to catch the night air and let in the swamp’s low, humming breath. Then, dragged across the threshold like afterthoughts, came two bodies.

Ankles gripped in Remmick’s fists. One man. One woman. Limp. Unceremonious. Their shoes scraped along the steps with dull thuds, their limbs sagging like broken dolls. Their heads knocked once, twice, against the frame as he yanked them forward over the threshold, then across the floor, right over the woven runner you’d cleaned just yesterday.

He didn’t pause to readjust his grip. Didn’t hoist them up by the arms or cradle the neck. Just dragged them straight across the polished pine, the hem of the woman’s dress catching on a nail, the man’s cuff leaving a damp smear along the grain.

You were already sitting when the door opened. Curled at the far end of the parlor sofa, one leg tucked beneath the other, a book open in your lap. You’d read the same page three times now. Or tried to.

The fire had gone soft, more glow than flame, and the air smelled faintly of lemon oil from the furniture polish you’d used that afternoon. The quiet had stretched long enough to feel foreign. The kind of quiet you always thought maybe, just maybe, meant a reprieve.

But it never did.

And deep down, some awful part of you had known.

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

You knew it when the sun dipped low and the shoes sat untouched beside the door.

You knew it when your fingertips hovered over the necklace at your collarbone, blue and cold and impossibly bright against your skin.

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

Now, he was back. And he brought proof of it with him.

Remmick looked up as he stepped inside. Not hurried. Not sheepish. Just calm.

Casual.

As if he’d been returning from a stroll through the garden and not some carnage-stained errand that ended in slaughter.

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

His shirt, what was left of it, clung to him in soaked folds. Torn across the collar. Split open down the front. Dark with blood and something thicker beneath. His trousers weren’t better, stiff with drying stains, the cuffs tracking flecks of mud across the parlor floor.

But it was his hands, claws, that made your breath catch.

Those clever, expressive things.

They were soaked up to the elbows, glistening red at the knuckles, sticky across the nails, the fingers flexing slightly as if trying to forget what they’d just done.

The blood hit the floor with every step. Slap. Smear. Slap. The sound seemed to echo, loud against the hush of the house.

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

The same one from all those months ago. When he first walked into your life, quiet and strange and smiling with teeth too white and eyes too old. The chain had caught the afternoon light back then. Made you think of warmth. Of wealth. Of good manners and good shoes and someone just passing through.

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

Draped against the hollow of his throat, the metal barely glinted beneath the gore. But you knew it. Recognized it in a way that made your stomach twist. Not with fear.

With memory.

Back then, he’d brought honey. Compliments. Ribbons.

Now he brought bodies.

And not once, not even as he stepped closer, dragging the corpses across your freshly scrubbed floors, did he look ashamed.

He didn’t stop until they were halfway into the parlor, just a few feet from where you sat.

Close enough that the stink caught up to you. Metal and dirt and something that curled the back of your throat.

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

At the one who’d kissed your neck that morning and murmured, Won’t be long.

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

“I got greedy,” he said with a smile that pulled too wide. Too sharp. The kind of smile that didn’t look right on a human mouth. “Ain’t proud of it. But-”

He dropped one of the ankles with a wet thud and dragged a blood-soaked hand through his hair, slicking it back from his brow. The strands clung there, heavy and dark with something not yet dry.

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

It hit the floor with a soft thud, pages bending inward like they were trying to hide. You didn’t look down.

Couldn’t.

Remmick tilted his head. The firelight caught in the red sheen along his jaw, the crimson glint in his eyes, the blood on his lashes, the teeth brazenly bared behind his smile. His gold chain lay across his collarbone, no longer shining, just soaked.

“Now don’t start with that look,” he said gently. Like you were being difficult. Like this was a misunderstanding. “Ain’t nothin’ different about this than last time. Just… more.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

Your throat tightened. Heat rushed up from your chest to your face, fast and dizzying.

“I can’t,” you said. Too soft. A ghost of breath.

He blinked.

You swallowed, tried again, louder this time, firmer. Your voice broke on the last word.

“I can’t do this.”

His smile didn’t disappear. It tilted. Softened. Confused. Like he’d misheard you, like you’d offered a strange joke in poor taste.

“Sure ya can,” he said with a little chuckle. “You’ve done it before.”

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

You stood too fast and stumbled backward, shoulder bumping into the arm of the couch. Your hands shook. Your legs wouldn’t stay steady. Something inside you wanted to bolt.

“I-I thought I could prepare for this. I thought I’d be ready if it happened again. I tried to be ready.” You gasped, the tears rising too quickly now. “But it’s too much. It’s too much, I can’t- I can’t do it again.”

You covered your mouth with both hands as the sob came. Hot and involuntary. It made your knees buckle.

He didn’t say anything.

Just stood there in the parlor’s golden light, two bodies behind him, the blood still dripping from his sleeves. His shirt was open, clinging to him in places and torn in others, revealing streaks of red drying along the lines of his ribs. The bloodied gold chain at his neck looked too bright against it. Almost sickeningly bright. Like something holy lost in rot, just as defiled.

And yet he watched you.

Like you were the only thing that mattered in the room.

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

Like he liked this. Your shaking, your fear. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was something worse. Maybe he needed it.

He dropped the second ankle.

The bodies sprawled in opposite directions, lifeless and heavy, arms twisted beneath them. But his gaze didn’t follow them. Never once did he glance away from you.

He started walking.

Slow, deliberate steps. Not rushed. Not angry. As if trying to convince you to not run away. Even though he knew you wouldn’t.

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

You could see them now. Long and sharp, extending clean past his fingertips like polished blades. Shimmering wet.

You backed away until your spine met the bookshelf, hands splayed behind you against the wood.

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

“I just thought ya might help.” he went on.

He was close now. Close enough to breathe in. Close enough to taste the iron in the air. His outline looked too tall in the firelight, too narrow at the shoulders, too still.

You turned your face away, but his hand came up, bloodied, clawed, and cupped your cheek with the same reverence you remembered from quieter mornings. His thumb smeared a tear away.

“You’re cryin’,” he murmured, and it almost sounded like it surprised him.

Then, instead of licking it away, he kissed it. Softly. Slowly. Like he knew that was what you needed. As if that made it better.

You sobbed harder.

“Please,” you whispered, barely able to speak past the tightness in your throat. “Please, Remmick. Not this time. I-I can’t.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against your nape, his breath traveling hot and sticky down your neck.

And then, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

Because you knew. Knew without needing a second breath, that he meant it.

The words didn’t drop like a bomb. They slid in like a knife. Quiet. Precise. Familiar.

He tilted his head, brushing his knuckle down your jaw like he hadn’t just said the most horrifying thing you’d ever heard.

“Every day,” he whispered. “Mornin’ and night. Before ya wake. After ya sleep. When you’re liftin’ the kettle, or brushin’ out your curls, or sayin’ my name like it still means somethin’ soft.”

His eyes were wide now, blue burning red at the center. Hungry. Hollow. A flame with no wick.

His hand drifted down your throat. Light as a feather. He traced the line of your pulse with the back of his knuckle, sighing at the flutter under your skin.

“Don’t mean I want to,” he said. “Not in the way you’re thinkin’. I’d never do it to hurt ya. It ain’t about that.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stepped in closer, just close enough that your breath bounced off his shirt. Soaked and stiff with blood, the collar dark and curling at the seams. You could smell it all over him now. On his breath. In his hair. On the chain pressed tight against the hollow of his throat.

“Sometimes,” he started, “I see ya sittin’ there with a book in your hand, brows furrowed, lips pursed, and I think: God, I’d like to still that moment forever. Seal it. Keep it. Bury it right inside me so no one else ever gets to see it.”

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

“Sometimes,” he went on, his voice still syrup-sweet, “I think about your blood spread out over the floor like a paintin’. The kind of red that don’t fade. The kind that says y’were mine.”

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

“But then ya smile at me,” he said. “And I think, no, not yet. Not yet. Let her smile again. Let her ask me what I’m hummin’. Let her scold me for trackin’ dirt into the kitchen. Let her keep bein’ good.”

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

He wrapped them around your hips and turned you, slow, pressing you backward until your thighs brushed the edge of the sofa.

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

Remmick lowered you down like you were made of glass. One hand cradling your spine, the other smoothing your skirt beneath you. He sat beside you, far too close. Turned to face you as if there was space to spare.

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

“Y’see, darlin’,” he said, cupping your face again, “it ain’t about cruelty. It’s about closeness. I love ya so much I can’t figure out what to do with it. It don’t burn clean. It don’t settle.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanna take ya in. Swallow ya whole. Wear your name on the inside of my mouth. I want ya with me, inside me, forever. That’s what this is.”

You were shaking now.

Tears welled, but you couldn’t blink them away. They just sat there, blurring the edges of him. Of the room. Of the lifeless shapes still cooling on the floor.

“Ya think I don’t see it in ya too?” he lied, so confidently that you almost found yourself believing it. “That same want? That same ache? Ya look at me like I’m already inside you.”

You made a choked sound. Couldn’t tell if it was protest or grief.

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

His hands roamed with reverence, but they were still stained.

And it was still happening.

“Sometimes,” he breathed, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “I think I’ll wake one mornin’ and do it. Just let it happen. Let my love finish what it started. But I haven’t yet.”

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

“I haven’t,” he said again, softly. “Y’should remember that.”

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

Instead, you stared at him through tear-glossed lashes. Silent. Spinning. Unmoored.

He leaned in once more. Kissed your cheek like it was something fragile.

“Y’don’t ever have to be afraid of me, sugar. Long as ya stay.”

And for a moment, just a moment, you almost believed him.

Remmick’s lips brushed yours, feather-light at first, a barely-there caress that left you reeling. You could taste the copper tang of blood on his mouth, feel the warmth of it against your skin. Your breath caught as he pulled back slightly, just enough to feel his breath against your face. A soft huff of air, a reassurance.

But then his hand slid up your spine, blood smearing across your dress, and all softness fled.

This time, when his mouth met yours, there was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just hunger, visceral and consuming. He kissed you like he wanted to devour you whole, his lips slanting over yours, his tongue pushing into your mouth and claiming every inch of it as his own.

You whimpered, fingers groping at his shoulders, but whether to push him away or pull him closer, you didn’t know. Your thoughts were muddled, thick with fear and revulsion and a deep, wrenching want you couldn’t name. He tasted like death. Like sin. Like every dark fantasy you’d ever had but never dared speak aloud.

