“It just won’t come off.”

The words came out thin. Frayed. Barely louder than the hiss of the water hammering against marble.

You scrubbed harder.

The bathroom was enormous—vaulted ceilings, white-veined marble climbing every wall, gold fixtures gleaming through the thick steam like dull halos. A place meant for quiet luxury. For long baths and soft robes and someone pouring wine while you sank into warm water.

Now it smelled like copper.

Now it smelled like you.

Your hands shook as they moved over your skin again, nails dragging, scrubbing, scraping like you could peel it away if you just tried hard enough. The water was far too hot—scalding, really—but you barely felt it anymore. Your new skin drank the heat greedily, nerves lit up too sharply, too alive.

Everything was too alive now.

Every scent.

Every sound.

The drain gurgled below you and the noise alone made your stomach twist. You could hear the pipes in the walls. The hum of electricity in the sconces. The faint, distant whisper of traffic outside somewhere beyond the estate walls.

And beneath all of it—

The smell.

God.

It clung to you.

Metal and salt and something darker, richer. The thick, iron tang of spilled blood worked itself into your lungs until you thought you might choke on it.

You scrubbed harder.

Your reflection blurred in the fogged mirror across the room, a ghost of yourself—hair plastered to your temples, eyes too bright, lips trembling. Your knees were planted hard against the marble floor of the shower, the stone biting cold into your skin while the water burned down your back.

You couldn’t stop shaking from the memory.

An awful, awful thing.

His face kept appearing the moment you blinked.

Not Remmick’s.

The other one. The man from the street.

Kind eyes. Gullible eyes. The kind that softened when he smiled.

You saw it again.

The moment he realized something was wrong.

The confusion first.

Then the fear.

Then—

Your stomach twisted violently.

You clutched the edge of the shower bench, knuckles white.

“I didn’t—” Your voice broke. “I didn’t mean—”

But you had.

Your new teeth had known exactly what to do. Your body had known. Your hunger had known.

And above it all—

That voice.

Low. Smooth. Patient.

Go on now, darlin’.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Remmick hadn’t touched him.

Hadn’t needed to.

He’d just stood behind you in the foyer, one hand resting warm against the back of your neck like a man steadying a nervous horse.

His mouth near your ear.

There ya go.

The memory made your stomach drop.

That’s it.

The praise had been soft.

Gentle.

Proud.

Show me what I made.

You gagged, the sound raw in your throat.

The water kept pouring down.

Still, the smell wouldn’t leave.

Still, the weight of it clung to your skin like something alive.

You were different now.

Changed.

It had only been days, but the world had already sharpened into something unbearable. Every scent was louder. Every heartbeat within range felt like a drum pressed to your ear.

You could still hear the man’s pulse sometimes, echoing faint in your head like an afterimage.

You curled in on yourself.

Then, the bathroom door opened.

The sound was so quiet, but it didn’t matter.

The room changed the second he stepped inside.

Remmick took over any space he walked into.

The air thickened with him in it, something warm and slow-moving through the steam. Even the light seemed to shift toward him.

Your head lifted slowly.

He stood in the doorway like he’d belonged there.

Dark slacks.

Suspenders hanging loose from his shoulders.

White shirt sleeves rolled just enough to show the strong line of his forearms.

His hair was still slicked back neat despite the late hour. A gold chain caught faint light at his throat.

And those eyes—

Blue at first glance.

Red glowing underneath if you looked too long.

Remmick’s gaze settled on you kneeling beneath the shower.

He didn’t speak right away.

Just watched.

Slowly, his head tilted.

“Well now,” he murmured at last.

That voice, again.

Low and syrup-thick.

It coated your brain like honey.

“Ya made yourself a mess.”

Shame hit you so hard your shoulders folded inward.

“I tried—” Your throat tightened. “It won’t—”

He stepped forward.

Shoes slow across marble.

Each step deliberate.

Agonizing.

Steam curled around him as he reached the edge of the shower.

You froze.

Remmick crouched down beside the glass partition, resting one forearm on the marble ledge like he had all the time in the world.

“Darlin’,” he said softly.

The word slid through you like oil.

“Look at me.”

You did.

You always did.

His gaze moved slowly over you—the trembling hands, the angry red skin, the faint streaks still clinging stubbornly along your wrists and collarbone.

And then he smiled.

Not cruel, not exactly.

Pleased.

That was the look that settled over his face. Quiet and satisfied, like a man admiring something he’d been patient enough to grow himself.

It made your stomach turn.

Remmick stepped fully into the shower.

The water soaked through him in seconds, white cotton clinging to his frame, turning translucent where it stretched across his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen. It should’ve looked ridiculous—leather on wet marble, clothes ruined—but somehow it didn’t.

It looked intentional.

Like everything he did.

Like this.

You shrank back on instinct, your spine brushing the slick tile behind you. “You don’t—have to—”

“Mm,” he hummed, cutting you off easy.

His hand found your jaw again.

Not rough.

Never rough at first.

Just heavy. Certain. Tilting your face toward him like you were something delicate he didn’t trust to hold yourself upright.

“Now why would I leave ya like this?” he murmured.

His thumb dragged slow along your cheek.

You flinched.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

A faint smile touched his mouth, softer than before, but no less knowing.

“That all too much for ya?” he asked, voice low, almost sympathetic. “World gettin’ loud?”

You swallowed.

Nodded before you could stop yourself.

Remmick’s eyes darkened—absent of concern. You knew this look all too well.

With interest.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I remember that part.”

His hand slid from your face to the back of your neck, fingers spreading wide, anchoring you there.

“Everythin’ feels sharper,” he went on, tone easy, conversational, like he was talking about the weather. “Smells stick. Sounds echo. Can’t outrun it, no matter how hard ya scrub.”

His gaze dropped—slowly—down your body.

To your hands.

Still trembling.

Still streaked.

“You’re fightin’ the wrong thing, darlin’.”

You shook your head, breath catching. “I can still feel it—”

“I know.”

The words came quick this time.

Firm, but not dismissive.

Confirming.

Which was so much worse.

Remmick stepped closer.

Too close.

The heat of him cut through the steam, a different kind of warmth entirely—denser, heavier, something that pressed in instead of wrapping around.

His hand slid down your arm again, slower now. His fingers followed the faint lines of your veins as he traced the map he’d memorized.

“You’re holdin’ onto it,” he murmured. “That’s why it won’t leave.”

His thumb pressed lightly into your wrist.

Right over your pulse.

It jumped beneath his touch.

He smiled.

“There it is,” he said softly.

It wasn’t triumph.

Recognition was the word you’d been searching for.

He’d been waiting for that exact note to surface in you. The crack where something human still tried to name what was happening, even as the rest of you leaned toward him.

He didn’t rush after that.

That was the worst part.

Remmick took his time the way a man admires something delicate before deciding exactly how to handle it. His hand stayed firm at the back of your neck, not forcing, just holding you in place as he leaned closer—slow enough that you could see every detail unfold.

His mouth parted.

And this time, there was no mistaking it.

The fangs weren’t subtle anymore. They weren’t tucked away behind charm or softened by that easy smile. They were there—fully bared, sharp and gleaming, lengthened into something undeniably monstrous. The water didn’t wash them clean. If anything, it made them glisten more, catching the light in a way that made your stomach tighten.

He was drooling.

Not a trickle. Not something you could politely ignore.

It was excessive. Thick. Strands of it clinging to his lower lip, gathering at the corners of his mouth before slipping free and vanishing into the torrent of water cascading over both of you.

You could see it.

Even through the steam.

Even through the heat.

Your breath caught, sharp and shallow.

For a second—just a second—you thought he might bite you.

The thought came uninvited, unwelcome, and yet it landed with a strange, desperate clarity. Pain would be clean. Immediate. Something you could understand, something that might cut through the noise in your head and the weight still clinging to your skin.

You wanted it.

The terrible realization of it all.

Remmick’s eyes flickered—subtle, but there. He saw it. That tiny shift in your breathing, the way your shoulders tensed not in retreat but in anticipation.

