#dark!daryl

The drive home always dragged.

You let out a long, exhausted sigh, fingers tightening on the wheel as the road stretched endlessly ahead. This wasn’t how the weekend was supposed to go. You were supposed to stay with your family for two more days—grit your teeth through the small talk, sit through the passive-aggressive questions about your job, your life, your choices. Smile. Nod. Pretend. But instead, you were barely a few hours in before it all fell apart.

Dinner had started fine. It always did. But then one question turned into a pointed remark, then into something sharper, something meaner. The same fight, just recycled into different words, but this time, you weren’t in the mood to swallow it down. This time, you pushed back. Voices rose, tempers flared, and before you knew it, you were grabbing your keys, shoving out the door, leaving behind the half-eaten meal and whatever thin thread was still holding the conversation together.

Now you were here—alone on the highway, miles of darkness stretching in every direction, headlights carving a path forward. 

Traffic jams bled into one another, each red taillight blurring into the next, the clock on your dash creeping past midnight. Eventually, the further you went, the emptier the roads became, until it was just you and the long-haul truckers, their rigs groaning under the weight of whatever cargo they hauled through the night.

Your eyelids grew heavier, dipping lower with every mile. You blinked hard, willing yourself awake, but exhaustion clung to you, thick and suffocating. It wasn’t just the late hour—it was the crash after the adrenaline of the fight, the weight of too many words you couldn’t take back pressing down on you.

You told yourself you’d be fine. Just another two hours to go.

Then a deafening horn shattered the quiet, and before you even realized what was happening, your tires veered across the lane. You gasped, jerking the wheel hard, the car lurching as you barely corrected in time. The highway was nearly empty, but that didn't matter—your heart was pounding, hands clammy where they gripped the steering wheel, the sudden shock of how easily that could’ve ended differently locking your breath in your throat. That was it, you knew you needed to stop, needed to pull off and find a place to get some rest before hitting the road again in the morning. 

You took the next exit, into a town that was barely a town at all, just a forgotten smear of civilization on the side of the highway. The streets were empty, the buildings slumped and decayed, as if the place had given up on itself long ago. A gas station, a diner with its ‘Open 24 Hours’ sign flickering in and out of life, and a squat little motel, its vacancy sign buzzing weakly in the dark.

Pulling into the parking lot, your headlights washed over cracked pavement and weeds pushing up through the concrete. Only a few cars were parked outside, most of them old and rusted, as if they’d been sitting there for far longer than a single night’s stay. The only light came from the neon sign overhead and the sickly yellow glow spilling from the front office window, casting shadows that felt too long, too stretched.

You swallowed, gripping the steering wheel. Something about this place felt…off. Not in an obvious way—no shattered windows, no ominous figures lurking in doorways—but in a way that made your skin crawl. Like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting. These were the kind of motels in movies where you’d scream at the protagonist: Keep driving, idiot! Find someplace else!

But there was nowhere else, and you couldn’t risk driving another hour to find the next rest stop.

It wasn’t ideal. Hell, it was probably a breeding ground for bed bugs, or worse–the kind of place where people checked in but didn’t always check out. But the thought of curling up in your car for the night, stiff and vulnerable in an empty parking lot, wasn’t much better.

All you had to do was get the key, lock the door, and make it through till morning. You’d toss your clothes the second you got home, scrub this place off your skin like it never touched you.

It was fine. It would be fine.

The fluorescent lights in the front office buzzed overhead, their hum just a little too loud in the unnatural silence. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of something overly sweet—like someone had tried to cover up years of cigarettes and mildew with cheap air freshener.

A small bell sat on the counter. You hesitated, then tapped it once, the chime ringing out sharp and hollow.

Nothing.

You waited, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, the feeling of being watched crawling up the back of your neck despite the room being empty. Just as you were about to hit the bell again, a figure shuffled out from the back.

It was a woman, older, her expression carved from stone. Stringy hair pulled back into a loose bun, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers, her nails yellowed from years of nicotine.

“What can I do for ya?” she drawled, exhaling a long stream of smoke. It curled thick in the air, stale and cloying. You forced yourself to breathe through your nose, ignoring the burn in your throat.

“One room, please. Just for the night.”

She tapped at the ashtray on the counter, knocking the embers loose without looking. Her gaze stayed on you, too steady, too knowing, as if she was peeling you apart one layer at a time.

“You travelin’ alone, honey?”

Your spine straightened.

“No,” you said a little too quickly. “My dad’s waiting in the truck.”

She hummed, dragging another long inhale from her cigarette as her beady eyes stayed on you. Like she could tell it was a lie, no matter how sure you tried to sound.

“So, two beds?”

“Just the one is fine,” you said, tightening your fingers around your bag strap “We’ll manage.”

"Cash or card?" she asked, watching, peeling away whatever confidence you tried to have.

"Card," you murmured, fishing it out with stiff fingers.

She slid it through an ancient-looking reader, her other hand tapping the desk with the long, deliberate patience of someone who had nowhere to be. Her name tag was smeared, almost unreadable, and the glass of the front desk window was covered in a film of grime. 

She handed the card back, then a single brass key, its tag worn soft with age.

“Room one eighty,” she said, sliding it forward. “End of the lot.”

You took it quickly, fingers brushing against the cold metal.

The woman leaned back, taking another drag, her lips curling around the cigarette. “You let me know if y’all need anything, alright?”

You forced a nod, but something about her stare made your skin prickle. You turned toward the door, gripping the key so tight it pressed sharply into your palm.

Outside, the air felt too thick, like the humidity had climbed in the last few minutes, settling heavily on your skin. 

Then, you felt it again.

That thick, crawling awareness pricking at the back of your neck. That quiet, animal instinct that told you someone was watching. You turned your head before you could stop yourself.

Across the parking lot, just beyond the neon glow of the motel sign, a man stood under a broken street light. At first, he was nothing more than a dark shape, half-obscured by the flickering light, his face hidden in the deep hollows of shadow. 

He was just… standing there. Watching. 

You didn’t recognize him, and he was too far away to make out anything but his built form, the broadness of his shoulders. But there was something in the way he stood, still as stone, his body angled just slightly toward you, his gaze locked and unblinking.

The look in his eyes, dark and unreadable even from a distance, sent a shiver licking down your spine.

You turned quickly, your nerves on fire. But as you made your way down the long stretches of rooms on the outer perimeter, the railing overlooking the parking lot, you began to hear signs of life. The sounds seeped through the walls, slipping under doors and filling the narrow stretch of concrete. A bass line thrummed from somewhere nearby, muffled by thin walls as it seemed to pound with the rhythm of your heartbeat. Somewhere farther down, men shouted, their voices rising and falling, drunken or angry or both. Laughter burst out, sharp and sudden, followed by the distant clatter of something knocking against a table or a wall.

When you turned around and looked back across the parking lot, the man was suddenly gone.