He yanked your head back to bare your throat, kissing down it, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. His other hand, which had been stroking idly up and down your side, slipped under your skirt. You tensed, a protest rising in your throat, but he shushed you before you could voice it.

“Shh, now,” he murmured against your throat, fangs ghosting over your skin. “You’ve been achin’ for this. Starvin’ for it. A man’s hands. A man’s mouth. And ain’t it a mercy it’s mine givin’ it to ya?”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, dragging through the wetness that had gathered there. You could feel the scrape of his claws, even through the fabric of your panties. A shudder ran through you, and you hated yourself for it. Hated that some twisted part of you wanted this, wanted him, even like this, covered in blood and filth and the evidence of his crimes.

He teased you through the thin fabric, his touch light and maddening. Circling. Flicking. Dipping just inside the edge before pulling away again. You whined, hips bucking of their own accord, desperate for more. More pressure. More friction. More something, anything to ground you in the midst of this debauched nightmare.

“Please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were asking for. For him to stop? For him to keep going? For the world to open up and swallow you whole, so you didn’t have to reckon with this unfamiliar depravity?

He chuckled, dark and indulgent. “Greedy girl,” he chided, his breath hot against your ear. “Don’t worry darlin’. I’ll give ya what y’need.”

He punctuated his words with a hard press of his fingers, rubbing rough circles over the damp fabric. You cried out, back arching, lungs seizing with the intensity of it. It was too much. Not enough. Your thoughts were fragmenting, splintering under the force of your need. You felt like you were drowning in it.

In him.

And still, he whispered filthy things in your ear, coating your skin in his words. Telling you how much he loved you. How much he needed you. How he’d do anything to keep you, even this. Especially this.

Remmick sucked at your throat, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth rise, letting you squirm. Then, without warning, he bit down. Deep. Sharp. A growl rumbled from his chest at the sound you made, part gasp, part sob, and he shivered like it thrilled him. “That’s it,” he breathed, lips glossy with blood and spit. “Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He growled as he left a map of his obsession on your flesh, fingers finally shoving your panties aside to slide through your slick folds.

Inside, something was screaming. Screaming for you to run, to fight, to do anything but this. To not let him take you like this, stained with the blood of innocents, surrounded by the evidence of his madness.

But your body... your body was betraying you. Arching into his touch. Soaking his fingers. Trembling with a heat you’d never known before. A heat that was as twisted and all-consuming as he was.

He pushed his fingers inside you, and you cried out at the stretch, the burn of it. He was big, bigger than you’d ever had, and the scrape of his claws against your inner walls only added to the intensity of it. It hurt, God, it hurt, but with every flex of his fingers, every curl and twist, you were hit with a new pang of euphoria, a pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.

You were so close, teetering on the edge of something huge and shattering, when he suddenly pulled his fingers out, leaving you achingly empty. You whimpered, hips bucking, seeking, but before you could even form a protest, he was pushing your legs apart, baring you completely to his gaze.

And then, without warning, he was on you, his mouth hot and wet and voracious. He ate you out like an animal, fangs still bared, growling into your flesh like he wanted to consume you whole. The sounds he made were obscene, wet and slurping, echoing in the quiet of the room like some kind of debauched symphony.

You thrashed beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, pushing, trying to get him closer, get him away, you didn’t even know anymore. The pleasure was cresting higher and higher, coiling tighter and tighter, a spring on the verge of snapping. You felt like you were being flayed alive by it, torn apart piece by piece by piece.

And when you finally broke, it was with a scream that tore from your throat like a wound. You came so hard you saw stars, your vision whiting out, your lungs seizing, your body convulsing. And through it all, he just kept lapping at you, drinking down every drop of your pleasure like it was the finest wine. Like he couldn’t get enough of your taste, your need, your everything.

Your breath came in sharp pants, thoughts equally scattered. Fragmented. Lost in the haze of pleasure and horror that clouded your mind.

And then, with a monumental effort, you pushed him away. Or tried to. Your arms felt weak, your muscles trembling with the backlash of your climax.

He looked up at you, his face soaked with your arousal, a feral smile spreading across his lips. “I’m not done yet, darlin’,” he growled with a low rumble that vibrated through you. He tore at his clothes, ripping the blood-soaked shirt over his head, exposing his crimson-streaked torso. You tried to protest again, but he shushed you with a kiss, a deep, consuming kiss that left you tasting yourself, him, and the metallic tang of blood.

He lined himself up at your entrance, and you could feel the heat of him, the thickness, the promise of what was to come. You tensed, a flutter of panic in your chest. “Remmick, I-” you started, but he cut you off with another kiss, his hips surging forward, impaling you in one swift, brutal stroke.

You cried out, a sound of pain and pleasure mingled together, your nails digging into his back as he filled you completely. He was nothing you could’ve prepared yourself for, stretching you to your limits, the sensation was nearly unbearable. He started to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both primal and precise, each thrust driving him deeper, harder, more relentlessly than the last.

“God, ya feel so good, sugar,” he moaned against your neck with a huff that made you shiver. “So tight. So wet. Y’were made for this. Made for me.”

You could feel the soreness building, the ache of being stretched, of being taken so ruthlessly. Your body was overwhelmed, every nerve ending firing, every sensation heightened to almost unbearable levels. You whimpered, your hips bucking in time with his thrusts, unable to do anything but take what he was giving you.

Remmick’s eyes were wild, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he drove into you. “Look at ya,” he panted, voice so thick with lust you could barely understand him. “So beautiful. So perfect. Ya take my cock like a dream.”

He leaned down, licking the tears that streamed down your face, his tongue hot and wet against your skin as he purred. “Ya taste so sweet when you cry.”

You tried to divert your attention, to escape the intensity of his near-crimson gaze and the raw, animalistic need that burned in his eyes. It was a need that terrified you to your very core. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking anything to anchor yourself to, anything to distract from the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body.

Your gaze landed on the necklace that swayed from his neck. That blood-soaked gold chain that glinted dully in the firelight. That gold chain that followed you from the life you once had to now, wrapped in Remmick’s embrace, his body moving against yours in a rhythm as old as time.

He noticed your distraction, a cruel, knowing smile playing on his lips as he reached up and took the necklace into his mouth. He bit down on the gold, his teeth sinking into the metal with a force that should have bent it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he groaned, the words muffled around the jewelry. “Focus on that. Focus on me. On how good this feels.”

And God help you, he was right. It did feel good. So good it hurt. So good it was almost too much to bear. The pleasure was a sharp, piercing thing, a knife’s edge of ecstasy that left you breathless and dizzy. With each thrust, each roll of his hips, each brutal, delicious stroke, the pressure inside you built, a coiled spring ready to snap, your body teetering on the brink of something monumental.

You could feel the guilt gnawing at you. A dark, insidious thing that clawed at the edges of your mind, trying to break through the haze of pleasure. How could you find enjoyment in this? How could your body respond so eagerly to his touch? To his invasion? You knew the depth of his depravity. The extent of his crimes. You were a willing participant. An accomplice.

You were ashamed of the moans that fell from your lips, ashamed of the way your body moved with his, ashamed of the desperate, keening cries that escaped you as he brought you higher, closer to the edge of oblivion.

Remmick's hips continued to roll in a relentless rhythm, his body glistening with sweat, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. He leaned down, his voice a drunken, fervent whisper against your ear, his words a mix of promise and threat. “M’gonna put a baby in ya, sugar. Gonna fill you up. Watch ya get all fat ’n slow ’n pretty.”

His words sent a shock of panic through you. A cold, paralyzing fear that cut through the haze of pleasure and left you reeling. You tried to push him away, your hands pressing against his chest, your body tensing as you tried to escape the inevitable. “Remmick, no-” you gasped, your voice hoarse, your eyes wide with a mix of terror and pleading. “You can’t-”

But he was relentless, his body pinning you down, his strength overpowering yours in a way that left you feeling helpless. Trapped. He captured your wrists in one hand, holding them above your head as he continued to move inside you, his hips never ceasing their brutal, demanding rhythm. “Shh,” he cooed, his voice a low, soothing purr that contrasted sharply with the wild, untamed look in his eyes. “You’ve been askin' for this. You’ve been beggin' for it. I know you have. And I’m gonna give it to you.”

He leaned down, tongue invading your mouth, exploring, conquering, silencing your protests as he continued to move inside you.

You tried to turn your head, to break the kiss, to gasp for air, but he followed, his lips never leaving yours, his breath mingling with yours, his tongue continuing its relentless exploration. He kissed you deeply, thoroughly, his lips moving against yours with a suffocating desperation, as if he were trying to pour every ounce of his being into you. To consume you wholly.

“Remmick, please-” you managed to gasp as he finally broke the kiss, your chest heaving, your body trembling with a mix of fear, pleasure, and something else, something almost akin to desperation. “I can’t-”

But he only smiled, a slow, knowing smile that sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of anticipation and trepidation. “Ya can, sugar,” he insisted, the lack of choice you had in the matter laced on every word. “And ya will.”

With a final, shuddering thrust, he buried himself deep, his whole body seizing tight as he spilled inside you, breath caught somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. His mouth found your shoulder, and without pause, he bit down. Hard. Fangs sinking deep. The pressure broke through your skin, and the sound that left him was low and guttural. Like it came from the oldest part of him.

The pain hit first. Bright. Hot. A sudden wash of heat that bled through your dress and soaked down your arm. You cried out, not just from the hurt, but from the way it tangled with everything else. Your spine arched, your chest heaving, your head going light from the sheer force of it.

Remmick didn’t stop. Didn’t pull away. His hands gripped tight around your hips, and he moved through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to let the moment end. The bite held you still. Anchored. The only sound in the room was the ragged pull of his breathing and the faint sound of blood dripping onto the sofa.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t let go, or pull out.

He licked over the wound slow, careful, as if tasting something rare. As if trying to commit it to memory. A quiet sound rose in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and you felt it against your skin.

You were shaking.

Spent.

And he held you like you were something precious, something ruined, something he couldn’t stop himself from needing.

The sheets smelled like lavender. Fresh. Clean. As if nothing had ever happened at all. As if you hadn’t just laid beneath him in the room where the bodies had gone cold, their blood still tacky on the floorboards.

As if he hadn’t taken you with that same blood smeared down his chest, soaked into his sleeves, crusted along his jaw.