His mouth hovered closer.

Closer.

The fangs brushed your skin.

They didn’t puncture.

Just grazed.

A light scrape along your shoulder where the skin was already raw from your scrubbing.

It stung.

Wasn’t enough.

And then—

He licked you.

Open-mouthed and unashamed, his tongue dragging slow and broad across your skin, following the faint traces you’d failed to wash away. The sensation was overwhelming—heat layered over heat, the steady burn of the water mixing with something slick and invasive.

You flinched hard.

A sound caught in your throat, halfway between protest and something else you refused to name.

It was wrong.

God, it was so wrong.

The way he did it—no delicacy, no attempt to soften the act. Just the full press of his mouth, his tongue moving with a purposeful rhythm, gathering what remained and replacing it with something that felt heavier, thicker.

His saliva clung.

It didn’t rinse away like the water did. It smeared, spread, left your skin feeling coated in something that wasn’t yours.

Your stomach twisted.

Your fingers curled against his chest.

“Stop—” you tried, but it came out thin, unconvincing.

Remmick didn’t stop.

He shifted slightly, angling your arm, exposing more of your skin to him. His tongue followed, slow passes that bordered on methodical, like he was undoing your frantic attempts at cleansing and replacing them with something of his own design.

His fangs scraped again.

Another sting.

A shallow drag across your collarbone this time.

He didn’t apologize.

Didn’t even acknowledge it.

If anything, the faint hitch in your breath seemed to draw him in further.

The water poured down, relentless, but it couldn’t keep up with him. Wherever he touched, the sensation lingered—warm and slick and entirely his.

You should’ve pulled away.

Should’ve fought harder.

But your hands stayed where they were, braced against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms. Your body betrayed you in smaller ways—your breath coming uneven, your skin reacting to every pass of his mouth like it didn’t know how to separate disgust from something far more indefensible.

Remmick knew.

He always knew.

He paused—not pulling away completely, just enough that his mouth hovered a breath from your skin. His head tilted slightly, like he was listening to something only he could hear.

Or smelling it.

That faint shift.

That change in your core.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“No,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

A quiet sound left him—almost a hum, low in his throat.

His hand at your neck tightened just enough to ground you, to keep you from retreating into yourself completely.

When he moved again, it was slower.

More deliberate.

His mouth found your shoulder once more, but this time the motion was almost… patient. Less frantic, more certain. Each pass of his tongue felt intentional, claiming rather than simply cleaning.

As if he was marking over what had already happened.

Replacing it.

Rewriting it.

The disgust didn’t leave.

It sat heavy in your stomach, coiling tight.

But it tangled with something else now—something warmer, something that made your pulse feel too loud in your ears.

Remmick didn’t comment on it.

He didn’t need to.

The way his breath shifted, the subtle press of his mouth, the faint scrape of fang against skin—it all spoke for him.

He lingered there, close enough that you could feel the shape of his smile without seeing it.

And when he finally spoke, it was barely more than a murmur against your damp skin.

“Mm.”

That was all.

But the way he said it—

Like he’d found exactly what he was looking for.

The understanding of it sat heavy in the air between you, thicker than the steam, heavier than the heat pouring down your back. Remmick didn’t move right away. He stayed close—too close—his mouth hovering just off your skin, breath warm, damp, alive with something that made your pulse stutter in your throat.

His hand never left your neck.

Not once.

It had settled there so naturally you almost forgot it wasn’t supposed to be—fingers spread wide, thumb resting just beneath your jaw, holding you upright without asking, without needing permission. It wasn’t forceful in the way violence was forceful. It was… inevitable. Like gravity. Like something you couldn’t reason your way out of.

Your breath came uneven.

He felt it.

Remmick drew back just enough to look at you properly. His head tilted slightly, studying you the way he always did when he was deciding something—eyes slow and calculated, dragging over your face like he was memorizing each flicker of resistance before it disappeared.

The red had spread.

You saw it now—clear as anything.

His pupils were blown wide, the blue swallowed whole by that deep, glowing red you’d only ever seen when something buried inside him slipped closer to the surface.

Hunger.

Your stomach dropped.

“Open,” he said.

No softness in it.

Not even a drawl curling around the word to make it easier to swallow.

Just flat.

Certain.

You shook your head before you could think.

It wasn’t a real refusal. Not the kind that held weight. Just instinct. Just something inside you trying—failing—to push back.

Remmick didn’t react.

Didn’t sigh. Didn’t smile. Didn’t threaten.

His fingers lifted from your neck and moved to your face, hooking lightly at the corners of your mouth. Not pulling. Not yet.

Just resting there.

Waiting.

“Open,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Worse, somehow.

The steam pressed in around you. The water kept falling, hot and relentless, but all of it faded under the way he was looking at you now. There was nothing rushed in him. Nothing uncertain.

He would wait.

He would get what he asked for.

The realization slid down your spine like ice.

You opened your mouth.

“Opened” was generous.

But it was just enough for him.

Remmick’s fingers slipped inside, slow and deliberate, pressing past your lips like he’d done it a hundred times before. The motion was controlled, careful in its own way—but there was no gentleness to it. No hesitation.

He pushed deeper.

Your breath hitched.

Your body reacted before your mind could catch up, a sharp gag catching in your throat as his fingers pressed further than you were ready for.

Remmick’s mouth curved.

A low, quiet chuckle vibrated against the space between you.

“Better,” he murmured.

Not praise.

Not quite.

But it landed like it.

You made a small sound—protest, maybe—but it got lost around him, swallowed up, turned into something softer than you meant it to be.

He didn’t remove his hand right away.

Let you feel it.

Let you adjust.

Or struggle.

It didn’t matter which.

When he finally drew his fingers back, it was slow—dragging, intentional, leaving behind the ghost of the pressure, the lingering warmth that refused to fade.

Your lips parted again, breath catching.

Remmick didn’t give you time to recover.

His mouth replaced his hand.

At first, it was almost gentle.

Almost.

His lips pressed to yours in a way that might have been mistaken for something soft if you ignored everything else—the fangs brushing against you, the damp heat of his breath, the way his hand returned to your neck with a firmer hold this time.

You froze.

Then—slowly—your body betrayed you again.

You softened.

Just a fraction.

It was all he needed.

The kiss deepened without warning.

His mouth opened wider, his tongue pushing in with a sudden, overwhelming insistence that stole the breath from your lungs. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t something you could meet halfway.

It overtook.

Consumed.

His fangs scraped faintly against your teeth, a sharp edge that never quite broke skin but never let you forget it could. His saliva was everywhere—warm, excessive, impossible to ignore as it coated your mouth, your tongue, slipping further back in a way that made your throat tighten reflexively.

You tried to pull away.

You couldn’t.

His grip had changed.

What had been steady was now unyielding—fingers pressing firm at the back of your neck, holding you in place with a strength that didn’t need to prove itself.

The world narrowed.

Just this.

Just him.

The sound of the water blurred into the background, replaced by the wet, overwhelming reality of the kiss—too much, too close, too consuming. You felt it everywhere. In your chest. In your throat. In the way your pulse stumbled and raced all at once.

It was suffocating.

It was—

You didn’t finish the thought.

You couldn’t.

Remmick pulled back just enough to breathe.

His lips hovered against yours, breath and spit mingling as his eyes still locked on you with that same unbearable focus.

You didn’t realize how unsteady your legs had gotten until his other hand moved.

Slow.

Unhurried.

It traced down from your waist, fingers dragging along the curve of your side before dipping lower—lower—until they brushed lightly against your thigh.

You tensed instantly.

Your knees drew together without thinking.

He paused, but didn’t push.

Just feeling the resistance.

His thumb pressed faintly against the inside of your leg, testing the line you’d drawn, the boundary you were trying so hard to hold onto.

Remmick’s gaze didn’t leave your face.

Didn’t need to.

He already knew.

The faintest hint of a smile touched his mouth again.

Not amused.

Not mocking.

Something far more patient than that.