TVs droned from multiple rooms, the glow of static flickering through slatted blinds. Someone had left theirs too loud, a newscaster rehashing old stories like it wasn’t the middle of the night. A couple was arguing behind one of the doors you passed, their voices biting and loud, words slamming into each other with no space to breathe. Something crashed—glass, maybe, or a chair knocking over—and you picked up your pace without realizing it.

Anywhere else, maybe it would have felt normal. Just people awake too late, passing the time, waiting for morning. Here, it only set your teeth on edge. Something about it felt wrong.

The fact that so many people were still awake at this hour made the muscles in your back pull tight. You weren’t alone here. But that didn’t mean you weren’t isolated.

Then, a heavy thump.

It came from the room to your right, sudden and jarring, loud enough to shake the thin wall between you. Your breath caught as you flinched back, your heart hammering against your ribs. There was movement, the slow creak of weight shifting, but nothing else followed. No voices, no explanation. Just silence settling too quickly, like whatever had happened had stopped the second you reacted to it.

Your feet moved faster, a reflex more than anything, carrying you down the walkway before you could think too hard about it. The numbers on the doors passed in a blur—178, 179, and finally, 180—your fingers tightening around the key as your room finally came into view. 

You fumbled once, just once, hands suddenly damp, but the second the lock turned, you pushed inside, slamming the door behind you.

The second it shut, you turned the lock.

The noises outside dulled, voices and music muffled the moment you closed the door and slumped your back against it, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run a half-marathon instead of walking across a motel lot. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, gripping at nothing, your pulse a frantic beat against your ribs.

You dragged in a breath, trying to slow the restless thrum in your veins. Just get through the next few hours, get some rest, and then you’d get the hell out of Dodge.

It was fine. It would be fine.

Except, sleep didn’t exactly come easy. You tossed and turned on top of the stiff bedspread, every shift of fabric loud in the silence, ears straining for any sudden sound beyond the walls. A door shutting, footsteps outside, voices carrying just enough to make you wonder if someone was too close to your room.

After what felt like forever, you gave up, flipping on the TV just to drown out the rest. The low murmur of late-night programming filled the room, casting weak blue light over the cracked ceiling, but it didn’t do much to settle you. You weren’t sure anything would.

The one thing you couldn’t ignore in favor of sleep, though, was the slow, gnawing ache of your stomach.

You should’ve stayed for the rest of dinner. Sat through the tense conversation, swallowed the words you wanted to throw back at them, and picked at your plate even if you had no appetite. At least then you wouldn’t be thinking about stepping outside again, not in the dead of night, not in the seediest motel you could’ve possibly stumbled across.

But the longer you lay there, the worse the hunger got.

Every motel had a vending machine, didn’t they?

You sighed, scrubbing a hand over your face, already hating where this was going.

You just had to be quick. In and out. Then you’d lock yourself in and actually try to sleep.

You knew it was wishful thinking to assume the vending machine would be easy to find. It was never that simple. You circled the building twice, passing the same cracked pavement, the same rusted-out cars, the same rooms with their curtains drawn too tight.

By the time you finally stumbled across the middle hallway, the glow of a single overhead light barely illuminating the space, you were already regretting this. The vending machine sat in the corner, humming under the flickering fluorescents, the metal frame dented, the glass fogged with fingerprints.

Your fingers hovered over the rows of snacks, barely able to focus on the choices, your body still on edge from the walk over. The motel felt alive, like every sound behind every door was something you weren’t supposed to hear.

The machine hummed under flickering light, the buttons worn down to the plastic. You fed it a couple of crumpled bills and tapped at one, then another, and waited. A loud mechanical churn. Then—nothing.

Great.

You smacked the side of it. Nothing again. Your stomach twisted painfully, a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since you’d last eaten. You sighed, rubbing a hand over your face, and turned to leave.

And that’s when you noticed it.

A door, cracked open at the very end of the hall.

The frame was splintered, like it had been forced open.

Something in your gut tensed.

You should walk away. Right now. Get back to your room, lock the door, and pretend you never saw anything. But something about it—about the stillness of it, the way the dim glow of a bedside lamp barely reached the threshold—made your feet stall.

Someone could be hurt. Or worse.

You swallowed hard, pulse in your throat as you crept closer, every instinct screaming at you that this was a bad idea. The air shifted the closer you got, thick with something you couldn’t name, something wrong.

And now that you were standing at the threshold, staring at the cracks in the doorframe, splintered from some kind of forced entry, your eyes drifted lower. Something dark and sticky was splattered on the ledge of the door, thick streaks leading onto the carpet inside.

Your heart stopped altogether. It was no longer rattling in your chest from fear, but fully frozen, skipping and halting as if trying to jumpstart itself while you stared into the dimly lit room.

At first, it was just shapes—shadows swallowing each other, the motel’s tiny lamp and the flickering TV casting everything into uneven light—warm and dark one second, sharp and cold the next. As your mind caught up to your eyes, it sharpened, the darkness peeling away, and you finally realized what you were looking at.

On the queen-sized bed in the center of the room, the bedspread was untouched, barely rumpled, except for the body laying perfectly still atop it.

Like someone had laid them there on purpose.

A mess of red had soaked deep into the fabric, fresh enough that the air was thick with it. The copper scent was overwhelming, clinging to the back of your throat, so metallic and sharp you could almost taste it. There was so much blood. More than you had ever seen in one place. Too much for it to be okay, too much for it to mean anything other than the obvious. You should have turned around. You should have stopped looking. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t do anything except stand there, heart frozen in your chest, as your brain worked double time, locking onto every detail like it needed to catalog the carnage in order to make sense of it. The body was positioned too neatly, arms at its sides, legs straight, head turned away just enough that it felt unnatural—like whoever had done this hadn’t just been brutal, but deliberate.

Your stomach clenched. The smell invaded your nose again, worse now, thick and nauseating, making something cold claw its way up your spine. You stumbled back a step, your hand flying to clamp around your mouth before you could decide whether you were about to scream or be sick. You needed to move. You needed to leave. You needed to call someone, do something, but your limbs refused to cooperate, locking up as if freezing in place would somehow make this all disappear. Your body was waiting for direction, for instinct to kick in, but it never did.

Then, the bathroom door on the other side of the room swung open, spilling yellow light into the dim space as a man stepped out.

At first, it was the fluffy pink robe that threw you off, a ridiculous contrast against the raw violence laid out before you. Your brain latched onto it, desperate for anything that made sense, anything that didn’t belong to the nightmare in front of you. But then your eyes dragged upward, and you saw it—the blood.

It was everywhere. Splattered across his throat, smeared up his neck, drying in dark, uneven streaks along his collarbone. His hand was coated in it, the thick, dried red cracked over his knuckles, like he hadn’t bothered to wash it off. Like he hadn’t cared enough to try.

Panic reared its head, shoving its way into your chest, squeezing your lungs tighter than before. It was one thing to stumble across a body, to witness a crime. It was another to look into the eyes of the man who had done it. Your body understood before your mind did—the liquid fire of adrenaline flooding through your veins, your muscles locking up in place, every nerve screaming caught, caught, caught.