As if he hadn’t whispered love into your mouth while fucking you raw against the parlor sofa, his hands pinning yours down, his hips relentless, the broken cries that spilled from your throat sounding too much like pleading and too little like pleasure.

And then, when it was over, when your body was wrecked and shivering, your legs too weak to stand, he’d kissed your forehead like a lullaby, scooped you up in his arms like you weighed nothing at all, and carried you to the bath.

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

You’d wondered, hazily, if he’d drawn it before or after.

He didn’t speak as he undressed you. Just peeled the ruined nightgown from your skin with slow, reverent fingers. His claws retracted now, nails blunted and gentle. No urgency. No demand. Only care.

The water lapped up around your body as he eased you in, one hand holding your back, the other at your hough, lowering you as though you might break apart in his arms.

He didn’t get in with you. Not at first.

Just knelt beside the tub and cupped water over your shoulders, your breasts, your thighs. Ran a cloth down your spine. Washed you in long, slow strokes, like he was trying to scrub the memory of the bodies from your skin before it sank too deep.

But it already had.

Still, you let him work. Let him wash your hair, comb it through with his fingers. Let him tilt your head back and rinse it clean. Let him trace every curve of your body like it was scripture.

He scrubbed the blood from your shoulder with painstaking tenderness, kissing the half-healed wound in between passes, calling you his miracle, his mercy, his girl.

His voice never rose. Not once.

Not even when you flinched from his touch. Not even when you cried.

He kissed your eyes dry.

You thought about the quiet days. The good ones. When he made breakfast in the morning and left hibiscus tea on your nightstand. When he sang while he cooked. When he brushed your hair with such delicacy you almost forgot what his hands were capable of.

And you thought about the other days. The long silences. The backhanded questions. The hollow, hateful stares that brought you to tears.

Your body ached in places you didn’t have names for. Inside and out.

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you let him rinse the soap from your skin and lift you out of the tub. Let him wrap you in a towel, thick and warm, smelling faintly of clove and firewood.

Let him dry you off. Let him carry you to his bedroom, both of you silent now, except for his breath brushing against your temple.

The mattress dipped under your weight. The pillows caught your head like a secret. The blanket was heavy in the best way, and his arms found you again before you could move away.

Remmick curled around you like a second skin. One arm beneath your waist. One over your belly.

His fingers didn’t move. Just stayed there, still and steady, like they could already feel what had been made between you.

His mouth was at your neck again, breath soft, lips barely brushing.

And still, you didn’t sleep.

You just stared into the dark, remembering the warmth of his voice when he called you good. Remembering the snap of bone. The wet sound of flesh giving way. The feel of his body slamming into yours with no hesitation, no mercy, like love could be beaten into you if he just took enough of you for himself.

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

About your daddy’s store. You thought about that first. The sound of the bell over the door, bright and sweet as wind chimes. The gentle sweep of the broom on the front steps every morning. You thought about how the sun used to come in through the big front windows, painting long streaks of gold across the shelves. You used to watch the dust swirl in the light and think it looked like magic.

You thought about the girls you’d grown up with. How you used to sit on porch rails with your legs swinging, eating too much candy and daring each other to run barefoot down the gravel road. You wondered where they were now. If they were married. If they had babies.

If they thought about you.

You wondered if any of them had come by the store. If they’d stood on the same wooden floorboards you once stood on and asked your daddy where you’d gone. If they were told you were gone for good.

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

Maybe they figured you’d run off with a man, like so many girls did when the world backed them into a corner and made them choose between being loved or being lonely.

You thought about your mama next.

About how she used to wrap your hair at night, hands gentle but firm, fingers slick with oil. She never let you skip it, not even once. Not even when you pouted and said you weren’t a baby anymore. “Still my baby,” she’d say, tying the scarf with a kiss to your forehead.

You thought about what she’d say now. Whether she’d still hold you close, or just hold your face and try not to cry. You didn’t know if she’d recognize you.

Not like this. Not with him.

Remmick shifted behind you in the bed, stirring as if he could feel your thoughts pulling you too far. He curled tighter. Pulled you in with him. One arm clutched low around your waist, the other curling beneath your ribs. Like he was trying to mold his shape to yours. Like if he could just hold you close enough, you’d stop trying to leave, mind or body.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe he could fold you into him, press you so deep into his chest you’d forget where you ended and he began.

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

The room was quiet. The air was warm. The shadows on the walls flickered and stretched like they didn’t know where to settle. The lamp on the dresser hummed soft and low, casting gold against the covers, turning everything honeyed and still.

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

You’d imagined leaving. Dozens of times. Pictured it clear as glass. The road winding long and empty behind you. The night cool on your skin. Your heart in your mouth.

But every time you chased that dream far enough, it ended in the same place.

Here.

With him.

You’d made too many trades along the way. Traded silence for safety. Traded truth for comfort. Traded fear for something that looked too much like love to name it anything else.

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

You’d redrawn the line a hundred times, and now the chalk had run out.

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

Let the ache in your chest press itself into the mattress. Let the silk of his voice echo in your head.

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.

The village of Rensford sat half-forgotten in a dead end of the world, boxed in by thick, clawing woods and jagged hills that never seemed to let the sun rise fully.

There were perhaps two dozen families, and they shared everything: the narrow well, the worn grazing fields, the crumbling schoolhouse that had never known more than ten children at once. They prayed each morning for health, a mild season, a neighbor’s child to be born strong and not soft in the head. Every evening, before the cold set in, everyone gathered at the church. No matter how tired they were, they always came.

You lived in the far end of the village, past the drying sheds and the old abandoned mill, alone in a squat stone house that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of whitewash since your parents passed. They had been taken by fever one spring, buried out in the weeping field and after that no one asked questions. You were quiet, hardworking, helped with bread-making and tool repair.

The church was the pride of Rensford: a huge, lopsided thing of grey bricks that didn’t match, three wide iron bells, a crooked steeple that cast a long shadow at noon. It always smelled of candlewax and cold stone and no matter how fiercely the wind howled outside, it stayed still inside. The altar was plain oak, but behind it hung an immense iron crucifix flanked by dozens of dried herbs.

Father Ilan had hands like bark and a voice that never rose above a mutter. He spoke of keeping the dark at bay and sin that lurked in idleness.

The night everything changed was in early autumn. You’d helped shear the sheep that morning, your hands raw from the lanolin and your back aching. When sunset came, no bells rang.

The crops disappeared first and by dusk, the church was packed, clutching candles and holy tokens, some crying. You stood near the back, next to the door. Father Ilan was speaking, saying prayers, Latin laced with old speech you didn’t understand.

Someone screamed when the door slammed open against the wind, followed by laughter.

He stood in the frame like something ripped out of a nightmare, soaked from scalp to boot in blood. It streamed from his fingers and stained the corners of his crooked smile. Fangs glistened behind lips that parted too slowly, like he was savoring the way the whole church screamed as one.

You saw the red in his eyes, not bloodshot but glowing molten red.

“Evenin’,” he said, in a voice low and amused, like he was entertained by the scent of your terror. “Awful rude of ye lot. I was hopin’ for a warm welcome. Bit of supper…”

The floor dripped beneath him, blood ran down the aisle in lines.

“Father,” he drawled, tilting his head, “ye wound me. Been ages since I was in a house o’ God. You’d think ye’d be nicer.”

“What do you want?” Ilan barked, voice trembling but hidden well.

The thing paused. He licked his lips, eyes passed over the room, children sobbing and old folk collapsed in prayer.

He sniffed once. Twice.

Then he saw you and froze, a wolf that’s finally found the one door left unlocked.

Like a beast catching the scent of prey, his grin widened slowly. The candlelight caught on the wet curves of his fangs. Your blood turned to ice as something in your belly curled and twisted like a snake.

He didn’t look at anyone else, as if he could sense something in you that caught his attention.

“Me?” he said, slow, soft and teasing, giving a wide, bloodied smile. “I just wanna be let in. Proper manners an’ all, y’know. Knock. Wait. Be welcomed.”

Then, in a voice softer than breath, but loud enough to ring in your ears, he stole another glance at you before adding, “But reckon I could make myself at home either way.”

The nights did not return to normal after that first one. He came again the next evening. And the next. And the next.

Sometimes it was the livestock: shredded open in their pens, blood sprayed so far up the barn walls it stained the rafters. Other times people who were caught off guard by the sun disappear faster than expected.

They came back different. Eyes too bright, sharp teeth and an insatiable hunger for blood.

The worst part came with dawn. They would stand outside controlled by their new owner, sobbing, eyes pleading while mothers wept to see their sons hissing in the daylight, skin burning.

The people of Rensford stopped praying for deliverance, they prayed for quickness. For Remmick to pass over them, to take a neighbor instead, but it didn’t stop.

Through every night, every horrible wail and brutal tearing, you felt his presence on your skin.

He left you things. Once, a dead rabbit on your doorstep. The second time, a bouquet of beautiful wildflowers, ones that only grew deep in the cursed parts of the woods.

One morning, as you were feeding the hens, hands gentle on the wooden scoop, trying to focus on the clucking and not the ash smear across the far field, a voice called out.

It was Joran, the tanner’s son. He looked shaken, eyes red.

“Father Ilan wants to see you. At once.”

The hens kept pecking, you wiped your hands on your apron.

The scent of incense never faded as you entered the imposing structure, clinging to your tongue like old breath. The doors opened with a groan, thick oak that never quite shut all the way.

There he was, tall despite his stoop, his beard gray and wiry, robes dark as soot. His face seemed carved from old bark, creased and weathered.

His eyes, pale and sharp, flicked to you.

“Come, my child.” His voice was too soft.

You moved in, steps echoing between the pews. The place never looked smaller. The wooden benches were worn smooth by generations of knees and elbows. The stained glass above the altar was mostly opaque with grime but still, there was a glory here, terrible and vast.

You sat near him at the last bench before the altar. His hand rested lightly on your shoulder. You could smell the oil on his skin, the wax clinging to the folds of his tunic.

“I hear you’ve been tending the animals better than ever,” he said, smiling faintly. “Mara and Doff must be fat as pigs by now.”

Your lips twitched upward. He’d remembered their names. That did something strange to your chest, a kind of pang. You hadn’t heard them spoken aloud in weeks.

“You’ve done so much for us,” he went on. “Even after all you’ve lost. You’ve never stopped serving. You’re a light in this dark world. A blessing.”