His hand remained there—resting, waiting, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make it unbearable.

The water kept falling.

Hot. Relentless.

It struck the crown of your head, ran down your face, your throat, your chest, pooling and slipping and taking nothing with it—not the memory, not the smell, not the way your body had begun to hum in spite of everything.

Remmick watched you.

He bore into every part of your face.

That was where the truth lived.

His thumb shifted—barely—against the inside of your thigh, a slow, testing press that didn’t push, didn’t force, but didn’t retreat either. It lingered there, warm and deliberate, drawing your attention down to the place you were trying so hard to ignore.

Your knees stayed locked.

Your breath didn’t.

It gave you away.

Remmick’s mouth curved, subtle. Quiet. More private. Like he was letting himself enjoy the moment instead of performing it.

“Well now,” he murmured, voice thick with that slow drawl that came out strongest when he was most certain. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

Your throat tightened.

“Don’t—” you started, but the word came out weak, unraveling before it could hold shape.

He leaned in just enough that you felt it before you heard it—his breath brushing your cheek, warm despite everything.

“Go on,” he said, almost conversational. “Open up for me.”

You shook your head.

It wasn’t enough to matter.

Remmick’s hand didn’t move.

“Darlin’,” he added, softer now, almost playful in a way that made something sharp twist behind your ribs. “Y’know I’m a gentleman.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I’d hate to go and ruin that reputation.”

The lightness in his tone—the ease of it, like this was a game, like this was something small—it nearly brought tears to your eyes. It made the room tilt, made everything feel even more unreal than it already did.

You swallowed hard.

“I can’t,” you whispered. “Not here. Not—like this. I can’t—”

Your voice broke.

“I can’t do this right now.”

The words sounded fragile.

He heard them.

Remmick leaned back just enough to see you again, properly this time. His head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly—not in anger, not in disappointment.

In consideration.

For a moment—just a moment—it almost looked like he might give it to you. That small mercy. That pause you were so desperate for.

His thumb stilled.

His hand eased.

The pressure lifted just enough to make your chest ache with the sudden absence of it.

“Mm,” he hummed, thoughtful.

Then he smiled.

Slow.

Measured.

“Alright,” he said.

The word settled over you like a false promise.

“Just this once.”

Relief hit you too fast.

Too deep.

It made your shoulders sag, your breath rush out in a shaky exhale you couldn’t quite control. Your knees loosened—not opening, not yet, but no longer braced so tightly shut.

Remmick noticed.

Of course he did.

He didn’t rush you.

Didn’t need to.

He waited.

And that patience—God, that patience—did more than any force ever could.

Because now it was you.

You who moved.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

Your legs eased apart.

Just a fraction at first.

Then more.

Each inch felt like something slipping, something giving way inside you that you weren’t sure you’d ever get back.

Remmick’s expression changed.

The lack of subtlety alarmed you.

The restraint broke into something brighter, wider—something that showed teeth, showed hunger, showed the full, unfiltered satisfaction of a man watching something unfold exactly the way he knew it would.

“That's my girl,” he murmured, and you knew he caught the corner of your mouth twitch in response.

The words hung there, low and approving, wrapping around your spine like smoke. His hand didn’t waste the opening. It slid higher, fingers parting the slick heat between your thighs with a certainty that made your breath snag hard in your chest.

You bit your lip.

Remmick’s mouth was already on you again—wet, open presses against your jaw first, then trailing lower, scattering kisses along the line of your neck like he was mapping territory he’d conquered long ago. Each one landed heavy, saliva-slick and unhurried, his lips dragging just enough to leave your skin gleaming under the falling water. The heat of him everywhere. Breath ghosting your ear. Fangs grazing faint, teasing threats that made every nerve scream alive.

“Goddamn,” he breathed against your throat, voice rougher now. “Look at ya. Soakin’ for me already.”

His fingers found you.

Two of them pressed in slow—inch by burning inch—stretching you open with a precision that reminded how well he knew this part of you. Knew the exact angle that made your hips jerk. Knew the rhythm that turned resistance to ruin.

You clenched around him on instinct.

Tried to hide it.

Failed.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, raw and unfiltered, echoing louder than the water in your sharpened ears. Everything was amplified. The slide of his fingers inside you felt like lightning—wet, obscene sounds mixing with the shower’s roar, your own pulse thundering in your temples, his scent flooding your lungs. Cedar and smoke and something darker, primal, overtaking every sense until there was no room for shame.

No room for anything but him.

He chuckled low, the vibration humming against your collarbone where his mouth lingered, sucking a mark that would bruise just right. “Tryin’ to play coy, darlin’? Ain’t workin’. I feel that little flutter. Ya love this.”

His thumb circled your clit—slow, firm circles that built pressure like a storm gathering. In. Out. Deeper each time, his fingers curling just so, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

You hated it.

Hated how he played you like an instrument he’d tuned himself. Every twist, every press, pulled euphoria from you in waves you couldn’t swallow down.

Your hands fisted in his soaked shirt.

Pulled him closer.

“Remmick—” It came out broken, a plea wrapped in protest.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow.

His free hand stayed firm at your neck, thumb stroking your pulse like he was counting the beats racing under his touch. His mouth moved again—kisses peppering your cheek, your temple, the corner of your eye where salt mixed with water. Wet. Messy. Stealing every inch.

“That’s it,” he praised, fangs nipping light at your earlobe. “Take it so pretty. My perfect girl, openin’ up just like I knew ya would.”

The words sank into you, hot as the water scalding your back. His fingers thrust deeper, faster now, but still controlled—twisting on the outstroke, crooking to drag against your walls, thumb relentless on that bundle of nerves. Pleasure coiled tight, insane and overwhelming, your new senses turning it into something unbearable. You could hear your own slickness, feel every ridge of his knuckles, smell the sharp tang of arousal cutting through the steam.

You tried to bite it back.

Tried to keep your hips still.

They bucked anyway.

A whine slipped free—high, desperate, nothing like you.

Remmick's mouth found your neck again, sucking hard enough to mark, tongue laving over the spot before kissing lower, open-mouthed and dripping. “Hear that? That’s you, darlin’. So wet for my fingers. Actin’ like ya don’t want it, but this pussy’s tellin’ tales.” He teased, voice a rumble you felt in your bones. Another curl of his fingers—precise, devastating. “Gonna make ya come so hard ya forget every damn thing but me.”

He was everywhere.

Filling you. Surrounding you. His body pressed close, shirt clinging translucent to the hard planes of his chest, suspenders heavy with water slapping wet against his thighs as he moved. Kisses rained down—jaw, throat, the hollow of your collarbone—each one leaving trails of spit that the shower couldn’t rinse away fast enough. His breath in your ear. His growl when you clenched again. His scent choking out the copper ghost that had haunted you.

You hated this too.

How he knew.

Knew to slow just when the edge loomed, drawing it out with shallow thrusts that made you chase him. Knew to whisper filth against your skin—“Fuck, ya grip me like ya never wanna let go. Good girl, just like that”—while his thumb flicked faster, building that euphoric blaze higher.

Your thighs trembled, spread wide now, knees digging into marble that no longer felt cold. Everything narrowed to the thick slide of him inside you, the wet smack of skin, the relentless press of his mouth claiming your face, your neck, like he’d devour you piece by piece.

“Remmick—please—” You didn’t know what you were begging for. Stop? More? It didn’t matter.

He laughed soft, dark, lips brushing your pulse. “Please what, sugar? This?” Deeper thrust. “Or this?” Thumb grinding hard. His fingers pumped steady, unyielding, chasing every hidden spot until euphoria drowned you—wave after crashing wave, your body arching, toes curling, every sense screaming his name.

You were lost.

Floating.

So close.

The coil snapped taut, pleasure cresting, ready to shatter—

Then, he stopped.

Fingers still buried deep, but unmoving.

Why the fuck did he stop?