His gaze locked onto you, heavy and assessing, and even from where you stood, you could tell his eyes were the deepest ocean blue you had ever seen. There was no rage in them, no madness—nothing that fit the sheer bloodshed he had left behind. He was unnervingly handsome, despite it all. Maybe because of it.

He inhaled, dragging another slow pull from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily from his lips before shifting his weight, completely unconcerned.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Well,” he muttered, voice rough and edged with disinterest as he let out a puff of smoke, “shit.”

You should have run.

You should have turned and bolted down the hallway, thrown yourself outside, screamed for help—something. But you didn’t. Your body wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t let you turn and run from the scene in front of you. Your limbs were locked in place, rooted to the motel floor like they had forgotten how to move, how to respond, how to do anything but tremble.

He seemed to notice, and flicking his cigarette, he made his way slowly toward you. He was so slow and careful it was almost predatory, like he was trying to camouflage into whatever normalcy was left in the room. Like he was trying to convince you that this was completely normal and he wasn’t some axe murderer in a pink fluffy robe.

“C’mon now,” he muttered, stepping toward you with zero hesitation, like your presence here was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Least shut the damn door.”

He moved with easy, unbothered confidence, reaching past you, pressing his palm against the motel door and nudging it inward. It swung heavy on its hinges, closing behind you with a soft, final click.

Your breath shuddered. You were really stuck here now, with him, and for some reason, the panic in your chest wasn’t flaring like before. You remained stock-still, frozen, waiting for him to make his move, to put you out of your misery for being a witness to his crime. What was his weapon of choice? Did he have a knife? A gun? Did he kill with his bare hands?

The man stepped in close, standing just in front of you now, close enough that you could see the uneven streaks of blood drying against his throat, close enough that you could smell the mix of cigarettes and sweat and something deeper layered with the metallic tang of blood. 

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you, head tilting ever so slightly, like he was turning over a thought in his head, working something out.

Then he exhaled, lifting a hand—slow, deliberate, like he was giving you a second to react—and twisted a lock of your hair between his fingers.

His touch was light, but it sent a bolt of something electric straight through your spine, and yet, still, you didn’t move. You should have pulled away. You should have slapped his hand down. But your body wasn’t yours right now. It belonged to fear.

He hummed low in his throat, almost to himself, turning the strands between his fingers, studying them with an unreadable expression.

“You’re real pretty,” he muttered, almost absentmindedly, like it was a passing observation, not something meant to soothe you. His voice was low, rough, dragging over the syllables like he didn’t use them often. “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this?”

Your throat locked up, lungs seizing against the flood of adrenaline. You weren’t even sure if your heart was still in your chest based on the way blood was roaring in your ears, drowning out every rational thought. He was teasing. Curious. And—God—flirty?

If you didn’t know better, if you hadn’t just stepped into this room, hadn’t seen the blood, hadn’t noticed the body stretched out too perfectly on the bed—you might’ve… you might’ve…

You swallowed hard, but your throat was too dry to get any sound out. Your pulse slammed in your ears, your heartbeat betraying everything you wanted to hide. He watched you for a moment longer, then let your hair slip from his grip, rubbing his bloodstained fingers together as if testing the softness.

“You’re shakin’,” he observed, mouth pulling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but leaned in that direction, like your fear was interesting to him… like it was cute.

His fingers twitched then, and after a pause, he reached up again after sticking his cigarette in his mouth—this time, just barely brushing his knuckles along your jaw. The touch was fleeting, but enough to make you tense even more.

He made another small sound in the back of his throat, mock sympathy edging into it.

“Like a scared little bunny.”

You should have been running. Screaming for your life. You should have turned and bolted the second you saw the blood. Why weren’t you fucking running?

The part of you that should have been shutting down, the part of you that should have been clawing for survival, digging its heels into your fogged, terrified brain to pay fucking attention—that part of you…

It was curious about him too.

You watched as his face changed then, watching your reactions like a predator tracking in his prey, eyes narrowing as they darted around your face, reading you, piecing something together. His lips twitched like he was amused, like he had figured out something you didn’t even understand about yourself yet.

“No…” he said, pulling his hand away, head tilting slightly before his face split into a grin, pulling the cigarette out between his fingers, “you’re not scared, are you, little bunny? You like this.”

“No!” The word ripped out of you, barely a whisper at first, but then louder, cracking in the dim room around you., “No.” Your breath stuttered as you tried to sound more confident, your whole body wired too tight, but the denial felt weak even to your own ears.

“Oh, there she is,” he said, watching you closely, pleased that he had finally drawn something out of you. “You gotta name, sweetheart?”

Your lips pressed together, your jaw tight, but your eyes sharpened, taking him in, really seeing him now. His blue eyes were dangerous and beautiful and terrifying all at once, cutting through the haze of your fear like a blade. There was blood splattered up his face, drying along the sharp structure of his cheekbone, disappearing into the strands of dark hair that hung loose in his eyes. It should have made him look monstrous. It should have made him unrecognizable as anything human.

But it didn’t.

It made you want to lean forward. Your mind flashed with the idea, and you did everything you could to keep your body from following, the idea that you wanted to trace the sharp cut of his jaw, to drag your tongue over the remnants of metallic blood he had missed along his lip and—

No.

No no no no no.

The thought seared through you like an open flame. Your breath caught, your skin igniting in humiliation, a flush so deep you wanted to disappear. You couldn’t believe this. Couldn’t believe your own body, couldn’t believe the way your stomach clenched, the way something hot and ugly was overlapping the sheer horror of what this man had done. There was fear, yes—a lot of it. But there was something else crawling underneath, something just as intense, something that made your pulse skyrocket as his hand moved.

His hand pushed the cigarette into the wooden frame, the hiss of the burning end snuffing out by your head. His fingers then found the strap of your shirt, curling around the fabric, dragging it down over your shoulder with his bloodstained grip.

“No name, huh?” he murmured, watching your face, watching every shift in your expression, like he was memorizing what you looked like when you trembled. His voice was lower now, quieter, dangerous in a way that wasn’t loud or obvious, but steady and unshaken. He leaned in closer, close enough that the heat of his breath ghosted over your throat.

“That’s okay, bunny,” he muttered. “I don’t got a name either.”

Your stomach dropped.

And then, to your utter horror, he kissed your shoulder.

Not deep. Not forceful. Just the slow, deliberate press of his mouth against your skin, his lips barely parted, dragging warm and rough over the place he had just exposed.

It sent a violent shudder down your spine. The sensation—the heat of him, the quiet intimacy of it, the way he didn’t move away after, just lingered there—lit something in your chest, something sharp and unbearable. Your nipples, the traitors, hardened underneath your shirt, poking through the thin fabric that stretched across your chest. A gasp left you before you could stop it, your eyes widening in shock.