You wanted to feel proud but all you could think about was blood. Blood in the hay, on your doorstep, on teeth that smiled too wide.

Your gratitude dimmed behind memories that swam up like rot in water.

Then, without a word, the old man stood too quick for his age.

His robe dragged behind him like shadow made cloth as he approached the altar where, beside the cracked old Bible, stood a silver goblet.

He lifted it and brought it to you.

“Drink this, my child,” he said gently. “You’ve earned it.”

A father’s tone in his voice that you craved when the cold wouldn’t go and when the fields were quiet.

It was warm in your hands, the rim was etched with faded prayer, worn down from generations.

You lifted it, excepting the sharp yet sweet taste.

What you got was thick and viscous, bitter in a way. You blinked but didn’t say anything.

He sat beside you again, speaking gently.

“We are plagued by a monster. A mockery of God’s creation. A demon with the face of a man.”

Your vision blurred a little. The pew beneath you felt…too far away. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.

“He has set his sights on someone,” Ilan continued.

You blinked, tried to speak. Your mouth moved but made no sound.

“And it is you.” Something hot flooded your cheeks. Fear, confusion, denial.

“Only those burdened with sin call the devil’s eye,” he said, no longer gentle. “He senses and feeds from it. There is something in you, child. Something… inviting.”

You tried to speak again and this time you choked on it. Your limbs tingled, blood roared in your ears. You gripped the edge of the bench but your fingers felt like wax.

“What…?” you managed to croak.

Your breath hitched. You stumbled up from the bench, knees buckling.

“What are you… talking about…?”

He didn’t answer as you backed away, mind swimming, the walls too tall now, the light too bright.

He caught your shoulder and held you close, pressed to his chest.

“Sleep, child,” he whispered. “We’ll sing for you in the morning.”

You shook your head. Weakly and uselessly, his hand stroked your hair.

“They’ll remember you as a savior. Not… corrupted.”

His breath was warm near your ear, your knees gave out, head slumping forward on his chest.

You woke with a start that never quite reached your limbs. Your eyes blinked open, then fought to stay that way. Everything ached starting from the dull, pressing soreness of limbs held in place too long, like something had wrung you out and left you on stone to dry.

The sky above you was bruised purple, the last remnants of sunlight filtered through a heavy canopy of ancient trees. They leaned in like watchers, bark split and knotted. The light barely reached this far in and already the shadows were thickening, bleeding across the underbrush, pooling in the hollows of gnarled roots and sunken stone.

It was colder than it should have been, breath puffing slow, uneven and barely visible.

You tried to move but nothing gave. Your wrists were bound in twine so tight it bit into the skin. Ankles too, secured with rough cord that rasped against the bone. You were splayed on a wide, flat stone, its surface cold against your spine, ribs and bare thighs. You could only lift your head a little, feel the pull of the thin reed tied at your waist like a belt, nothing but a symbol to be broken.

Just like you.

The cloth over your face was rough wool, darkened at the edges with sweat and tears. It draped over your eyes, not blinding you completely but shadowing everything, like seeing through a veil of mourning. It shifted with every breath, rasping gently over your cheeks, letting only filtered light in.

You could smell iron and crushed herbs, sap and blood all over yourself, astringent and sharp.

Your chest rose shallow beneath the linen clothes they’d dressed you in, humble, ceremonial and sacrificial. Crude garments: coarse, undyed, threadbare from intent. They clung to you in places, hitched high over one thigh where the fabric had bunched from movement or from the ropes pulling tight.

They barely covered anything. Mid-thigh, no sleeves, sides cut wide and low. One hip completely exposed to the cold air, ribs visible beneath the opening, one nipple half-hidden by the threadbare drape, the thin cloth sheer soaked in sweat and blood that offered no true protection from the wind.

It moved along with the wind.

It slithered cold fingers up the exposed sides of your ribs, into the thin shift, making it flap and press in turns. When it blew from the north, the cloth lifted high enough that the stone beneath you kissed bare skin. You clenched your teeth, there was nothing you could do.

The cuts burned.

Tiny, deliberate lacerations lined your exposed skin along your thighs, your sides, even low on your neck where the collar hung loose. Thin slices that bled and they kept going, they’d used some foul herb that kept the blood wet, slick and resisting clotting.

It soaked the linen in patches, at your side under your navel, a red streak down your thigh like a line traced by a lover’s finger.

They were never meant to cleanse, but a bait for who you were meant to.

The ritual wasn’t to save you, but to offer you for the wellbeing of those that sent you.

The air was thick, damp with the coming night, pressing down like a second skin. You could hardly move, limbs splayed out and bound to the cold altar stone with cords so tight your hands throbbed. The raw scrape of rope on flesh pulsed in waves, burning and biting as you shifted your weight again, desperately twisting your wrists only for the twine to dig deeper, grooves forming beneath your skin.

The hood over your head was a mourner’s cowl, coarse and scratchy, hung low over your brow and cheeks, the itchy fibers clinging to your mouth when you tried to breathe. Every exhale fluttered the wool and every inhale dragged it back against your lips. Warm, wet fabric pressed to your tongue like a gag. You could taste your own panic.

The sky beyond the veil was bruising darker by the second from violet to black. You saw flickers of it through the frayed edge of the hood, just slivers of dying light snared in the branches high above.

A leaf cracked.

Your breath hitched, chest barely moving. You were nothing but ears and heartbeat, deaf to anything but your own blood.

Then came a violent rush of air and the stone beneath you shifted as something fast landed on it. One moment you were alone in the woods, the next his weight was upon you, towering over your restrained body.

Lips crashed down on the cuts, tongue dragged wetly down your jawline and landed at your neck.

“Ah… fuuuuck,” he groaned low, a thick rumble that passed through his chest into yours. “Yer sweet. It’s makin’ me high, darlin’.”

You arched what little you could and that mouth latched onto your inner thigh, beneath the slit of the shift. He sank his mouth to the open cut there, tongue thick and textured, pressing into the wound with slow, savoring swirls. He licked you like you were melting sugar on his tongue, the wet heat of his breath pumping fast, moans slipping up through his nose with every pass.

A graze of teeth came, something sharp dragged over the open flesh.

You jerked and it didn’t stop.

The tongue vanished. Then it was on your chest, your ribs—everywhere. He lapped from one wound to the next, following the red trails down your belly like a feast line. Your shift was useless now, soaked and half-peeled back, exposing you to the air and to him. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a body lit from within with need.

The tongue found your right pectoral and paused, a hot exhale before he opened his mouth wide and devoured it.

His mouth closed over your nipple and sucked hard, tongue working fast, swirling in sharp, maddened spirals while his teeth scraped faintly. All of it sent a shock through your spine. Your thighs twitched, bound ankles scraping against the stone.

His name wasn’t on your lips but a noise, choked, helpless and very wrong.

He pulled off with a wet pop, a thin strand of saliva stretching between your nipple and his blood-smeared mouth.

Panting fast and shallow.

Could feel as he clenched his hands, claws dragging across the stone beside your head, then one of them slammed onto your cowl.

The claws caught the fabric and sank into it and they came close to gouge out your eyes. The cowl was yanked up and off, and you were met not with the sky but him.

Up close, there was nothing human left.

A red so deep in his eyes, blood coated his chin, chest, throat—your blood still dripping down his tank top in sluggish, gleaming trails. The fabric clung to his chest, tight and soaked, showing every ripple of muscle. The stench of sweat and gore clung to him like perfume, overwhelming and choking.

His lips were parted, thick and bitten red, tongue darting out to catch what slid from the corner of his mouth, teeth too sharp. Droplets hit your face, warm, slow, staining your cheek.

“Didn’t even need to see yer face,” he murmured, voice thick with heat and something darker, almost shaking with restraint. His accent hung heavy like molasses dripping from a blade. “Knew it was ye. I’d know this scent if I were blind. I been thinkin’ ‘bout ye f’ so long…”

His hand hovered near your face and then he leaned down to press his forehead to yours.

“Name’s Remmick. Tell me yer name, now, pretty thing,” he whispered, voice like gravel dragged through silk. “I wanna hear it. Been wonderin’ it ever since I saw ye standin’ ‘round all those fools. Knew right then ye didn’t belong to ‘em. Ye were the prettiest thing I’d seen in years and I seen wars, sweetheart.”

Your heartbeat was screaming in your ears, every throb thundered beneath your skin, drowning out the rest of the world in that chaotic pulse. Those obscene fangs glinting beneath a grin that spoke of appetite. Death was straddling your hips and breathing through blood-slick teeth.

Somehow, you spoke first, voice cracked, dry and shivering with disbelief and pain, the knot in your throat catching every word.

“Why… why do you care…?”

That grin widened.

He liked the fear in your voice.

You could ser how it ignited something behind his crimson eyes, how the corners of his lips curled higher, how his chest began to rise and fall faster, hungrier, almost panting.

“You don’t get it, do ye?” he murmured, voice slow and damp. His gaze dropped lower to your throat, staring like a wolf eyeing the trembling of a rabbit’s muscles beneath its fur. His head tilted, entranced by the flicker of your artery pumping just beneath the surface and a thick line of drool spilled from the edge of his mouth, mingling with the blood that still glistened on his chin and lips.

He leaned in.

“Won’t kill ye,” he whispered. Hissed. “Could never waste somethin’ this perfect. Yer mine now darlin’, an’ I ain’t lettin’ ye go.”

Then he descended down into the crook of your neck where your shoulder met the column of flesh he’d been fixated on and he smothered you in blood and wetness. His mouth dragged across clean skin, leaving slick trails of spit and iron-red behind, breath steaming in the cooling air. His tongue shot out, hot and heavy as it lapped where his fangs had grazed, licking up the slow-dripping dots of blood he’d caused to spill.

You stiffened, gasped, breath catching hard as you tried again to pull away but the cords bit deeper. He could feel your pulse jump beneath his mouth, and he moaned, the vibration traveling straight into your skin like a deep tremor, making your back twitch involuntarily.

“Ye ain’t scared,” he whispered, voice husky and reverent. “Ye want it. Been wantin’ it.”

You didn’t. You did. You didn’t—God, what was happening?

Then his hips rolled down hard, forcing your bound thighs wider, despite the cords keeping them flush together, as his clothed erection dragged against yours, massive and heavy. Even through the thin, bloodied fabric of his ruined pants and your torn shift, you felt every inch of it slide against your own straining length and your body responded before your mind could protest.