Your body clenched around him, desperate, chasing what he’d yanked away. A whine built in your throat—weak, needy—but before it could spill, Remmick’s eyes held yours. Blazing red. Unblinking. Pinning you there under the relentless pour of water, steam curling like fingers around his shoulders.

No words.

Just that gaze.

Then his mouth moved.

Kissing down from the frantic pulse in your neck—soft at first, lips parting to suck light marks that bloomed under his touch. Water streamed between you, mixing with his spit, but he didn’t care. Didn’t pause. His free hand braced your hip, steadying you as his kisses trailed lower, grazing collarbone with fangs that scraped just enough to sting.

You sucked in a breath.

Tried to form protest.

“Remmick, I—”

Too late.

His lips found your breast.

One.

Then the other.

He lingered.

God, he lingered.

Mouth sealing hot over your nipple, tongue swirling broad and slow, lapping like he was starving for the taste. Suction pulled tight—wet, obscene—drawing a gasp from you that echoed off marble. His fangs grazed the sensitive peak, not piercing, just pressing, threatening, sending jolts straight to your core.

He switched sides without mercy, sucking harder, biting down just enough to ache, tongue soothing the sting before diving in again. Your back arched. Hands fisted in his wet hair. Everything was too sharp, too much—pleasure spiking through your heightened nerves like knives wrapped in velvet.

He hummed against your skin.

Approval.

Hunger.

Kisses scattered lower—sternum, ribs, the soft plane of your stomach. His fingers slipped free at last, leaving you empty, throbbing, a slick trail dragging along your inner thigh as he went. His mouth followed, pressing open kisses that smeared heat, fangs nipping faint at your hipbone.

You were spread before him now.

Knees weak against marble.

Pussy bare, aching, dripping under his gaze.

But before his mouth could descend—

The flash hit.

Sudden.

Vicious.

The man’s face again. Those kind eyes widening—not in pleasure, but terror. Blood. Gurgling. Your fangs sinking deep, the hot spill over your chin. Remmick’s voice praising from the shadows.

Show me what I made.

Disgust crashed over you.

Thick as the steam.

You were soaked in it now—his touch, your arousal, all of it twisted into something vile. Pleasuring yourselves to this. After that. Your body betrayed you even as your stomach heaved, sobs ripping free, raw and jagged.

“N-no,” you choked, curling inward, hands shoving weakly at his shoulders. “I can’t—God, the blood, his eyes—I killed him, Remmick, and you—you made me a monster, and now this—”

Tears mixed with water, hot streaks down your face you couldn’t tell apart.

Remmick froze.

Just for a beat.

Then he rose—slow, fluid—cradling your face in both hands, thumbs wiping tears he’d caused. His eyes softened. Red dimming to something almost blue, almost human. “Hey now, darlin’,” he cooed, voice dropping to that velvet murmur, thick with drawl. “Shh. I gotcha.”

He eased you down.

Gentle.

Marble chilled your back as he laid you out, water pooling beneath, his body shielding you from the spray. He hovered close—not crowding—but everywhere. Mouth brushing your forehead, your temples, soft kisses peppering your eyelids. “I know, sugar. I see it tearin’ ya up. That ain’t right.”

You sobbed harder.

He shushed you soft—lips against your brow, hand stroking damp hair from your face. “Listen to me. I feel it too. That weight. Makes my chest ache seein’ ya hurt like this. He was just a man walkin’ his path, and now… hell, it sits heavy on me same as you.”

Lies.

Smooth as silk.

But your senses drowned—water roaring, his scent overwhelming, touch grounding you in the now. No room to question. Too raw. Too much.

“I didn’t want this for ya,” he murmured, kissing your cheek, your jaw, nuzzling close like a lover grieving with you. “Not the pain. Not the ghosts. I turned ya ‘cause I love ya, darlin’. Wanted ya forever with me. But this? This guilt? I hate it eatin’ at ya. Let me take it away. Just for now. Let me make ya feel good. That’s all this is. All for you.”

His hand trailed soothing paths down your side—light, reassuring. Kisses dotted your throat, your collarbone. “It’ll be okay. I promise. We’ll figure the rest. Together. But right now? Let me love on ya. Wash it all clean.”

You hiccuped.

Clung to him.

Not convinced—not fully—but the overwhelm crashed too hard. Sobs tangled with shivers, his words weaving through like balm on burned skin.

He felt it—the softening, the brief surrender.

Like clockwork, he moved.

Eased down your body again.

Settled between your thighs.

Eyes locked on yours one last beat—red flaring hungry beneath the feigned concern.

Then his tongue dragged.

Bottom to top.

He dove in.

A long, flat lick through your folds, gathering slick, pressing firm against your clit at the very end. The taste of you exploded on him. A growl rumbled low, ancient, and whatever mask lingered shattered.

Ravenous.

Unrelenting.

His mouth sealed over you—sucking hard, tongue thrusting deep like it aimed to replace his fingers and more. No tease now. No patience. He devoured—lips pulling at your folds, fangs grazing outer lips with dangerous precision, never breaking but threatening ecstasy edged in peril. His tongue swirled wild inside you, curling, lapping every drop, then flicking frantic over your clit—fast, messy, insatiable.

You cried out.

Body bowed.

Tears streamed—guilt? Pleasure? Blurred into one endless salt. Sobs choked into moans, your hands yanking his hair, hips bucking into his face despite everything. He was everywhere again—growls vibrating through your core, nose grinding against your mound, saliva mixing with your arousal in thick, dripping strands that clung and stretched. He ate like famine gripped him—sucking your clit between lips, teeth nipping light, tongue plunging deep, fucking into you with wet, obscene thrusts.

“Fuck—Remmick—”

He didn’t stop.

Wouldn’t.

A hand pinned your thigh wide—claws pricking faint, holding you open as his mouth worked ruthless. Lick after lick after lick—broad stripes, pointed flicks, circling that swollen peak until sparks lit your veins. Your heightened world exploded: every lap thundered like thunder, his hums rattled your bones, scent of sex and him choking the air. Pleasure built savage, coiling tighter than before, guilt fracturing under the onslaught.

He pulled back just enough—barely—to growl against your dripping core. “Taste so goddamn sweet, darlin’. All mine.” Then back in—fangs scraping inner thighs, tongue spearing deep, lips sealing to suck like he’d draw your soul through your cunt.

Your tears were endless.

Sobs melting to screams.

Hated it.

Needed it.

His free hand slid up—fingers pinching your nipple, rolling hard, syncing with the frenzy below. Mouth unrelenting—lapping, sucking, biting faint at tender flesh. Growls turning feral, drool slicking your thighs, water doing nothing to dilute the mess. You were soaked. Ruined. Every sense overtaken—his heat, his hunger, his everything consuming you whole.

The edge loomed again.

Faster.

Harder.

His tongue lashed with renewed fury, plunging deep into your core before flicking up to your clit in a rhythm that bordered on brutal. You couldn’t take it anymore. The pleasure bordered on pain now—too intense, too all-consuming for your sharpened senses to process. Your hands shot to his head, fingers tangling in his slick hair as you tried to push him away. “Remmick—stop, too much, I can’t—”

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t even pause.

Instead, his grip tightened. His claws dug deeper into the soft flesh of your thighs, pricking skin with sharp points that drew faint beads of blood. The sting barely registered amid the onslaught, but it anchored you, held you mercilessly open. He locked you against his mouth, nose grinding into your mound, lips sealing tight as he devoured you with even more ferocity. Growls vibrated through your folds, low and animalistic, drowning out your pleas. He didn’t seem to hear you anymore.

Or if he did, he didn’t care.

His tongue thrust relentlessly, curling inside you, lapping every inch like a beast denied for centuries. Fangs scraped your inner lips, teasing peril without piercing, while his lips sucked hard on your clit, pulling it between them with obscene pressure.

You thrashed.

Sobs tore from your throat—pleasure and overwhelm twisting into something frantic. “Please—Remmick!” Your hips bucked wildly, but his claws pinned you down, unyielding. He ate you like he owned you, tongue swirling faster, wetter, more invasive, saliva dripping in thick strands that mixed with your arousal and the shower’s endless cascade.