The man huffed softly against your skin, something amused in the sound.

“You like this, bunny?” His voice was slow, edged with something almost thoughtful, like he was figuring it out as he spoke. His nose brushed the side of your throat, his breath warm as he tilted his head, inhaling the scent of your perfume.

“You like a man like me takin’ advantage of just how scared you are?” His hand tightened just slightly at your shoulder, his mouth ghosting along your jaw before he murmured, “That it, bunny? You like the fear?”

His lips brushed your pulse.

“The shame?”

His fingers traced along your collarbone, the metallic tang of copper filling your nose as his hand got closer and closer to your face again.

“You turned on by a little bit of blood?”

Your breath caught in your throat, fingers curling at your sides, and you knew whatever you said next would change everything. You should have lied. You should have denied it, should have shaken your head, should have shoved him away and run before it was too late.

Your mouth parted, your chest heaving like you had just surfaced from drowning, but before you could answer, his hand snapped up, grabbing the nape of your neck, fingers lacing in your hair. His other hand suddenly gripped your jaw, forcing your face to tilt toward him.

It was fast, sudden, a flash of violence that slammed through you like a bolt of electricity, it made you gasp sharply, eyes going wide.

His grip wasn’t bruising, but it was firm, unyielding. His fingers dug into your jaw just enough that it bordered on pain, enough that you felt the quiet threat humming underneath him.

His eyes narrowed, sharp, dark, and hungry, locking onto yours like a predator seeing prey for exactly what it was. His grip tightened for a split second, his thumb dragging rough over your cheek, the dried blood flaking slightly against your skin, crumbling like dust beneath his touch.

“Say it,” he rasped, voice still calm, still steady as stone, but something inside it had changed—harder now, more dangerous.

Your body locked up, trapped between the heat of him and the cold reality of what was happening, of what had been happening for longer than just that moment.

Because it hadn’t started when you stepped into this room.

It didn’t start when you saw the blood. It didn’t even start when you heard the body hit the floor.

It started long before that.

You’d always known something was wrong with you. The way fear didn’t keep you away—it called to you, wrapped around your ribs and had you in its grip. The way you’d always looked for danger, for the spike of adrenaline that made your heart hammer against your ribs, made you feel more alive than anything else.

You could’ve stayed at your parents’ house. You could’ve forced yourself to sit through another dinner filled with questions about your future, their expectations suffocating you like a cage you were never meant to fit inside. But you didn’t.

You left in the middle of the night, peeling away from their house like something inside you was clawing to be free, chasing an impulse you hadn’t fully understood at the time.

You hadn’t stopped driving until exhaustion forced your hand. And when you pulled into this motel, when you stepped onto that cracked pavement, when you heard the distant sounds of raised voices, of something heavy hitting the ground—your pulse hadn’t stuttered in fear.

It had spiked.

And while you tried to ignore it, ignore that pull, to force yourself to sleep, you couldn’t say no to that part of you that needed to see. You’d left your room, weaving through the shadows of the motel, passing this exact door. The vending machine hadn’t been the excuse you told yourself it was. It wasn’t hunger for food that had your stomach twisting, your body restless against the scratchy motel sheets.

It was hunger to know.

To see.

To find the blood, the body, and the man who did it.

And now he was standing in front of you, looking at you like he already knew all of it. Like he’d read the answer in your dilated eyes, in the way your breath had hitched when you first saw him, in the way you were still here, still trembling under his grip but not running.

Your mouth was dry, your body refusing to move, refusing to break free of his hold. Because the worst part wasn’t that you were afraid.

The worst part was that you liked it.

You made a small, broken noise, your fingers twitching, your whole body tight as a wire as you reached up, your hands sliding around his  forearm.

“Yes,” you whispered. It was barely a sound, barely more than breath, but his eyes flickered, something shifting beneath them.

The pressure released all at once.

His grip loosened from your jaw, tracing down the side of your throat with something slower now, something more deliberate. You let your hands fall, reaching for him instead. His thumb dragged along your cheek, wiping away the remnants of old blood he had left there. His lips lingered, the warmth of them stark against your skin, a slow drag over your jaw as he exhaled. The scent of him—smoke, sweat, the faint metallic ghost of dried blood—was thick in your lungs, wrapping around you, leaving no space for anything else.

His lips barely moved as they traced your jaw again when he spoke, the words slipping against your skin, low and quiet, like they weren’t meant for the space between you but meant to sink into you, settle deep, curl around something inside you that you didn’t even have a name for.

“I know, bunny.”

It was soft, almost affectionate, but threaded with something deeper. Something knowing.

Like he had been waiting for you to admit it to yourself first.

His fingers, the ones still tangled in your hair, tightened slightly—not rough, but firm, keeping you in place, keeping you still for him. He turned your head just enough to guide you, slow, like testing a skittish animal, like making sure you wouldn’t bolt the second he took what you were already offering.

You didn’t know him. You didn’t even know his name.

And none of that mattered.

Your hands, trembling but restless, lifted before you could stop them, pressing against the warm plane of his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your palms. He was solid. Real. Your fingertips brushed against the edge of the pink robe he still hadn’t bothered to shed, the soft, ridiculous fabric clashing with the rough scrape of stubble along your throat as his mouth continued its path downward.

You felt the shift in him before you even saw it, the slight pause of his breath, the way his grip in your hair flexed before tightening further. His tongue peeked out from his mouth, tracing the vein of your artery along the column of your neck. You shuddered against him, eyes fluttering closed, and he chuckled, low and breathless against your skin, the sound of it vibrating against your pulse.

“That feel nice, sweetheart?”

You opened your eyes to look at him, and his were darker now, heavy-lidded, focused entirely on you, taking in every shuddering breath, every small twitch of your lips, the way your pupils had swallowed nearly all of your color.

Then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was ravenous. Not just hungry but starved. The slow, intoxicating drag of lips and teeth and heat blurred every thought, every warning screaming in your head turning into static. You felt one of his hands skim lower, tracing the dip of your waist, fingers pressing into the thin fabric of your shirt like he was debating whether to rip it from your body or take his time peeling you open.

His mouth moved over yours like he already knew you’d open for him, like he had been waiting for it, waiting for this.

Your senses were on fire. Set ablaze like flint striking steel, sparking, catching, burning. Everything was heightened—every touch, every sound, every breath—yet anything beyond teeth, tongues, lips, and warmth faded into a distant, fevered haze. Even the scent of blood, thick and metallic in the air, blurred into the background, nothing more than a ghost of a thought as he took you against the door.

This unnamed man, the one who had seemed to know you the second he laid eyes on you, kissed you with so much veracity that you shook—no longer with fear, but with an overwhelming need to be closer. You pushed into him, the tension in your body unraveling as the warmth of his mouth settled into something unbearable, something dizzying, something that made every inch of your skin feel too hot, too sensitive, too much.