You arched your back, hips lifting into him by instinct and a choked, broken sound fell out of your throat. He growled at that, deep and possessive.

He snapped his hips forward again, grinding and rubbing your cocks together, smearing your shared arousal through the filthy linen. His mouth didn’t stop either, attacking your throat with hot, messy kisses, pressing lips and fangs and tongue into your skin with no rhythm, just need, moans rough and low between every wet smack of his mouth.

“I knew it,” he breathed, “knew you were diff’rent. Them other folks… they looked down their noses ‘cause they couldn’t understand ye.”

His lips trailed sloppily along your jawline, over your cheekbone, peppering your skin with red-stained kisses. The blood on his mouth smeared hot over your skin, clinging in streaks and warm smudges as he kissed harder, more frantic.

“Ye know what it’s like, don’t ye? Bein’ the one they cast out. Left to rot.”

He pulled back enough to hover right above your mouth. Iron, sweat and earth were the scents emanated from him.

His breath fanned over your lips, heavy, hot and metallic, chest heaving, a soft groan curling from the back of his throat.

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked, voice low, rough and almost kind.

Your breath caught, staring up at him, wide-eyed, the trembling of your lips betraying the war in your chest. You didn’t understand why he gave you a choice. Why was he asking? Why hadn’t he torn your throat out, ripped you open like the others?

Why this?

Like he heard your thoughts. “I could hear yer heart, f’r hours,” he murmured, gaze still locked on your mouth. “When ye were all alone, prayin’ to a God who ain’t never answered ye… never loved ye.”

You didn’t even realize you’d said your name aloud. It slipped out, breathless, trembling, but real and he froze.

The wolfish grin was gone but not the hunger. One clawed finger lifted—drenched in blood—and pressed against your cheek.

It slid down gently and cradled.

Then your jaw was in his palm, his thumb barely grazing your bottom lip.

“I like yer name,” he whispered and smiled again, a dreadful smile with red-stained fangs out, shaking with restraint.

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked again, voice husky and sweet, but beneath it, something cracked in desperation.

You nodded once, lips still pressed together in a blood-slick line but he didn’t move.

“Need t’hear it,” he whispered, voice breaking like a prayer. “Need t’hear it from that beautiful mouth.”

Your lips parted. “Please,” you whispered, the word trembling, wet with something half-sob, half-lust.

The sound he made wasn’t human as his mouth crashed down with feral hunger, lips too wide and hot, soaked in blood and spit. Those fangs dragged along your inner lips. You felt slices, sharp and wet, his top canine cutting lightly the skin of your lips and you gasped, stupidly, into him.

A mistake.

His tongue shoved deep at that, lapping at your gums, your teeth, under your tongue, searching for where the blood was pooling, sucking it in hungry slurps. He pressed and scraped every inch of your mouth, a nick bloomed under your tongue, light cuts decorated the inside of your mouth invaded by his sharp one.

Your cry vanished into his throat and he moaned low in response, not sweet but hoarse, the noise vibrating down through your locked jaws into your lungs. The sound is all hunger and possession, a desperate, throaty groan that trembled down your spine and coiled around your heart.

With every swirl of his tongue, you felt the blood being pulled from your small wounds, collected at the edges of his lips, drawn to the corners of his throat. His cheeks hollowed when he slurped at the cut beneath your tongue, lapping thick and greedy, every gulp obscene.

Your face twisted in shock and breathless heat, tasting copper, spit and the ghost of his earlier kills.

He kept your lips locked tight, sealing you in, mouth still grinding against yours, tongue flicking quick now, almost angry, twitching left and right like he couldn’t decide where to drink from next. You felt a sting as his fangs scraped again, carving a new slit and he—God help you— was purring. A sound that made your stomach twist with confusion and the faintest lick of fire. He sucked the blood down and his hips jerked against your side like he could taste your arousal underneath the pain.

He pressed harder, chest crushing yours, ribs grinding raw where your wounds bled again, the pressure making you see stars. You groaned into him, eyes squeezed shut and that seemed to spur him deeper, head tilted, jaw working, tongue thrusting in again, again, dragging the wet length of himself across your teeth.

When he finally pulled away, red spit snapped between your mouths, thick and glossy. It clung in ropes from your chin to his, dripping down your throat as you gasped in fresh air, chest hitching, breath ragged with lungs that screamed in relief.

Then his lips jumped down at your neck.

The wound there, half-clotted now, stood no chance, his tongue found it and jammed in. He moaned, the sound buzzed through your skin.

The warmth flooded again and he drank, mouth pressed so deep against your throat it made your pulse skip. His fingers dug into your hips, claws creating shallow arcs into your side between slurps and grunts he emanates low and thick in his throat.

His mouth never left your skin, tongue swirling through the gashes he’d opened along your ribs, teeth occasionally grinding against your wound like he didn’t care whether he made more blood, only that it was fresh and yours. Your pulse still raced, pumping that warmth up for him, feeding him like he was bred for it.

But under that satisfied hum, the words came not sweet. Not tender.

“I should tear ‘em all apart.” he rasped against your abdomen, voice muffled by flesh and blood.

His mouth pulled back, leaving a long smear of spit and gore over your abdomen. He bared his fangs at your skin like he wanted to laugh at it.

“fed ‘em their own teeth for what they did to ye.”

A lunge. He dove back to your hipbone, licking along the curve with a long, wet stroke of his tongue, then dragging his lower fangs lightly along the flesh until a thin new slit bloomed, beading red.

Around a mouthful of your blood, he snarled:

“I’ll peel that priest open. want t’see what sound he makes when his lungs start fillin’.”

You twitched under the calm finality in his tone. Remmick’s hands clenched around your thighs, fingers bruising, claws pressing divots into your muscle like he was resisting something worse, his lips just brushing your inner thigh, tongue dipping between the notch of your hip and thigh, slick and slow, licking at a thin trail of blood that hadn’t yet dried.

He followed it upward with his mouth, small kisses, wet and hot, fangs tapping gently along your trembling skin.

A ripping noise broke that intimate silence that grew, soon after pain blossomed at your side. His claws tore the shift from your body, shredding a piece of it in one huge swipe.

Three deep gashes carved from chest to hip, sharp and perfect, blood gushing.

He didn’t let it spill, immediately lunged, mouth first, onto the wounds, suckling at them like open fruit, catching every stream with frantic laps of his tongue. His fangs tickled your skin with every drag, mouth painting you redder than you already were.

His tongue trailed down again, lapping between your thighs, that blood-drenched grin already forming on his face before his claws even moved.

Two swipes and the cords at your ankles burst, fibers twanging apart under the weight of his strength. Another flash of motion and the tattered hem of your shift was gone, torn straight through, shredded into nothing.

Hot breath, soaked in the stink of blood and spit, hit the curve of your bare ass. You jolted, not even thinking and your thighs parted automatically.

“Ohhh,” Remmick rasped, already leaning in, voice sticky with amusement, “they tied ye up ‘cause they knew, didn’t they? Knew those legs’d open up for me the second I looked at ye…”

His claws gripped your thighs, fingers spanning the thickest parts with ease and locked them around his shoulders, digging in hard enough to bruise as he spread them wider, forcing your knees up and out.

Your toes curled as his mouth descended, tongue dragging from your perineum up until it lapped a hot, wet line right over your hole. You made a sound you didn’t recognize, head tipped back and mouth parted in a gasp that never quite left your lungs.

He sucked in a breath, grip on your thighs tightening, claws pricking now, holding you open before his tongue dove.

A thick, forceful push, hot muscle breaching your hole in one wet plunge. “Aaahh—!” you cried, body jolting as your hips bucked instinctively upward. He didn’t stop, just grunted and shoved his face deeper, tongue spearing into you with greedy force.

The breath was punched out of you.

Each lick dragged a moan out of you. Each curl of his tongue sent sparks racing up your spine, coiling in your gut. Your cock throbbed untouched, pressed against your stomach, dripping pre-cum in slow, hot trails down your abdomen as he devoured you, tongue flattening to lap, then curling to thrust.

His fangs grazed the sensitive skin of your hole with a slow drag, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. Blood beaded instantly, warm and wet, trickling down toward your thighs in thin red lines.

He licked the blood with long, luxurious strokes, tongue dragging through the slick mess like it was honey, moaning with every swallow.

His stubble scratched your thighs raw as he mouthed at you, tongue plunging back inside, curling and writhing, fucking you open while he sucked the blood.

A white-hot bolt of something unbearable ripped through your gut like lightning, your whole body convulsed, back arching, head snapping back as your untouched cock pulsed and jerked, spilling hard and hot over your chest in thick, white stripes, mouth open in a raw, cracked sob, fingers clenching at the stone beneath you as every nerve lit up.

He kept going and didn’t stop.

Remmick’s tongue worked faster, sloppier, his moans loud and unashamed as he devoured you through it.

The world tilted as arms wrapped under your waist, hauling your hips off the altar, your torso pinned by the ropes but everything below now suspended, thighs hooked tight around his head.

“R-Remmick—please—!” But he didn’t answer.

He buried his face between your cheeks again, tongue spearing deeper, licking blood and whatever else he could find with desperate hunger. His fangs scraped again, more blood and heat while his arms flexed, holding you aloft like you weighed nothing at all.

Your cock was already hard again, bobbing in the air, twitching with every suck. You could feel his breath through your entire spine, every rumble in his throat vibrating against your guts, hole raw and leaking, tongue fucking you so deep it felt like he was trying to reshape you from the inside out.

You lost count of how long it lasted, every sound he made was desperate. Worshipful. Terrifying.

His fangs dripped, breath trembling as he lifted his head and lowered your thighs, face absolutely soaked in red.

He hovered there, frame hunched and twitching like something trying to decide whether to worship or devour, biceps flexing as he reached for you again.

New red streaks were drawn with his tongue across your chest and ribs, no longer from fresh wounds, just messy strokes through blood already spilled, the warmth of it mixing with saliva and sweat as he mouthed sloppily at your skin.

“M’sorry,” he whispered into your side, “fer goin’ so hard. Ain’t had anyone t’hold in so long. The things ye do t’me…”

Your breath hitched again as his hips pressed harder down, the rigid length of him grinding against your slick hole, lips parting with a weak moan as the heat of him lit your nerves like dry tinder.