Every sense screamed: the wet smacks of his mouth, the copper tang of your own blood mingling faint with the air, his scent choking everything else. You loathed how it built again, coiling savage despite your protests, euphoria crashing higher until your vision blurred.

It hit like oblivion.

You came.

Hard.

Your body seized, back arching off the marble as waves ripped through you—insane, shattering, so high you nearly blacked out. A scream echoed off the walls, raw and broken, as you soaked him completely. Slick gushed from you in hot pulses, flooding his mouth, his chin, dripping down his neck to mix with the water. He drank it all, growling deep, tongue still working through the spasms, prolonging every twitch until you shuddered boneless beneath him.

Only then did he relent.

He lifted his head slowly, face glistening—your release smeared across his lips, his cheeks, clinging in strands to his fangs. Red eyes glowed triumphant, pupils blown wide. He crawled up your body with deliberate grace, water sluicing over both of you, and captured your mouth in a kiss.

You accepted it.

Couldn’t do anything else.

Your limbs felt like lead, spent and trembling, every muscle drained from the high. His lips pressed soft now—loving, almost tender—as his tongue slipped inside, mingling saliva thick and warm. You tasted yourself on him: sharp, sweet, intoxicating. Your fangs brushed his, a faint scrape that sent aftershocks tingling through you. He kissed you deeply, slowly, hand cupping your jaw like you were fragile porcelain. No rush. Just possession wrapped in gentleness.

He pulled back just enough to murmur against your lips. “There ya go, darlin’. All better now.”

And it was.

He had done exactly as he promised. The memory of the man—the kind eyes, the blood, the guilt—had faded to a distant echo, washed away in the flood of him. Nothing remained but Remmick. His touch. His taste. His voice coiling through your mind like roots taking hold.

Time blurred in the steam-filled haze.

Minutes?

Hours?

You couldn’t tell.

The shower poured on, relentless, but he made no move to stop it at first. He simply held you there, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, whispering soft nothings that wove deeper into your bones.

“Ya did so good for me,” he said, voice a low rumble, thumb stroking your damp cheek. “My brave girl. Lettin’ me take care of ya like this. Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt ya now. Not while I’m here.”

His words wrapped around you, gentle and addictive, each one a thread pulling you tighter to him. You melted into it, eyelids heavy, body limp against the marble. He shifted, reaching past you with one arm, and the water cut off abruptly. Silence rushed in—broken only by your shared breaths and the faint drip from fixtures. Cool air kissed your heated skin, raising goosebumps, but he didn’t let you shiver long.

Remmick gathered you up effortlessly, cradling you against his chest as he stepped from the shower. His clothes clung sodden and ruined, but he ignored them. He carried you to the marble counter, perching you there gently, like you weighed nothing.

“Hold still, sugar,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple before turning to the linen closet.

He returned with a towel—plush, oversized, warmed somehow in his hands. He draped it over your shoulders first, rubbing slow circles to chase away the chill. His touch stayed reverent, obsessive in its thoroughness: drying your arms, your back, lifting each leg to pat tenderly along the claw-marked thighs. He lingered there, eyes darkening faint at the red welts, but his fingers soothed rather than tormented—light strokes that made you sigh. “Look at these,” he whispered, voice thick with feigned regret. “Got carried away lovin’ on ya. I’ll kiss ‘em better later. Promise.”

You nodded faintly, too spent to argue, leaning into his care. He dried your hair next, fingers combing through the wet strands with shameless intimacy, tilting your head back to blot the nape of your neck.

Every motion screamed possession: the way he murmured praises—“So beautiful like this, all soft and mine”—the way his eyes never left you, red glow simmering possessive. “Ya don’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing. I got ya forever now. No more scrubbin’, no more ghosts. Just us.”

Time slipped further. He wrapped you in the towel like a cocoon, lifting you again to carry you from the bathroom. The estate’s halls blurred past—dark wood panels, faint lamplight casting long shadows—but you barely registered them. Your bedroom materialized: the massive four-poster bed, silk sheets rumpled from earlier nights, air heavy with his scent. He laid you down reverently, peeling the towel away to slide cool sheets over your naked skin.

He stripped then—efficient, unhurried—tossing wet clothes aside before joining you. His body pressed close, warm and solid, one arm banding around your waist to tuck you against his chest. “Sleep now, darlin’,” he cooed, lips brushing your ear, hand splaying wide over your stomach in a move that felt like protection. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Gonna hold ya all night. Dream of good things. Dream of me.”

His fingers traced lazy patterns—spine, hip, the curve of your breast—gentle caresses that lulled rather than aroused. Kisses dotted your shoulder, your hair. “You're perfect,” he whispered, obsessive litany spilling soft. “My heart. My everything. Turned ya right, didn’t I? Feel that strength in ya now? All mine to keep safe.” Delusions layered sweet, each word erasing cracks, filling you with him.

The man’s face flickered once—faint—then vanished, overwritten by Remmick’s touch, his breath syncing with yours.

Your eyelids drooped.

The world narrowed to his warmth, his voice humming low lullabies in that hypnotic tone. “That’s it. Drift off. I love ya more than anythin’. Forever, sugar. Just like this.”

Sleep took you then.

Deep.

Dreamless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t sleep?”

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

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

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

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

It’s not Malcolm. 

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

He looks like death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head softly, not understanding. 

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

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

“Malcolm was his name, yes?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Remmick.”

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t listen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think I’ll keep you.”

“Mmmm,” you sigh sleepily as you roll over, your hair tangling against the sheets.

With every gentle movement of your body, the scent of your lotion floods Remmick’s senses, the sweet smell of jasmine and hibiscus and you lingering in every breath. You’re curled up against him, your warmth heating his body in a way that feels familiar and comforting. He brings one finger to rest under your chin, his thumb rubbing your lip gently.

You’re so pretty like this, lost in the haze of sleep. Your face is completely at peace, your features softened. Your cheek pressed into the pillow, your hair tousled. He presses his thumb to your lip again, tugging slightly on the skin. He traces his thumb down, stroking along the line of your throat until he’s rubbing gentle circles into the u of your collarbone.

He presses his thumb up higher on your neck, feeling the steady thump-thump-thump of your pulse, slowed by slumber. Your skin is slicked by a light layer of sweat. Even the most threadbare quilt you could find and the old wooden ceiling fan circling above you was never enough to stave off the perspiration of the Delta in late July.

His fingers continue, tracing delicate patterns down the intricate lace at the neckline of your nightgown. He travels further, delicately playing with each button down the front of the thin garment as he goes. He reaches your side and gently hikes the nightgown up around your hips, pressing his thumb into the pressure point of the socket and dragging in slow, torturous circles. The pressure makes you twist and grind your hips in your sleep, rocking against nothing.

He chuckles, a dark sound low in his throat, as you sigh again.

“Feels good, baby?” he teases in a whisper.

You pull one knee up to rest between his legs. He dips his hand beneath your thigh, slowly stroking your warm skin. The slight parting of your legs sends the scent of you cascading through him with every breath. Remmick inhales deeply, smelling your desperation as it washes over you. You let out a puff of air and readjust your hips, still lost in sleep.

“Aww,” he laughs lightly. “She needs me, huh? She need me?”

The hand that’s stroking your thigh quietly finds its way to the cotton panties between your legs, already sticky from whatever dream you’re having. He loops one finger around the fabric and slowly pulls them to the side, relishing the way your wetness makes a slick string connecting you to the cloth as he peels it away. 

“Aww, yeah…she needs me real bad.”

You whine softly. 

In your dream, Remmick runs his hands down your thighs and grips your hips roughly. 

“C’mon sweetheart, promise I’ll make it good,” he grins.

You try to twist out from under him.

“Nuh-uh, sugar, come on…don’t lie to me. Know you want it.”

He brings the tips of his fingers to his mouth and licks, an obscene gesture, before he presses his fingers to your clit, applying rough pressure immediately and laughing.