His fingers remained tangled in your hair, holding you there, keeping you pressed between him and the door as his lips moved slow but deep, tasting, teasing, his teeth scraping against your bottom lip before his tongue licked into your mouth, swallowing the soft sound you didn’t mean to let out.

Your grip tightened in his robe, fisting the soft pink fabric as you pressed closer.

Then with a sudden, violent strength, he pushed you into the door hard enough that you expelled the air in your lungs with a grunt. The hinges whined against the broken frame, the solid weight of him pressing in, keeping you right where he wanted you. His hands shifted—one sliding from your hair to wrap around your throat, pressing just enough to make you gasp as he tilted your head back. The other grabbed at your shirt, yanking it down with no hesitation, dragging the fabric past your chest until your breasts spilled free.

A wicked smile played across his lips as his gaze dropped, hunger flashing in those sharp, dangerous blue eyes. He didn’t give you a moment to adjust, didn’t offer any pretense of gentleness before his mouth was on you, his lips wrapping around one of your hardened nipples.

Instead of the soft caress a lover might have given, he bit down.

Sharp, sudden, teeth sinking into your oversensitive flesh, making you cry out. Your hands flew up, fingers wrapping tight around his forearm where he held you back, your nails digging into his skin, but he only hummed against you, amused by the way you squirmed.

“Oh, we’re gonna have so much fun, aren’t we, bunny?”

His voice was thick with something rough and indulgent, his breath hot against your flushed skin as he chuckled, the sound vibrating around the aching peak of your breast. His tongue flicked out, laving over the bite, soothing the sting with something warm and teasing before he moved to the other, lips closing around it, sucking slow and deep before biting again.

The sharp pleasure-pain shot straight to your core, your head pressing harder against the door, breath shuddering as he worked you over, taking his time, drawing out every reaction.

Savoring every reaction, every gasp of breath he let you have as his hand tightened around your neck. 

His free hand dragged down your side, light, teasing, the contrast almost unbearable as his mouth continued licking, suckling, and nipping at your tender breasts. His fingers traced the soft curve of your body before slipping lower, playing at the waistband of your pants, hovering, waiting.

A shiver ran through you, your thighs pressing together on instinct, but he was watching you now. You could feel it even as you squeezed your eyes shut.

Then, he laughed. Low, warm, mocking.

“I can feel how bad you want it,” he murmured against your skin, voice dipping into something taunting, something mean. His fingers pushed just a little lower, teasing. “That why you’re squeezin’ your legs together, bunny? Tryin’ to pretend you don’t wanna spread ‘em for me?”

Your breath hitched, mortified, but before you could answer, his teeth moved up, scraping your collarbone, his voice lowering to a growl.

“I’m gonna need some kinda answer here, bunny.”

He groaned into your skin, grinding against you, his movements slow, deliberate, meant to make you feel every inch of him. There was no mystery to it—he was big, the thick outline of him pressing firm and heavy against your stomach through the thin fabric of his robe. The softness of it was stark against the hardness beneath, the heat of him pulsing through the fabric, aching, demanding. Each slow roll of his hips dragged him against you, the pressure teasing, measured, like he was making a point. 

“C’mon, sweet thing. Tell me you want it. Tell me how bad you want me.”

Your brain was screaming at you.

Stop. Think. There’s a dead body in the room.

You don’t know his name. He’s covered in blood. He’s dangerous.

And yet—his lips were still on your throat, his hands still exploring, teasing, and your body was still melting into him like none of that mattered. Like all that mattered was the heat rolling off him, the weight of his body pressing you harder against the door, the way every slow drag of his mouth set you on fire.

Your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his robe, but this time, you weren’t pulling him closer. You were pushing at him, weakly, without force, your hands betraying your own hesitation. It was instinct. Some last-ditch, pathetic attempt at self-preservation. But you could feel the way his grip tightened, fingers flexing around your throat, keeping you still.

“No—” The word barely left you, breathless, shaky, uncertain.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate.

The warmth of his breath ghosted over your skin as he let out a low chuckle, lips curving against your throat like the sound itself amused him. He hummed, slow and thoughtful, like he was turning something over in his mind before finally speaking, his voice dipping lower, rough and thick with amusement.

“So you’re tryna tell me if I put my hand down your panties right now, you wouldn’t be soaked for me?”

The way he said it—so certain, so fucking smug, like he already knew the answer—made something inside you clench. Heat licked through your stomach, twisting tight, and before you could even attempt to deny it, before you could convince yourself to shove him away, his hand was already moving.

His touch was light, too light, barely there, but it sent a violent shiver racing down your spine. He wasn’t rushing or forcing anything. He was taunting, playing with you like a cat with a mouse in its claws.

He gave you plenty of time to stop him.

But you didn’t.

A slow, wolfish grin stretched across his face, like this was exactly what he expected, like he already knew your body was betraying you, and then he moved.

His fingers at your waistband slid lower, dipping beneath the fabric, slipping between your legs without hesitation, and the second he felt it—the moment his fingers met the dripping, messy pool of slick between your thighs—his grin faltered.

His breath hitched, chest rising against yours, and for the first time, that unwavering confidence wavered.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice suddenly rougher, thick with arousal. His fingers slid through the obscene wetness with no resistance, parting you easily, gliding over the swollen flesh he found there, coating his fingers with you. He pressed into you deeper, the heat of his skin against yours almost unbearable, fingers teasing at your entrance, feeling the way your body welcomed him, wanted him, clung to him like you were already desperate for more.

Your stomach twisted, face burning, a fresh wave of humiliation crawling up your throat. He groaned, deep and slow, like he was savoring the discovery, like the realization of just how wet you were for him was something he wanted to commit to memory. His free hand at your throat flexed, a slow, indulgent squeeze, like he was grounding himself in the feel of you, the sound of your breath, the way your thighs instinctively pressed together even as you arched closer to him.

“Christ, bunny,” he exhaled, his voice heavier now, thick and oozing with satisfaction. His fingers dragged through the mess of slick again, slow and lazy, not giving you what you needed, just feeling you, learning the way your body reacted. “And you really tried tellin’ me you didn’t want this.”

The noise that left you wasn’t a whimper, but it was close enough to one to make him chuckle again, but this time, it wasn’t just amusement. This was something darker, something hungry, something filled with pride.

And then, too soon, too fucking soon, he pulled his fingers away.

Your breath shuddered, the loss of contact sending an unbearable ache twisting through your stomach, but before you could even process it, before you could decide if you wanted to stop him or chase him, you watched as he lifted his hand to his mouth.

You should have looked away.

But you watched as he sucked his fingers clean, slow and deliberate, his tongue dragging over every inch, savoring the taste of you like it was something rich and decadent.

It should have been disgusting. The remnants of dried blood still clung to the back of his hand, streaked up his wrist, smearing deeper into his skin as his lips closed around his fingers.

But instead of revulsion, all you felt was the sharp, aching pulse between your legs like a hunger that only grew.