Remmick’s eyes rolled slightly at the feel of it—your body soft and twitching under him, your legs wrapping tighter, your hole flexing against the hard line of his cock. His lips parted, tongue dragging slowly along his fangs.

“Fuck,” he hissed, low and strangled, a sound torn from the back of his throat. “Need ye. Need t’be inside ye, now. Wantcha to feel me so deep ye can’t even fuckin’ pray unless it’s t’me.”

His clawed hand traced your neck, then slid down to your chest and pressed sharp, piercing the skin and blood welled instantly.

He was already on it, mouth slamming down, slurping and sucking with animal fervor the sound echoed like wet meat in a slaughterhouse, one claw dragging blood down your chest as he fed. The muscles in his jaw twitched with every swallow, throat moving visibly as he gulped.

You observed how it all occurred, dazed and half-wrecked, but for some reason still alive, unlike how those who betrayed you wanted it to be.

Here he was, monstrous, blood-drenched and cruel, but the only one who hadn’t lied to you.

The only one who shared the ache of abandonment and loneliness. Who even now, somehow, was holding back from ruining you too soon.

Your legs locked tighter around his waist and pulled hard. He growled low in response, mouth still latched to your bleeding chest. The sudden pull made him jolt closer, rock-hard cock pressing deep into the slick of your hole and his mouth left your shoulder with a wet, bloody gasp.

Forehead touching yours, droplets of blood slid down from his chin and landed on your parted lips. Your tongue caught one and shallowed.

His lips twitched before he leaned in and you met him halfway there, mouth opened over yours and tongue pushing deep. His fangs clinked against your teeth, a reminder that this could end in a single bite.

One clawed hand cradled your neck now, a deadly grip held in perfect check. The other dragged down between your bodies, across your abdomen, down to the base of his cock to free it.

The weight of it pressed down, tip slick from precum and blood he’d collected with his claws. You felt it glide along your entrance as he growled low at the contact.

“Tell me,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek and the fat head of his cock nudging your entrance. “M’I invited?”

“Pleas—“ small and shaky, immediately interrupted by him pressing forward.

The stretch hit first. A slow, dragging pressure that pushed past your rim with that first devastating thrust, the head thick and already soaked with blood and slick, forcing itself deep into the slick mess he’d made with his tongue and spit.

Your eyes rolled back, jaw slack and lips wet, unable to even form words, body jolted inch by inch as the thick drag of his cock sank into your guts. It kept going, forcing your legs further apart as they twitched around his waist, hole clenching helplessly around the length that shouldn’t have fit that made your brain hum with warped, searing need.

“Hhhhhnn—‘s good,” he breathed into your ear, voice hoarse and breaking apart. Your hands clawed the altar beneath you, fingers digging at the cold stone as your hips bucked and your cock jerked where it lay against your stomach, every inch deeper made your vision blur.

When his hips met your ass, cock hilted to the root, he stilled.

Your hole stretched wide around the base of him, pulsing with raw soreness and slick heat while your whole frame shaked.

“Can’t tell if them tears’re from pain or pleasure,” he muttered, breath sticky against your lips, the taste of your blood sharp between you. “Not that it matters.” A crooked grin pulled at his mouth.

“Long as you keep makin’ those sounds f’ me.” He pulled out only a few inches and drove back in hard. His claws dug into your waist to hold you still as his cock rammed back inside, filling you deeper than before.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each thrust hit like a punch, wet slaps echoing in the woods, your hole making slick, messy sounds as it stretched to take him. Blood smeared across your thighs where his skin met yours.

He angled his hips and hit something inside you that made your back arch like a bow.

“Ahh—nnh, Remmick—!”

“There,” he growled. “There is it.”

He slammed into it again, claws now wrapped tight around your cock and making you cry out as your hole fluttered around the thick intrusion, milking him.

His thrusts grew messier, harder, blood and slick smearing between your thighs and down your ass.

You came hard, spraying up your own chest, your stomach, onto his wrist and claws, sobbing brokenly as your hole clenched down around him.

With a final slam his whole body shuddered. He came with a guttural grunt muffled by the skin of your neck, hot ropes flooded into your gut, cock pulsing again and again as he filled you. Your hole stretched around the base, unable to stop the spill, his seed leaking out already, mixing with blood and slick as he collapsed half on top of you, panting, groaning into your throat.

He lifted his head to look at you, warm and coppery breath that came slow. He didn’t move, not one inch. His face hovered inches from yours, looming over your crumpled, used body as you trembled beneath him. Trails of red streaked down the curve of his cheek, along the ridge of his snarled jaw, catching at the corner of his mouth where his fangs still gleamed, coated in streaks of drying gore.

There was no name for what was behind those crimson pupils fixed on you, wide and unblinking. Unmoving and terrifying in that stillness.

The claws rose, glistening with your blood and hovered beside your face, three fingers curled, two half-extended.

You knew what was coming, your eyes closed to embrace the last seconds of life you had, tilting your neck as an offering just like how you were meant to be right from the start, a sacrifice for the well being of everyone else.

A cool breeze brushed your skin and the pressure on your arms disappeared when the rops were cut clean.

A single beam, golden and sudden, lanced through the branches high above when you opened your eyes. You squinted, eyes stinging from the brightness, pupils shrinking as the canopy above shifted and spilled morning across the stone.

He was gone.

The altar beneath you felt colder now without his weight. The stone rasped against your skin as you stirred, every nerve screaming in protest, your muscles sore and trembling from use. Your spine creaked, your knees shaking as you pushed up with an elbow and slowly, painfully, sat upright.

The shift that clung to your body wasn’t even clothing anymore.

What had once been white was now a shredded ruin, barely covering anything. Slashes ran down both sides—some clean cuts, others torn by fang or claw—stained entirely through with smears of deep maroon. Your chest was bare, one side of the fabric having slipped down entirely, revealing a trail of blood and bite marks from neck to sternum.

You looked lower.

The hem barely covered your hips, and the back was shredded. Blood had dried there in dark, rusted patches, crusted into the cotton, while other stains still shimmered faintly under the new sunlight. Between your thighs, soreness pulsed steadily, a heat that lingered more from what had been taken than any wound.

Shifting slightly on the altar stone, you winced.

Then, against your better judgment, your hand lifted.

You pressed your fingers to your own throat. Felt the tacky edge of a new bruise. Then you dragged your palm slowly—slowly—across your chest.

Your skin was a mess of scratches and welts. Some are shallow, some are deep. Your fingers caught at one of the gashes near your ribs—three claw marks carved in parallel, dried blood crusting at the edges. You traced them.

Your breath hitched.

It hurts.

But beneath the sting, your skin prickled with something warmer. Your hand moved down, across your belly where more scratches fanned out across your hips, painted like strokes from a mad brush, some with teeth marks sunk between. You found the bruises on your thighs next, purple and red where his hands had held you down.

You rose slowly and a burst of pain tore down your ribs where his hand had marked you, pressed there, each step sent new flares of agony through your gut and chest. Still, you pushed upright again, leaning on trees, yanking free thick ropes of liana that hung from the forest canopy and twisted them around your frame to bind the shredded remains of the shift back into something wearable.

Hours passed like wounds: slow, bleeding and hard to count.

By the time you reached the edge of the village, the sky had turned black.

You stood in the tall grass on the hill overlooking the main clearing, hidden in the shadow of the trees and watched.

They were dancing.

Every family, every face you’d known since you were a child. They laughed around a roaring bonfire at the center of the square, the glow painting their skin gold, shadows flickering long and tall, celebrating their freedom.

Assholes.

You stood there, one hand pressed tight to your ribs where your body still throbbed from what had been done to you—no, what they had done to you. A lamb tied in white and left in the woods.

Behind you, somewhere deep in the trees, you heard a rustle. You didn’t need to turn.

You dragged yourself forward, moving along the edge, behind houses with thatched roofs and crooked beams until you made it to the church.

One of the great wooden doors stood half-open and, gritting your teeth, you staggered to it and shoved with your shoulder.

The hinges groaned and the sound echoed inside like a bell tolling doom.

Three heads turned.

Father Ilan stood at the altar, tall and rigid in his soot-dark robes, two younger men flanked the pews, holding firewood and altar cloths, frozen mid-task. They stared.

The priest’s mouth opened slowly and his face was everything you needed to see.

Horror, recognition and best of all, fear.

You staggered forward two steps, holding your ribs, and let your voice come low. “That’s the face I made,” you said hoarsely. “When I woke up… tied down and threw away like garbage.”

He flinched but not enough, his hands folded before him, as if in prayer.

“You shouldn’t have returned. Not as you are. Not as that devil’s… plaything.”

You blinked, the words didn’t even sting, they felt expected.

Ilan turned slightly, eyes hard, lips thin.

“You brought him here. He’s taken root in your blood. You reek of him.”

You didn’t speak and he raised his voice. “This place is sanctified. He cannot touch it. But you—” he pointed now, eyes blazing—“you are the vessel for our freedom.”

To the men behind him: “End the ritual. Before the rot spreads and all suffer.”

They dropped their tasks and advanced.

Your knees trembled, but you didn’t back away. You clutched your side, pain radiating sharp and hot as one of the claw marks pulled.

“The devil,” you whispered, “ain’t in the woods.”

The men hesitated. One slowed.

You met the priest’s eyes.

“He’s in this village. In this church.”

That did it, broad hands caught your arms from behind before you could step back. Pain tore through your exhausted body as they dragged you toward the altar, feet skidding on cold stone, knees buckling.

With that last bit of breath you had, you cried out “Remmick, come in!”

The words hung in the air like sacrilege and the church doors groaned as they were pulled open, moonlit rushing in.

Remmick stood there soaked from crown to sole, he was dripping fresh crimson. It clung everywhere in his face, his throat gleamed red, boots squelched as he stepped forward, leaving sticky prints across the stone.

He grinned, fangs out, stained scarlet.

“evenin’, Father.” he drawled, raiaing one clawed hand in mock greeting, blood flinging from the tips as he gave a lazy wave.

Then his gaze shifted to you and that grin softened, something warm bloomed beneath the madness.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed.

The two men holding your arms froze for only a breath.

One second he was across the room, the next he was behind the man on your right.

The claws sank deep before the man could even scream and sank his fangs deep in his neck.

The second man had turned to run but it didn’t matter as Remmick levitated towards him and fangs sank into the throat before the poor bastard could draw breath, ripping a full chunk out, the artery split wide open, blood spraying in a crimson arc across the air.