In your bed, Remmick circles your clit slowly with this thumb, pressing into you roughly as you try to toss and turn against his touch.

“Sh, shh…I’m gon’ make it all better sweetheart, don’t worry,” he soothes. “Gon’ take care’a ya.”

Your breath shudders out of you as he continues, pressing rough, mean circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves at your center.

“C’mon, baby, holdin’ out on me…”

Your breath comes quicker now, making your chest rise and fall. 

“Rem, stop–can’t–”

“Aw, c’mon sugar, yes y’can,” he teases.

“N-no, no, stop it–”

“Y’ain’t got one little one in ya? C’mon baby, I know you lyin’,” he drawls. “Lookit how wet she is already.”

He smears his hand against your cunt, the disgusting wet sounds bringing heat to your cheeks as you twist and shove your face into the pillow.

“C’mon, sugar, ‘m right here,” he husks in your ear. “Just gimme one. Just one, yeah?”

You moan against his chest, a desperate and needy sound that betrays the desires lurking in your dreams.

“Yeahhhh,” he mumbles. “Just one, c’mon baby.”

You shudder against him, your hands clutching at the sheets and clawing at his chest. He slowly and firmly presses up into you, teasing you even more as your orgasm makes your body shake and your breath run ragged.

“Yeah, good girl,” he praises. “Good job, baby. Knew y’could do it. She likes to cum on my pretty fingers, huh?”

“N-no, no, stop it–”

You kick at him, trying to escape his strong grip.

“Let me go!” you scream, your voice hoarse.

“Nooo, sugar, I don’t think so,” he grins, his fangs protruding from his lips. “See, you’re mine. That means I getta take whatever I want, ‘member?”

He roughly knocks your hips apart, spreading your legs. You feel exposed and disgusting, knowing you can’t hide your arousal from him at this angle. You twist your head away, unable to look at him kneeling between your legs. You gasp when you feel a hot, wet, stream of liquid falling onto your cunt, painting your folds. He’s drooling on you, spilling his saliva from his mouth onto your lips before he brings his hand back to you, smearing and spreading and mixing your wetness with his spit.

“Don’t even think you’ll need this, but I thought I’d help ya out,” he smirks.

“Fuck, sweetheart, so wet,” Remmick coos at you, his hand still swirling between your legs. You whimper again, your brows knitting together in a way that has him weak. He bucks his hips against you.

“Goddamn, sugar,” he pants, breathless. He’s already hard, and especially bothered from making you cum on his fingers. He brings his hand, his digits still wet and sticky from your release, to rest over your tummy. You cry out at the loss of his fingers over your sex.

“I know, I know,” he shushes you. “Gonna give you somethin’ better, sweetheart, just relax.”

His hands travel to the waistband of his boxers, pulling himself out. He’s hard and flushed, precum already leaking from the tip.

“Where should I give it t’ya, hm?” he taunts.

“S-stop, stop, please–”

“Y’want it down your throat?”

He leans over you and wraps a hand around your neck, squeezing gently.

“Or I could pull out and paint your pretty face,” he hums.

He brings one thumb to your cheek and softly strokes your face. The gesture would be almost loving if he didn’t have you trapped underneath him.

He snakes down your body, his hands tracing gentle patterns, his wet mouth leaving sticky kisses on your chest and stomach.

“Y’want it all over the front?” 

He punctuates this sentence with a loud disgusting slap to your soaked cunt. 

“Give ‘er a little more juice?” he laughs. “I kinda like that…then it’s up to her. Y’get knocked up, it’s just ‘cause she’s so greedy, suckin’ me in.”

You whimper under him.

“Ohh…” he drawls, a knowing glint in his eye. “That’s it, huh? You wanna get knocked up? You want me inside?”

“N-no, no, please, don’t–I’m not…haven’t been taking…”

“Shhhh, it’s okay,” he smiles. “You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout a thing, darlin’.”

Remmick’s traveled down and is now kneeling between your legs, stroking himself lazily. He tries not to squeeze too tight, knowing he won’t last long anyway.

“You want this,” he mumbles. “You want me, darlin’.”

Your eyes are still squeezed shut as he prods your entrance, rocking forward just enough for the tip to enter. A small cry escapes your lips.

“Sh-sh-sh-shhhh,” he shushes you. “Gon’ give ya exactly whatcha need, princess, just be patient.”

He shoves all the way into you at a slow pace, making you feel every inch of him splitting you open. When his hips rest against yours, your jaw hangs open, your breath barely filling your lungs.

“Yeah, betcha feel me all the way up here,” he smiles darkly, pressing a hand underneath your ribcage. He swirls his thumb into your skin and you swear you can feel him bruising your diaphragm.

“Ngh, fuck, sugar, feel so good,” he mumbles. “Suckin’ me in so deep, she’s fuckin’ beggin’ for it.”

“N-no…p-pull, out, please,” you manage to choke out.

“Nahh baby, that’s not what she wants.”

He slowly pulls back and ruts forward again, stretching you out. You gasp and wince in pain.

“See that? She wants me deep. Wants me all up in there. Right there. See?”

He grips your chin and forces you to look at where your bodies are connected. You can see him bulging through the lower part of your abdomen with every disgusting thrust.

“See, can y–ah,” he falters when he twists his hips up at that angle that makes a sob catch in the back of your throat.

“There she is,” he grunts. “There she fuckin’ is.”

You’re crying now, hot tears streaming down your cheeks.

“Puh-please, please stop,” you cry. “I promise I’ll do whatever you want, just please…don’t…”

He laughs again.

“Oh, sweetheart…I know ya will.”

Remmick leans over you and grabs your hand from your side. He presses your palm to your tummy, the added pressure making your breath falter.

“Want me to give ya a little baby?” he coos at you in your sleep. “Want me to put it right here? Make my girl a mama?”

Tears are running down your cheeks in real life, too, a response to the abuse he’s putting your mind through in your dream and the abuse he’s putting your body through in your bed.

He ruts up into you, deep and hard, feeling himself filling you completely.

“That’s it, sugar, c’mon, you gotta gimme another one,” he huffs. “Gotta help me out here, need ya to open up for me.”

He laughs above you, a sick and mean sound that echoes through your bedroom.

He presses his hand over yours into your tummy, his claws just barely pressing into your flesh.

“Gonna put a little fuckin’ Antichrist in here,” he chuckles. “Gonna give ya what ya want, sugar.”

“N-no–stop–it,” you sniffle. “It hurts.”

“Then why don’tcha fuckin’ cry about it?” he huffs.

He slams into you with a relentless rhythm, chasing his own release.

You let out a scream when he hits that spot deep inside of you that has your vision fuzzing at the edges.

“Yeahh, c’mon, sugar, you got one more f’me, know ya do.”

You stir slightly underneath him, your eyes finally opening as you look around, dazed. You can feel the bed rocking under you as Remmick continues his pace, thrusting into you mercilessly.

“Aww, is she awake?” he whispers sweetly.

“Wha- how…you’re…”

“Shhhh, shh, ‘s okay sugar,” he comforts you, still driving into you in the dark. All you can see are his red eyes gleaming down at you.

“I’m so sorry, baby, I know, I know,” he dotes. “I woke y’up. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You don’t even have the energy to fight him. Your whole body feels weighed down by sleep and pleasure.

“Feels so good, though, huh princess?”

You moan into the pillow, feeling your body, limp under his touch, responding to his every move.

“Shh, shh…won’t even remember this in the mornin’, angel, promise.” 

You can feel an orgasm approaching you, not even building in tension as it would if you were chasing your own ecstasy. It creeps into your body, against your will, a physical response to his ravaging.

He leans up over you and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“Well, you won’t,” he laughs. He brings his hand to your clit and roughly circles you once more. “She will.”

You gasp as his touch finally sends you over the edge. You can feel the nerves in your body dancing and relaxing as you sink into the bed, warm and pliable as he continues.

“Yeahhh, good girl,” he praises. “Open up f’me, gotta make sure I get nice and deep in there.”