The slick coated them, thick and glistening, and he licked it off slowly, dragging his tongue over the taste of you, sucking his fingers into his mouth as his half-lidded eyes never left yours. His tongue flicked out, licking up every last drop, taking his time, savoring you, enjoying every bit of what you had just given him without a fight.

Then, before you could react, he reached to you, dragging the wetness across your lips.

His touch was rough, unrelenting, marking you, smearing it against your mouth, your chin, watching as you shuddered under the weight of it.

“Taste yourself, bunny,” he murmured, voice thick, dripping with cruel satisfaction. “Since you’re so sure you don’t want this.”

Your chest heaved, your lips parted slightly, and for a split second, you almost did.

But then something inside you snapped.

Your head jerked away, your lips pressing together in refusal, the last bit of fight in you breaking through the haze.

His eyes darkened. The amusement didn’t disappear, but something shifted beneath it.

And then, before you could react, before you could take another breath, his hand on your throat was ripped away for an instant before it was back, but this time, the cold press of steel kissed your throat.

Your body locked up, your breath freezing in your chest.

The knife had appeared so fast you had barely seen him move, drawn from the pocket of his robe like it had been there all along, waiting, ready. He held it lightly, casually, the blade barely pressing against your skin.

Your pulse pounded against it.

His lips brushed against your ear, his voice slow, teasing, almost gentle.

“Maybe you just need a little encouragement,” he mused, his tone almost sweet, almost harmless, like he wasn’t holding a blade to your throat. His free hand slid back down between your legs, fingers cupping you over the denim of your pants, making you jump.

“Since you love bein’ so scared, little bunny.”

Then, with excruciating slowness, his fingers found the button of your jeans, popping it open before dragging the zipper down, the sound loud in the thick silence between you. He didn’t rush. Didn’t force. Just took his time, savoring the anticipation before moving his hand between your thighs, pressing against the heat of you through the thin fabric beneath.

The knife stayed at your throat.

His lips pressed against your jaw, warm, deliberate, teasing. He wasn’t rushing. He didn’t have to. His breath was warm when he muttered, “Now, let’s see if you can keep pretending you don’t like this.”

The words sank into you, curling around the last fragile thread of resistance you had left.

He pushed your panties aside with deft fingers and dragged through your slick, swirling slowly over your swollen clit, and it was too much, too sudden, too good. Your knees nearly buckled, your eyes rolling back before you could stop them, your hands scrambling against his robe, searching for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself.

You weren’t fighting anymore.

Your body had given up the charade before your mind had.

“Gonna need to hear it,” he growled, his voice rough, hungry, like he was done waiting for you to stop lying to yourself.

The words were out before you even thought about them.

“Yes, yes, yes—fuck, I want it. Please, I want you.”

The sound of your own voice startled you. Desperate, wrecked, raw. It felt foreign. Like it was coming from someone else, someone shameless, someone who wasn’t supposed to exist inside you.

But she did.

She had been there all along.

And she was the one moaning when he dragged his fingers lower, pushing two thick digits into your clenching, desperate pussy.

The stretch had you gasping, head pressing back against the door, body arching, hips tilting forward to take more, more, more.

The noises spilling from your lips didn’t feel like yours anymore. This wasn’t you.

But maybe it was.

Maybe this was the version of you that had been buried for years—the version of you that craved fear, submission, control, that had spent her entire life running straight toward danger just to see if she would survive it.

Maybe you had always wanted this.

Maybe you had just been waiting for someone like him to find you.

His thick fingers pumped into you, slow but deep, dragging slick from your core with every deliberate stroke. His thumb moved in a lazy circle over your clit, the touch surprisingly gentle, almost soothing—a cruel contrast to the way he had you pinned against the door, to the cold bite of steel resting at your throat.

The knife felt sharper now, pressing just enough to remind you it was there, the cool metal stark against the fevered heat of your skin. The whole room felt too hot, too small, too full of him, with his breath ghosting over your jaw, his chest solid against yours, and his voice thick and indulgent as he dragged you deeper, deeper, deeper into this.

A broken moan tore from your lips as he curled his fingers, pressing against that spot, the one deep inside you that made your stomach tighten, your back arch, your legs threaten to give out.

“Oh, fuck—” you whimpered, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into whatever you could hold onto, fighting to stay upright as your body clenched around him.

His mouth curled against your cheek, amused. Pleased.

“There she is,” he murmured, his voice rough with something dark and satisfied. “Knew you’d give in, bunny. Just had to get you to admit it.”

His fingers pumped harder, slick and messy, shoving you closer to the edge with every stroke. The pressure of the knife didn’t waver. It stayed exactly where he wanted it, pressed against the delicate skin of your throat, making every breath feel shallow, dangerous, intoxicating.

"You gonna come for me?" he mused, his voice a lazy drawl, thick with arrogance. "Or you still gonna pretend this ain't what you wanted all along?"

You couldn't answer—not with the way he was fucking you with his fingers, not with the way your whole body was unraveling, breaking apart, coming undone.

And he knew it.

He fucking knew it.

“I’m gonna–oh god–” you moaned, your back arching at an almost inhuman angle as he kept you pinned, as the knife at your throat kept you grounded, your body caught in that sharp balance between pleasure and fear. “Can I please—please?”

His lips curled against your skin, pleased, smug.

“Love when you beg so pretty,” he murmured, voice rough, thick with indulgence. His teeth grazed the sensitive flesh of your pulse point, dragging slow over the frantic beat beneath your skin, teasing, threatening. His fingers didn’t slow, didn’t ease up, didn’t fucking stop, working you harder, dragging you right to the edge.

His grip never wavered, the blade steady, firm, resting against your pulse like a silent threat. Like a promise.

"Come. Now." The command was rough, guttural, fingers driving into you harder, sharper. "Don’t hold back. Don’t fucking fight it. Wanna feel you squeeze me. Give it up, bunny."

Your mouth dropped open, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure hit you all at once, your whole body tightening, legs threatening to give out, the pleasure tearing through you so violently it almost hurt.

And just as you shattered apart in his hands—

He bit down. Hard.

Teeth sinking into your neck, marking you, branding you, his mouth hot and unrelenting, drinking down every sound, every desperate cry as you came around his fingers, as you broke completely.

Your body was still trembling, the aftershocks rolling through you in uneven waves as his teeth finally eased from your neck, lips dragging over the fresh mark he’d left behind. You barely had the chance to catch your breath before his fingers slid from inside you, leaving you empty, aching, still twitching from the force of your release.

You gasped as he pulled back, his grip steady as he guided you upright, keeping you from collapsing entirely. The knife was gone now, slipped away just as quickly as it had appeared, but the ghost of its cold steel still lingered against your throat, the reminder settling deep in your bones.

Still catching your breath, your limbs felt weightless, unsteady, the lingering tremors in your legs making it nearly impossible to hold yourself upright. You weren’t sure if you would have moved at all if it weren’t for the sudden warmth of his hand wrapping around yours.