The priest was already scrambling, standing by the side door, eyes wild, robes flaring around his feet while holding a wooden stake ready to use to purify your corrupted body.

He gripped it with both hands, ready to complete his divine mission…

…until a clawed hand caught his arm mid-swing, twisting it far past where bone could follow.

The crunch was wet and loud, the elbow snapping backward, tendons unspooling. The stake fell with a clatter, useless.

“Y’oughta know,” Remmick whispered low into the priest’s ear, voice thick with smoke, “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine.”

His other hand raked across Ilan’s face, four slashes bloomed deep and vertical from scalp to chin and blood poured down his beard, into his eyes.

Remmick caught him by the throat and lifted.

“I hope yer god’s watchin’ now,” Remmick said softly before throwing him outside.

The old man flew like straw, hitting the grounf outside with a sickening thud, bones cracking under the weight.

The firelight outside revealed everything, all of the villagers were standing in a wide circle, backlit by the flames.

Eyes gold, mouth slack with fangs bared.

Each one of them turned and moved together as one mind as they pounced. Teeth met throat, claws met ribs, screams choked in blood as the man’s body disappeared under their hunger, hands flailing once before they vanished beneath the swarm.

Inside the church, your body gave out, too weak and in too much pain.

Remmick’s arms caught you instantly and lifted you to your feet, claws anchoring around your waist like he’d never let you fall again. You sagged against him, breath hitching. His chest heaved with breath, his body soaked in blood both his and not, muscles flexed and quivering with residual fury.

He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to the crook of your neck.

His breath was still ragged, wet with blood, panting. More blood smeared across your throat, fresh and hot, his mouth now streaking your skin with red over the already dried layers.

He buried those blood-caked claws into your hair, cradling your skull with terrifying gentleness, thumb brushing against your temple.

“I told ya, didn’t I?” he murmured. “Told ya I’d come for ya.”

He pulled back slightly and you saw it, beneath the gore and the fangs, something horrible and tender bloomed.

Devotion.

Claws against your palm as he cut just a line.

You hissed as warm blood beaded along your lifeline. Remmick bit his own hand, fangs punctured the base of his palm and thick blood poured from it in lazy rivulets.

He pressed the wounds together.

Palm to palm in a bloody path.

How marriages were made back when he was still a lad.

“Yer my kin now,” he breathed, that blood-slick smile returning, fang-bared, panting and waiting.

Your lips met his as you leaned forward, fangs brushing your tongue but you didn’t flinch.

The blood between you smeared across both chins, dripping down your joined hands. His growl melted into a moan as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, one clawed hand sliding up your back to hold you close, the other still wrapped with yours.

so when you finally sat him down in the kitchen, nervously twisting your fingers together, he had no idea you were about to drop something much heavier.

“i, uh… i was offered a job in central city and… i accepted it.” you shyly.

he froze, mid-sip of water, staring at you over the rim of the glass. “come again?”

“it’s two hours out,” you rushed to explain. “but i can commute, or we’ll figure out weekends, and—”

“you accepted a job two hours away? without even telling me you were applying?” his voice was sharp, sharper than you’d ever heard it.

you swallowed. “i didn’t think it was a big deal until i got the offer. and then… i just thought i’d handle it.”

there it goes again. he set the glass down with a thunk, his jaw tight. “you keep saying that. handle it. like i’m not even here.”

“clark, it’s my career. i’ve always made choices like this for myself. i didn’t want to slow down and risk losing it.”

“but we’re not just you anymore. it’s us.” his voice cracked, raw and desperate. “don’t you see how it feels to find out something like this after the fact? like i don’t matter enough to even be considered?”

“clark,” your chest ached. “it’s not that you don’t matter. i just—i’ve had to do everything on my own for so long, i don’t even think about checking in sometimes. it’s instinct for me, im sorry.”

he shook his head, stepping closer but keeping just enough space between you that it stung. “instinct or not, this is our relationship. i need to know you want me in it, really in it—not just tagging along for the pieces you decide to share.”

you blinked against the hot pressure in your eyes, because clark never yelled, but every word cut like steel.

“i am so proud of you. i’ve always been proud of you. but right now? i’m scared.” his eyes burned into yours, his voice softer but still trembling with anger. “because if you can make this decision without me… what else can you decide without me?”

you sat on the edge of the bed, wringing your hands in your lap. the silence between you stretched like a taut wire, ready to snap. clark stood by the window, arms folded tight across his chest, staring out at the night sky but not really seeing it.

“i didn’t… i didn’t realize how much i hurt you.” your throat tightened, and you leaned forward, trying to catch his eyes. “all those little things—the apartment, the storage unit, even the furniture—I thought they didn’t matter. i thought they were just… me doing what i’ve always done. i never once stopped to think what it felt like on your side.”

“you’re not just my boyfriend, clark. you’re my partner. and i should’ve treated you like that.” your words came out shaky. “you’ve done nothing but make room for me in your world, in ways i don’t even deserve. and i shut you out without realizing it.”

his arms dropped slowly, “do you know what it feels like to be standing right here, loving you with everything i’ve got, and to keep finding out i’m the last to know about your life?”

tears blurred your vision. “i’m sorry. god, i’m so sorry.” you reached for him, hesitant, your fingers brushing his hand. “i’ve been independent for so long, i didn’t even think about what i was taking away from you. but i don’t want you to feel like you’re standing on the outside. i don’t want to keep making you feel like you don’t matter.”

finally, finally, his hand turned and wrapped around yours. he looked down at you, eyes softer now, though still glistening with unspoken worry.

“i don’t need to make your choices for you,” he murmured. “but i need to be there. i need to know we’re building something together. because i can’t… i can’t do this if i’m not a part of it.”

you squeezed his hand like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. “then you’ll be part of everything. no more shutting you out. no more deciding alone. i want us, clark. i want us more than anything.”

for the first time that night, some of the tension in his face eased. he bent down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath shaky.

“please don’t shut me out again,” he whispered.

“i won’t,” you promised, voice breaking. “never again.”

neighbor!clark who has come to the conclusion that he has a praise kink.

neighbor!clark who can happily hear when you play with yourself late at night.

soft moans echoed around your apartment as the wet noises of you sliding your fingers in and out of your pussy added to the noise. it drove clark crazy to hear you please yourself knowing that he wanted to be the one to do that for you.

not wanting to intrude anymore than what he already is, clark kept listening as he made a move to unzip his pants and free his aching cock from his boxers. his tip, so angry and red, already leaking with pre-cum. holding it by his base, he spit onto his tip—imagining it was you doing so—and let it run down his shaft, coating it.

“ohh, ffuck,” he heard you whimper. his hand start rubbing his cock up and down, clark letting out soft moans.

on his couch with his legs spread wide, and his buttoned shirt open and falling against his shoulders, his moans got louder as he quickened his pace.

“please cum, baby, please cum.”

neighbor!clark who sat there on his couch, feeling a tad bit perverted, with cum painted on his knuckles and the circle of his closed fist. catching his breath, he listened as you let your final moan while your orgasm washed over you.

neighbor!clark who feels his blood boil when you tell him that you have a date this weekend with a resident from the floor below. “yeah, we’ve been talking here and there, and yesterday on the elevator, he asked me out. i’m actually excited, it’s been quite a while since i’ve been on a date.”

clark started tuning you out after you said the two of you have been talking. “oh, how wonderful that is, y/n,” he strained.

maybe if would stop being scared all of the time and asked you a long time ago, he wouldn’t have to hear you go on and on about bryan the elevator bandit. maybe he should find a way to stop this date! yes, superman can shut the block down, fight some baddie or something like that. but no, that’s putting citizens in unnecessary danger… and what if you get hurt?!

he wanted to gouge his eyes out.

neighbor!clark who mopped and moaned around his apartment the day of the date. he wanted superman to fly around to where you and bryan would be at, but didn’t want to cause unnecessary commotion.

or did he?

no!

clark did his best with distracting himself by means of tv shows, star wars, reading, and even trying to start a new report. but him looking for information for his new report ended up with him doing research on bryan the elevator bandit. slamming his laptop shut with a loud groan, he felt the same way he did earlier in the day.

“maybe if i can just feel happy for her, i wouldn’t keep feeling this way.”

his ears perked up as he heard the elevator ding from the end of the hallway. checking his watch, it was only 8:30pm and the date began at 7:45pm. it couldn’t be her… could it?

grumbling cuss words as you yanked on purse to find your keys, your purse fell on the floor. a loud clap echoed down the hall as you stood the staring at the fallen purse, feeling like this night couldn’t get any worse. “this piece of shit ass purse!”

yeah, it’s definitely her.

clark rushed to his door, but calmed his physical demeanor as he opened the door and stuck his body out into the hallway, “y/n… is everything okay?” you were in the middle of kicking the purse to your door, leg still in the air as the purse finished sliding across the floor. clark didn’t know whether to laugh or not.

“oh my god, clark,” as soon as you saw him, your leg went down and the tears began to well in your eyes. clark immediately opening his arms to you, you ran straight into them and cried, clinging on to his shirt.

neighbor!clark who listened to you cry about how terrible your date went. bryan not acting like a gentleman, but a “total asshole dickhead”—your words, not his—and him being utterly disrespectful to the waiters. then by the time you told him the date was over and that you wanted to go home, bryan thought that meant the two of you were going home together. of course you told him hell no, but he turned even uglier by saying he took the time of (barely) getting to know you and taking you out to dinner (which by the way, he asked if you were paying for your meal or not. yikes!), so he deserved to be rewarded sex from you.

you laughed in his face due to the audacity of his absurd request and reasoning. not once have you considered yourself to be a violent person, but oh wow badly you wanted to slap him in his face for calling you a “useless ass bitch” and leaving you at the restaurant he drove you to. not only having to order a last minute uber after being stranded, your heel breaking as you walked into the apartment lobby was the cherry on top.

“it’s not like i was expecting us to get married or something. it’s the just the principle of showing respect. and the first date i had in months goes like that. that time was fucking wasted.”

clark held you close as your cries slowed, his thumb slowly circling your shoulder while you leaned against his chest. on the outside, clark looked patient, sympathetic, and caring. but on the inside? oh, ohh, clark was seething. this, this boy had the opportunity to take you on a date, to woo you, but he had the grand plan of messing it all up.