A few more rough thrusts and you feel him release inside of you, his cum spurting deep into your womb.

“Y-yeah,” he groans. “Riiiight there. Fuck.”

He continues rocking his hips, like he’s afraid to waste any final drops he has to give you.

“R-Rem,” you whisper hoarsely.

“No, no, no, ‘s okay, baby,” he coos. “Jus’ tryna give ya whatcha want,” he says with a sick smile.

“N-no–”

“Shhhh, yeah. Yeah. Y’want my little baby growin’ inside’a ya. S’whatcha were dreamin’ ‘bout, right?”

“No, I–” you wince harshly when he pulls out, feeling the disgusting gush of his cum and your juices leaking out of you, dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.

He brings his hand down between your legs again, playing with the mess that leaks out of you, painting it over your skin with his fingers. He takes two fingers and uses them to shove his release back inside of you, making you sob at the overstimulation.

“Shhh…I know ya want it, sugar,” he hums. “This way, y’ain’t even gotta ask. Jus’ lemme do all the work, yeah?”

“Rem-mick, how…how long, you…” you can’t form a coherent sentence.

“Shhh, sweetheart. You not even gon’ remember. Promise.”

He didn't either.

The atmosphere was maddening, drowning in tension— the type that made it hard to breathe. He tilted his head, slow, meticulous— enough to make it known that he was watching. Waiting.

And then, the cool breeze rustled by, tugging through your hair, carrying the scent of your fear straight to him. You saw it then—how he inhaled, long and deep. A low hiss escaped him, shaky and slow, like the rumble of a crocodile just beneath the surface.

Slowly, he opened his mouth, sinister and sharp— all jagged teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

A warning.

You could feel your fight or flight kick in, screaming at you to do something—anything. You bolted, retracing the path you just came from, feet pounding against the earth.

One glance back, he was still there, unmoving. Then, in an instant, gone.

You willed your legs to move faster, pushing them to their limit—

Suddenly, your foot caught on a root, sending you sprawling— tumbling across the mossy ground in a chaotic blur. Pain shot up your legs — sharp and immediate— but there was no time to dwell on it. You scrambled to your feet, breath ragged, eyes wide, panic tightening in your chest. 

You couldn’t stop. 

You wouldn’t stop.

As you staggered forward, you heard it— a low, grating hiss, sending terror through your veins. A sound so primal, so inhuman, that it felt like the very air around you had thickened— suffocating you in a cold grip of fear.

You couldn’t outrun it, couldn’t see where he was but you felt his presence everywhere: In the dirt, in the trees, in the air, on your skin— as if the very forest was alive, playing in on the chase, stalking your every move.

A sharp corner had you stumbling on your feet but you recovered quickly, the will to survive beckoning you forward.  

You turned another corner—

Quick and frantic, heart pounding— desperate to confuse him.

Another corner—

The darkness closed in. Shrouding you in silence.

Another corner—

You were sure you lost him.

Another corner—

— he was there.

The sound of his steps, heavy and unyielding, cracked through the silence like thunder. Before you could register what was happening, his weight slammed into you, knocking you off your feet.

The world spun as you hit the ground, the wind forced from your lungs in a brutal gasp. You were pinned beneath him, unable to move, the ground hard against your back.

He looked unreal, eyes burning red, claws wrapped around your throat— not squeezing, just holding. A soft growl seethed past lips, sending prickles of warmth down your legs.

“Remmick—”

He was on you in an instant, his lips against yours— rough, ravenous, unrelenting. He kissed like he wanted to devour you— wild and raw— all teeth and sharp tongue.

You could feel his claws skimming down your neck until they shredded the front of your shirt, dipping into your cleavage. He traced a sharp, burning path—skin flushed red, not quite deep, but enough to remind you of how easy it was for him to ruin you.

He didn't stop there, he kept going, making sure to rip open the front of your shirt— revealing skin that quickly cooled to the air. Your heart was beating rapidly against your chest— pounding against your eardrums.

Remmick was listening.

Always listening.

Enjoying the way the tempo of your heart swayed whenever he did something that sent tremors through your body. When he dragged his tongue against yours, it shifted. When he dipped his clawed finger into the front of your pants, your heart throbbed against your ribcage.

You tried so hard to fight off the kiss, tried so hard to pretend like you didn't enjoy what he was doing, but the prickles in your skin— the soft moans reluctantly escaping your mouth betrayed you.

You turned your head to deny him, kicking your feet, twisting and turning underneath his heavy weight, but it only made him want you more— only made him hungrier. He followed along with your movements, his head turning with yours so he could lick into your mouth, tasting your sweet moans on his tongue.

He was growing hard at the sight of you, the sounds you were making, weak and helpless— the perfect prey for him to feast on.

"I knew you'd run so pretty for me." He purred, leaning back with a grin. The shadows distorted his face but his eyes shone bright—two red beams cutting through the dark.

He grabbed the side of your pants with both hands, tugging them off— panties with it— swift and precise, refusing to waste any more time. You squeaked when the cool air hit your bare thighs, goosebumps forming over your skin.

“Fuck— I could smell you a mile away. Dripping for me already.” The sound of his belt unbuckling rang in your ears, the slick feeling of his cock already sliding against your folds— not entering, just teasing along the lines— made your head spin.

“See what you do to me?” he growled, rutting forward, the tip of his cock pressing in but not quite. “See how much I—” he hissed low, feeling how slick you were already. “I fucking— burn for you?”

You gasped when he slapped the tip against your clit— once, twice, three times— all set to make your pussy call for him, force you to accept how bad you wanted it.

Wanted him.

“Say it,” he demanded, pushing the tip back in, still tethering on the edge, “Say you want me to ravish you.”

He dipped in slowly, not exactly moving— just feeling your walls clamp around him. He wanted to hear you say it, wanted to hear those sweet precious cries— begging him to take you right here and right now.

You jolted when he pushed in, all the way to the hilt— his cock laying heavy inside of your cunt.

"Remmick—"

"Say it again," he growled, “Call out my name— scream it if you have to.”

“Remmick, please—”

He held the back of your thighs with both hands, pressing your legs against your chest and plunged in. He didn't wait to adjust, didn't ask how you're feeling— he just thrusted in relentlessly, dragging his cock against your walls in rapid succession, chasing that high that made your pussy convulse around him.

“So fucking tight—” he hissed, bending down, lips brushing against yours. “Knew you couldn't run for long.”

“Remmick!” you cried, holding onto his shoulders, trembling underneath him.

“Thats it— keep screaming for me.” He claimed your lips once more, rutting into you with renewed hunger.

Your legs tensed, stomach curling with heat— finding it impossible to hide your pleasure anymore.

Just when you thought he couldn't do worse— adding on to the sweet damage he was inflicting onto your poor body— his fangs, jagged and sharp, pierced into your lip, tearing through the flesh.

The pain flared like hot needles piercing your skin. You sobbed, blood filling your mouth— thick and metallic— like bitter wine. It felt like he was draining you, each pull harsher than the other— too intoxicated to care how violently you shook beneath him.

“Gonna ruin you—make sure your unrecognizable when I'm done.” he groaned, snapping his hips into your ass. “That's what you wanted right? Wanted me to fuck you in the woods? Chase after you— spoil that pretty pussy—”

SMACK.

He stopped abruptly, eyes widened in disbelief, a mix of shock and arousal flashing across his face.

You struck him, your palm meeting his cheek with a resounding crack, the sound echoing in the quiet air— leaving a sting that lingered on a your hands.

A deep, primal sound vibrated from his chest. Not quite a growl— something far more dangerous.

Your body moved before you could process it, leaning up to kiss him— messy, blood smearing against your mouth. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in closer— hands threading through his hair.

He encased his hand around your throat, holding you down as he shoved himself back inside your soaked cunt— making sure it hurt.

He fucked you there, in the dirt, rough and relentless— The sound of skin meeting skin filled the air, raw impatient, feral.

His grip on your throat tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin as he listened to you gasp, but you didn't resist against his hold— your body arching into his.