Your fingers twitched in his grip, a brief hesitation, but he didn’t let go. His touch was firm, grounding, leading you away from the door with a slow, deliberate pull. 

Your legs wobbled, still weak, but he didn’t seem concerned. If anything, the smirk tugging at his lips made it clear he liked seeing you like this—wrecked, breathless, too unsteady to even move without his help.

"Not done with you yet, bunny," he muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction as he led you across the room.

You barely registered the direction he was taking you, still floating somewhere between the high of release and the lingering haze of adrenaline. It wasn’t until your hips hit the edge of something solid that your mind caught up.

The counter.

The mirror in front of you was wide, stretching across the wall above the surface, the reflection hazy in the dim motel lighting. You could see yourself—disheveled, undone, lips swollen, the fresh mark on your throat already bruising. And behind you, he stood close, his body radiating heat, his grip still wrapped around your wrist. He pulled your hand to rest with his at your lower back, only one hand to support yourself up on the cold countertop as he bent you in half.

“Right here, bunny,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, lower, almost soothing. His other hand smoothing over your waist, fingers tracing over your hips as he guided you into place.

Your gaze flickered to the mirror, following the line of his arms, the shape of his body hidden under the pink robe caging you.

And just beyond it, in the reflection—

The bed.

The body.

It’s head was turned in your direction, almost like it was watching.

A fresh chill crawled down your spine, sinking its teeth into the heat still simmering in your veins. You swallowed, pulse flickering unevenly, but before your mind could catch up, his lips brushed your shoulder, warm and slow.

“Eyes up,” he murmured, voice deep and edged with something almost… gentle. “I want you to watch.”

His grip on your wrist loosened, fingers brushing over your knuckles for a fleeting second before he let go. For half a second, you thought maybe he was easing up.

Then his hands were back on you—rough, unrelenting, impatient.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he ripped your jeans down, yanking them past your hips with one sharp tug, the force of it knocking you further against the counter. The denim scraped down your thighs, dragging over your knees before he picked up each of your feet to take them off completely, discarding them across the room.

The second they hit the floor, he was already hooking his fingers into your panties, wasting no time before peeling them off too, this time slower, like he was teasing himself until you were completely bare for him.

Your breath hitched, a sharp little gasp breaking free—but before you could even react, before you could catch up to reality, his mouth was on you.

“Oh—!” The sound tore from your throat, breathless, shocked, your legs nearly giving out as heat exploded under your skin. Instead of pulling away, instead of standing back up, he dragged you closer, one hand gripping your thigh as his tongue flattened against your folds, licking deep, messy, hungry.

The wet sounds of his mouth on you filled the room, obscene, echoing off the cheap motel walls. You could feel him groan into you, feel the vibration of it, like he was savoring the taste of you, drinking down the remnants of your last orgasm like he needed it, like he couldn’t help himself.

One last slow, filthy swipe of his tongue, and then he pulled away, standing to his full height, his breath warm against your back, the heat of him pressing into you from behind.

"Just needed a taste," he muttered, his voice rough, low, still thick with hunger.

His hand found your hip, fingers digging in, keeping you still as he leaned over you. You could feel him grin, feel the heat of it against your shoulder.

Your gaze snapped to the mirror as you felt him shift behind you.

In his hand that he brought up, was holding your panties. They dangled from his fingers like a trophy, like a fucking prize.

The fabric looked so obscene in his grip, white lace contrasting starkly against the dark red of dried blood still smeared up his wrists, staining the soft material, ruining it.

A slow smirk curled at his lips, eyes locked on yours in the reflection.

“Keepsake,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, before tucking them into the pocket of his robe like they belonged to him all along.

Then, he moved to stand straight, the absence of him making you shiver. Something in your stomach clenched, but then you heard the soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor.

Your breath hitched, your gaze drinking him in through the mirror.

He was bare now, the absurd pink robe crumpled at his feet, nothing left between you but heat, want, and the lingering scent of blood still clinging to his skin.

He was all hard muscle and soft belly, broad shoulders tapering into a strong chest, lean but striking, the cut of his hips dipping into the thick, aching proof of his arousal. His arms were strong and gorgeously toned. But it was the blood—streaked across his throat, dried against his knuckles, smeared over the ridges of muscle on his torso—that made your pulse stutter, made you squeeze your thighs together despite yourself.

A slow smirk curled on his lips as he watched you take him in, his hands finding your hips again, pressing against them, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who was in control.

His hand trailed up your spine, slow, deliberate, fingertips ghosting over the sensitive ridges of your back before pressing firm between your shoulder blades. A silent command. A demand. He pushed you down, bending you further over the counter, your chest meeting the cold surface.

A sharp shock of contrast coursed through you—the chill of the countertop biting at your bare skin while your body burned, throbbed, pulsed everywhere he had touched. Your nipples stiffened against the cool surface, the ache mingling with the unbearable heat twisting through your veins. 

“Now,” he rasped, his voice darker now, lower, aching with need. “Let’s see how good you look takin’ it.”

Behind you, he exhaled slowly, dragging his cock through your leaking arousal, teasing, coating himself in you.

“Fuckin’ soaked for me,” he muttered, almost in awe, almost reverent. “Drippin’ down your thighs, bunny. Ain’t even touched you properly yet.”

Your breath shuddered, your legs trembling as he pressed in, just the head pushing inside, stretching you open.

The burn was immediate, a sharp, toe-curling ache that had you whimpering, your hands scrambling against the counter, nails dragging against the surface. He was thick, too thick, too big, and he knew it, moving slow, forcing you to take every inch.

"Shhh," he hushed, voice syrup-thick with amusement, smoothing a hand over your lower back as he pushed in deeper. "You can take it, bunny. Bein’ so good for me."

Your walls clenched around him, the sheer stretch of him forcing your body to adjust, forcing your breath to come in ragged gasps as your head swam.

"That’s it," he murmured, voice almost soothing, his thumb stroking lazy circles over your hip, a small, almost mocking comfort as he split you open on his cock. "Givin’ me everythin’, huh? Knew you’d be so good."

He bottomed out with a deep, guttural groan, his fingers tightening on your hips as he held himself there, letting you feel just how deep he was.

Your forehead pressed against the counter, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. The stretch was overwhelming, unbearable, too much.

And then he moved.

Not slow. Not gentle.

He pulled back halfway before slamming forward, the force of it shoving you up against the counter, a strangled cry escaping your lips as he set a brutal pace, hips slapping against your ass with every deep, unforgiving thrust.

"Fuck—look at you," he rasped, his grip tightening, dragging you back onto him every time you jolted forward. "Takin’ this cock so good, bunny. Soundin’ so pretty."

The praise made your stomach tighten, heat curling deep in your gut, your mind swimming in the overwhelming sensation of him fucking you open, taking you apart.

Every thrust was hard, precise, brutal, every inch of him forcing you to take more, to feel more, to drown in it.