“you didn’t and don’t deserve anything like that, y/n. he’s an idiot for taking you for granted. you deserve to be cherished and loved, appreciated! you deserve someone better and who’ll do those things plus more. l-like me,” clark didn’t realize he was going to say that last part until it came out. he felt your body freeze underneath his arm, but his thumb continued to rub small, soft circles as you sat up to look him in his eyes.

“clark, what do you mean someone like you?”

“exactly what i said y/n,” his rubs slow down, “i’ve liked you ever since you moved across the hall, but i’ve just been too nervous to say something about it. you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen and have one of the most warmest souls. and the fact that bryan couldn’t recognize that is moronic on his part.” clark saw your eyes widen and shine with glint. taking the opportunity, clark slide his hand down your arm and curved his palm on your waist. looking between your eyes and plump lips that were slightly ajar, he said, “all i’m asking for is a chance to show you my appreciation for you. just a chance.”

neighbor!clark who felt like he was on cloud 9. your hand pressed against his abdomen—which you never realized how muscular clark was until now—as your other arm was being pulled behind from clark, who was occupied with thrusting his cock into you. he caused ripples to move along your ass with each powerful thrust after the other. “cl-clark, babyyy. s’too much, need to cum,” you choked out through moans. pulling your arm closer to his body, he used his free hand to hold your neck and turn your face towards him.

“i can feel it baby. but i want us t’cum together, okay? gosh you feel so good. gonna cum so deep in you. you want my cum in you, huh baby?” his curls sticking to his face with light hints of red covering his face as he grunted, holding his stare with yours.

his eye contact, his hand against your throat, and his dick punching against your gummy walls were all overwhelming you in the best possible way. rapidly nodding at his question, your lips pouted as you got closer and closer to your release, “yesssuh, clark! i need you to cum in me, please cum in me.”

he smiled down at you as his cock twitched inside of you, “whatever you want baby.” with the hand that was on your throat, he moved it to the curve of your back and pushed you down into a deeper arch. letting out a moan, your arm stretched out in front of you and your nails clawed at his pillows. your breath caught in your throat and your hand keeping a tight grip on his pillow, your walls frantically pulsed around his cock as your climax took over your body.

clark, right behind you, became sloppy with his thrusts but his grip got tighter. ropes of cum shot into your pussy, making you feel warmer, with loud moans spilling from his mouth. with one finally thrust, he stopped cumming and looked down at the beautiful mess the two of you made. slowly pulling out, he watched your pretty hole pulse around air, as if it was asking for him to go back inside. his cock covered in white. “goodness, baby…”

placing his hands on your ass, he give you soft rubs as he asks if you’re okay. giving him a curt nod, you do your best to catch your breath and to come down from your high. clark, being the gentleman he always is, lifts you up and lays you softly on your back, “let me clean you up, sweetheart.”

neighbor!clark who after cleaning up laid in the bed with you, both wrapped in fresh sheets. you laid flat on your stomach as clark laid on his side, drawing little patterns on your back with his finger. with a loud gasp and large eyes, your head popped up, “ssshit, clark! my purse!”

clark nods but keeps drawing on your back, “don’t worry i got a while ago. just rest for right now, ‘cause i’m not done for the night.”

You smiled, and for a beat, he looked like he wanted to ask you something, but some other person called his name, and he disappeared into the crowd with a shy wave.

It was a week before you saw him again. And where did you see him next? AT WORK.

The elevator doors opened, and your two-inch heels clicked into the blur of ringing phones and the buzz of looming deadlines. The Daily Planet always felt like it was one step away from coffee-fueled hysteria. While you don’t work in reporting—you’re over in digital, a tiny bit removed from the rumors of the newsroom—with the office-wide mandatory meeting with the reporters and editors today, you were thrown right into it.

He was easy to spot. The man from the farmer’s market—same glasses as before, same shy half-smile, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, navy blue tie slightly skewed to the side, like he wrestled with a wind tunnel. He looked damn good. Too good for the category of “mild-mannered,” that’s for sure.

You tried to pay attention to your coworker’s diatribe, but when Clark Kent laughed from across the bullpen, it was warm enough to lose track of the agenda.

“Y/N,” whispered your coworker Tisha, following the direction of your gaze, “Girl, I know damn well you ain’t over here crushing on a reporter.”

“Oh, so he’s a reporter?” you said as if you weren’t checking out the speedy way his fingers tapped across the keyboard. “He’s got a pretty face for someone who types that fast.”

“I mean…sure, Clark Kent has a pretty face and all, but that man is probably allergic to flirting. His ass can’t handle a woman like you.”

“Are you kidding?” you murmured, your eyes trailing along the lines of his shoulders beneath his white dress shirt. “Look at all those muscles under that crooked tie. That man’s hiding something.”

Your friend snorted. “Yeah, a library card and whack dick.”

“You know nerds are my weakness, Tish. Look at those dimples. I want to sit on his gorgeous ass face.”

“Good luck with that. He doesn’t even look like he knows how to eat pussy right.”

You rolled your eyes. “Clearly, you need to borrow his glasses.”

What you didn’t realize was that every word traveled across the room. Clark’s pen stopped mid-note as his hearing—always sharper than he wanted—caught every syllable you and Tisha exchanged. The tips of his ears turned pink as you mentioned how soft his tongue was again.

He risked glancing over the top of his glasses. You were still grinning and whispering to something he couldn’t pick up over the fresh documents shooting out of the printer, but the sound of your voice saying his name stuck with him like static.

The coffee pot at the Daily Planet wheezed like an old man whose diet consisted of Newport 100 longs and diet Dr Pepper. You had your back to the coffee pot, leaning up against the counter, scrolling through your phone and waiting for the drip to finish, when you sensed a tall, muscly presence at your back.

“Careful,” a low voice warned. “It’s been known to bite.”

You turned, half-startled, half-smiling. Clark Kent stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie slightly off-center. The playful glimmer under his glasses was small but certain.

“Good morning, Clark.”

“Morning, Y/N. You always this focused before your first cup?”

Hmm, you don’t remember giving him your name. Interesting.

“Comes with the job description.”

He stepped closer to pour his own mug, the faint scent of peppermint soap and paper ink clinging to him.

“You’re in digital, right? I keep seeing your name on the internal threads.”

“Yep, that’s me. I’m the one everybody calls when their article crashes the website.”

He chuckled quietly. “Then I guess I owe you a few thank-yous. I tend to break things around here all the time.”

“So I’ve heard,” you teased. “Pretty sure I fixed one of your uploads last week.”

“Then I’m glad I ran into my hero.”

You looked up from your coffee, a little caught off guard by how gently he said it. The corners of his mouth lifted again.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said, taking a sip from his coffee. “Just funny—how many good things start in this break room. Strong coffee. Better conversations.”

The way he said it made your stomach backflip. You covered it with a smile.

“You trying to charm me, Kent?”

“Maybe. Is it working?”

You met his eyes over the rim of your mug. “Oh, it’s workin’ overtime.”

He chuckled again, nodding at you before turning and heading for the door. “Good to know. I’ll have to check back in later for a progress update.”

When he left, the smell of his cologne lingered—clean, faintly cedar. You caught yourself grinning in your coffee before shaking your head.

“Get it together, girl,” you mumbled into your mug as you exited the break room to the elevator. “Focus on something else other than sitting on those dimples.”

Clark heard every single word.

The grocery store was nearly empty, lights dimmed to that sleepy after-hours glow. You’d thrown on a hoodie, slides, and a pair of old jeans, telling yourself you only needed one thing—butter pecan ice cream and peace of mind.

You were beyond sexually frustrated. Those blue eyes and deep dimples haunted you the entire way home. It was something about him that made your thighs clench and pulse thump harder.

You really wanted a long night of toe-curling fucking with four eyes, but you knew it’d only happen in your dreams. You decided to indulge on some Häagen-Dazs instead.

The air hummed quietly. You were halfway down the frozen section when the doors of the ice-cream case fogged over, your reflection ghosting back at you. You opened the door, grabbed the familiar gold-rimmed pint, and turned straight into a solid chest.

“Whoa shit—sorry!” you gasped, clutching the ice cream before it hit the floor.

“My fault,” came a low, familiar voice.

You looked up. Clark Kent stood there in a grey t-shirt, dark curls mussed, glasses slightly fogged from the cold aisle air. The sight was so absurdly normal it took your brain a second to connect the dots.

“Clark?”

“You again,” he said, smiling. “We keep meeting by accident. Three times in a week—that’s gotta be a sign.”

You barely suppressed a giggle, shaking your head. “You stalkin’ me, Kent?”

“Something tells me that if I were, you wouldn’t have a problem with it.”

Damn, he got you there.

You held up the pint, changing the subject. “Butter pecan. Don’t judge me.”

“It looks like you have good taste,” he said, pushing his glasses up with a knuckle.

You tilted your head. “You like to eat butter pecan?”

His smile widened, something sly and soft in it. “Every chance I get.”

The way he said it, low, almost playful—hit harder than it should’ve. The fluorescent lights hummed, the air from the elderly gentleman opening the freezer curled cool against your skin, and suddenly the night was itching to unfold into something promising.

And now here you were, back in your apartment, ice cream somewhere melted on your kitchen counter since you abandoned it half an hour ago when Clark pushed you against the fridge and stole your breath with a mind-numbing kiss.

“Clark, please!” you choked on a moan, his nose hitting your clit as he gripped your ass and held you down on his face, urging you to ride him with a filthy groan.

You’d already come on his tongue once, but apparently that wasn’t enough for him. Your knees dug into the tiled floor as you began to grind against his face.

He smacked your ass and growled, “Harder.” The deep vibrations traveled all the way to your bones. You whimpered as you rocked harder, eyes pricking with tears of bliss as another orgasm was making its way downtown, walking fast.

Your fingers were already tangled in his hair, but you tugged on the strands as you began to ride his face faster. He groaned loudly in response, encouraging you to keep going as his tongue flattened against your clit.

“I’m gonna come again,” you gasped out, body tingling all over.

“Don’t stop until my face is covered in your come.” His demand came out muffled.

You came with a sharp cry, mouth falling open as you panted harshly. His grip on your lower back tightened, fingers digging into your ass as you jerked against his face.

“Clark—oh shit—when are you gonna fuck me?”

“Right after the third one.” He promised before tugging your sensitive clit between his lips.