His body leaned over you, fingers moving between your legs, finding your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles over the swollen flesh. You squirmed, body shaking as the pleasure ripped through you too fast, too hard, pushing you to the edge so quickly it was almost humiliating.

"There it is, bunny. Wanna feel this sweet, tight cunt come on my cock now," he muttered, his breath hot, ragged, teeth grazing your shoulder. "C’mon now. Give it to me."

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up.

Your orgasm slammed into you like a fucking wrecking ball, pleasure crashing through you in violent, uncontrollable waves as your walls clenched around him, pulling him deeper, holding him inside you.

His groan was wrecked, almost desperate, his thrusts turning sloppy, frenzied, chasing his own high. But just when you thought you might drown in it, when you thought he might finish just like this, his hands moved again.

His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping tight at the base of your skull before he yanked you upright, pulling you flush against his chest.

Your breath hitched, your hands flying to the counter for balance.

The mirror loomed in front of you, your reflection raw and ruined, lips parted, sweat-damp hair clinging to your forehead, bruises blooming on your throat.

And behind you—he looked like something primal.

Eyes dark, predatory, hair falling into his face, his skin slick with sweat and streaked with blood. He kept you up against him with his arm snaking around you, the crook of his elbow at your throat, arm smattered with dry blood across your neck.

The sight of him—fucking you, wrecking you, devouring you whole— made your stomach convulse, a fresh wave of arousal pooling low.

His smirk curled against your jaw, his lips dragging against the shell of your ear as he fucked you harder, deeper, forcing you to watch.

"Eyes on the mirror, bunny," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction, with possession.

Your pulse thundered, the haze of pleasure still thick, still overwhelming–

But then, his gaze flicked lower.

To the bed. To the body.

His thrusts slowed, just barely, just enough to make you feel the shift.

"Now, tell me somethin'," he muttered, his arm moving back enough to grab your chin with his hand, tilting your head just slightly.

Your eyes followed. The body lay still. Exactly where it had been.

But as you really got a look at the face turned towards you…

Your breath caught.

Your whole body locked up.

He watched you in the mirror, his smirk widening as your expression shifted, as the horror finally settled into your features.

"That’s right," he murmured, mock sympathy laced through his voice. "You know him, don’t you, bunny?"

The realization crashed down like ice water, freezing the lingering heat in your veins, making your stomach twist so violently you thought you might be sick.

A choked sound escaped you, something weak, something small.

Because you did.

The man lying motionless on the bed—

It was the man you had seen earlier.

The one who had been watching you.

The image slammed into you all at once.

That feeling. That thick, crawling awareness. The quiet, animal instinct that had made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, that had tightened your stomach before you even knew why.

You had seen him. Standing under that broken streetlight, just watching you.

Not moving, not speaking, not pretending to be anything other than what he was.

A predator.

And now he was dead.

“Oh my god,” you heard yourself say, somewhere in the distant haze of it all.

The room tilted, spun, a wave of cold terror slamming through you so hard it nearly sent you forward.

But before you could collapse under the weight of it, before you could fall completely into the abyss of fear choking you from the inside out,  the man slammed his cock into you again with a force so hard you cried out, the force of it shoving you forward, his arm back at your throat, keeping you against his chest, forcing you to take him deeper, to feel every brutal, punishing inch of him.

"Oh, that get you goin’, bunny?" His voice was low, mocking, thick with amusement as his grip tightened around your neck, forcing you to look. Your reflection stared back at you, ruined, wrecked, your eyes wide with fear, your body still trembling, still taking every brutal thrust he gave you.

"That why you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight? You like that? Liked knowin’ what I did for you?"

He slammed into you again, harder, deeper, forcing you to take it, forcing you to feel it.

"The thing is, bunny," he grunted, his breath ragged, his pace unrelenting, "I saw the way he was watchin’ you. Saw the way he was followin’ you from the second your car pulled in."

His fingers dug into your shoulder as his arm held you tight against him, his grip bruising, possessive as his mouth was hot in your ear.

"I saw the way he looked at you. That sick fuck was plannin’ somethin’. Could see it all over his face. I wanted to rip him apart the moment I saw him."

His thrusts grew rougher, sharper, more desperate, like the memory of it alone was sending something wild through him.

"So I did."

He exhaled against your cheek, his voice dropping so low it barely rose above the sound of skin slapping against skin.

"And then…" His pace never faltered, never softened, rolling his hips slow but deep, letting you feel every inch of him, letting you think about what you’d done. "I didn’t even have to come lookin’ for you."

His arm tightened on your throat, just enough to feel your pulse race beneath his bloodied skin.

"You found me, didn’t you, bunny?”

A soft chuckle, dark and pleased.

"Coulda kept walkin’. Coulda gone right back to your room, pretended you didn’t see a damn thing." His free hand continued the slow, taunting circles over your clit, too much and not enough all at once. It wasn’t just teasing—it was methodical, cruel, meant to keep you exactly where he wanted you, stuck between the horror twisting in your gut and the unbearable pressure building lower. "But you just had to see, didn’t you? Had to come find the monster all by yourself."

The words hit something deep again, because he was right.

You had been running from something all night, but it wasn’t just your family, wasn’t just the life waiting for you back home. You had been searching for something, something dangerous, something that made you feel, something that made your blood rush hot in your veins and your stomach twist in knots.

And when you had heard the body hit the floor, when you saw the blood on the doorstep—when your pulse had spiked, not from terror, but from something else entirely—you had known.

You could have ignored it. Should have locked yourself away in your room. Should have closed your eyes and forced yourself to sleep, but you hadn’t.

You had walked straight to him.

You had found him.

And now, he had you.

Your whole body tensed, your fingers curling against the countertop, your lungs locking up like they couldn’t decide whether to gasp for air or hold it in forever. The horror, the pleasure, the realization—it all crashed into you at once, an unbearable, unstoppable wave that swallowed you whole.

It was too much. The fear, the shame, the pleasure—all tangled together until there was no telling where one ended and the other began. The pressure in your stomach wound so tight it ached, so tight it burned, so tight it felt like it might rip you in two.

He kissed the corner of your jaw, slow and taunting, lips curling against your sweat-damp skin.

"You’re all mine now, little bunny." 

The pleasure hit like a shockwave, ripping through you, forcing a cry from your lips so raw you barely recognized it as your own. Your walls clenched down around his fingers, pulsing, spasming, locking onto him like they never wanted to let go.

Your body convulsed, trembling violently in his hold, wrung out so hard it almost hurt. Your head spun, your vision blurred, your pulse pounded between your legs as wave after wave dragged you under, over and over, pulling you deeper until there was nothing left but the aftermath—wreckage and ruin and the undeniable truth settling heavy in your chest.

"And you’re always gonna remember who got to you first."

The words should have felt like a brand, like a claim.

Maybe they did.

Maybe that’s why, when your vision finally cleared, when your gaze lifted to meet his black eyes in the mirror…

Your lips curled into a grin.