You ached for more, ached for him—craved that overwhelming, ruinous force of his love.

It was only a matter of time before you unraveled completely.

Your cunt clenched around him when his cock pressed against your cervix, smashing against the tight ring— sending ripples of signals straight to your brain.

Remmick downright howled, jaw slack, drool pooling from his mouth— landing onto your skin, some between the crevices of your breast.

“Rem—Rem—mick—” you choked.

“That's it— call out for me.” he hissed, grinding his cock into your weeping cunt. “There ya go— just keep crying for me."

He used his free hand to press down on your stomach, a dark chuckle rolling off of him, "Feel that?" he sighed, pressing down again. "See how swollen you are with me? See how perfect this pussy is for me?"

"Can't— too— much!" You stuttered, moaning in broken syllables.

"Then come on me, darlin’— show me who you belong to.”

Your pussy went numb, everything too much. You came— seeing stars rolling against your vision. He bottomed out, groaning into your open mouth— his fingers imprinting themselves into your skin, sure enough to leave a bruise. He pushed his cock in as far as he could go, as far as your cunt could take him, and still demanded more— spilling inside, flooding your walls.

The cool air calmed the heat blazing over your skin, the sounds of the forest pulled you back to reality.

His hold on your neck softened afterwards, your lungs quickly making work of pumping oxygen back into your body. You sighed, catching your breath— relaxing finally, your legs falling back to the ground.

“Hold on— I didn't say we were done playing.” He chuckled, withdrawing his hands from your throat— quickly finding your hips. “That was just the beginning.”

“P-Please— I can't—”

"You can."

Swiftly, he flipped you over, causing your hands to meet the cool dirt, fingers digging in for stability, while your knees braced against the floor. His lips gently kissed the arch of your spine before he lowered himself, his palms resting against your ass, squeezing the plump flesh firmly.

“Gonna eat you alive— make sure I take everything from you. This precious cunt, your heart— your soul.” he purred, brushing his lips against your skin. “Make sure everything about you is me.”

You gulped, quivering under his voice.

“And this time,” His mouth burned across your flushed skin, tongue dragging over your flesh. “I won't chase after you.”

Remmick towers over you, knees locking your hips into place in the dust below. His eyes shine like rubies in candlelight - burning red hot. They have been locked on you since he toppled you to the ground, since he ripped your shirt open and basked in the scent of your sweat. A panicked sweat, etched around the curves of your stomach, in the creases of your neck, and the plane of your brow. You looked so beautifully fearful under him, so fully taken over by shaken woe. He loves the way your pupils ripple when his clawed fingers trace down your stomach. Even more so, he loves the shocked scream he receives when he rips your trousers in two, leaving you on full display under the moonlight.

A perfect table – set just for him. A decadent meal, wrapped pretty in tears and gasping pants.

Your pleas met empty ears as your hands pressed to his chest, never faltering his weight. You put up a fight, slashing your nails over his chest, across his face or any piece of skin that can find purchase. But he simply watches, blinking slowly, grin wrapped up in a promise of hurt.

His fangs shine when he shifts over you, coughing up a ball of spit, he directs it into his palm. He rubs the thickened saliva around his thumb, middle, and forefingers, making sure to keep the movements directly in your sight.

“Don’t ya move, pretty thing. I’ll only slice ya apart if ya do.” His voice vibrates, coated in darkness deeper than the inky depths outside. A demon takes over his words, a demon with the threat of promise.

Claws trace past your opening first, sharp and cold. You jerk, knees swift as they crash into the small of his back. He rocks with the impact but doesn’t stop. A wicked, wet laugh exits his throat between clenched teeth.

“Do that again and I’ll be sure to shred ya apart.” A slicked finger presses inside of you.

You felt the claws first as they entered you, threatening to break skin with any movement you weren’t supposed to make. Suddenly, your body froze, wrapped in time, sickened and pained. The saliva on his fingers washed your walls perfectly, giving a slight barrier for his nails. Once his knuckles enter you though, that’s when the sensation rises. You shudder, feeling the cold connection of skin over the most sensitive parts inside you. Mouth dropping open, you gasp a breath. This time though, it wasn’t in fight. The claws scrape just some as his fingers deepen inside of you, pressing dangerously, before he stills them. You clench, pulsing around his fingers but not moving. Though you wanted to fight.

You suck in a breath as he arches down, leaning face to face with you in an instant. His breaths wash over your face, filling your nose with smoke and sin. With iron and meat. He snickers, low and heavy.

“You like when my nails dig past your walls, don’t you?” He arches down more, connecting his tongue to your jaw. Inch by inch, his pointed tongue laps up the skin, sloping over to wrap around your ear. “You want me to fuck you with these claws, don’t ya? Want to be so scared of me ripping you apart, but also makin’ ya feel so good. Dirty little fuckin’ slut, just for me.”

He pulls his fingers back, savoring the way your walls quiver with the lack of touch. The growl that enters your ear is animalistic, shaking your core hot. He dives his fingers back in, pressing up, rubbing that perfect spot inside of you as his mouth trails wet down your neck, ending right in the crook. Your hips buck, delving those fingers deeper. You feel the etch of one nail press into the skin before it just barely cuts you inside.

You yelp, the tears finally trail down your face as the pain shoots all over. It’s not agonizing or crippling. It just adds to the sensation inside of you. Now with every withdrawal, your walls shudder, but also burn.

And fuck. It feels so good.

You could hear the slick of the spit as his fingers pump inside you at a slow, calculated pace. You also heard the blood as it mixed, as it accented those movements, as it filled your senses.

The heated tip of his tongue flicks over the arch of your neck as he fucks you, nuzzling his nose into the skin there. He savors the feeling of your heart as it pumps blood frantically through the vein in your neck.

“Fuck, baby. You are just so perfectly ready for me,” he praises, voice still toxic and evil.

You clench around him as his pace quickens, rubbing you so perfectly inside. His other hand splays over your chest, anchoring you down.

“Don’t move, this'll only hurt a little.” He sinks his teeth into your neck.

The feeling was searing hot, but somehow, ice cold. You felt the etched curves of each tooth puncture your skin, felt the barrier give way and pop under the pressure. The pain lit your eyes, shooting white silky blurs in your vision. You cry out a shattered breath, but that only deepens the suction.

His movements inside of you never cease, actually, they become more frantic as he steadily begins drinking. The sound of him slurping and the wetness of you being finger-fucked was all too much. You cry. Weep even. But that doesn’t stop him. And that doesn’t stop the undeniable pleasure you feel as his fingers curve into your walls.

He was taking what was his with no permission. He was claiming and worshiping his property, the way HE wanted to. You were his pawn, his plaything. And you weren’t going anywhere now.

He only detaches from your neck to draw back once again, hovering over you.

“Open,”

Your eyes widen at his demand. You crease your lips tight, sharpening your glare at him.

“Open your fuckin’ mouth.” His hand whips to your jaw, gripping it with unyielding strength. The tips of his nails embed into the skin, breaking it open as his knuckles press painfully into your gums through your cheeks.

You gasp, mouth gaping only to get relief from the pain. He growls before he spits a hot, melted glob of spit into your tongue. It tasted of salt, blood, and sweat. It tasted sweet but coated in dirt.

“Swallow it.” His grip stayed iron on your jaw, red eyes blazing with demand.

You swallow, tasting it as it slides down your tongue and slithers down your throat. He gives a satisfied purr and in turn, pumps his fingers inside you again.

That’s the game he plays with you. Sucking from your neck, drawing out the pain. Then fucking you so expertly with those fingers that suddenly the pain felt good. Against yourself, against everything you knew to be true, you felt yourself building. You found yourself getting drunk from the feeling, from the pain and pleasure. From the spit he drives into your mouth with every pull back. With the noises of pleasure he made himself.

You sob as your orgasm rocks through you, as you give him what he wanted all along. You. All of you. Pure and simple and raw.

“Filthy fuckin’ thing.” He breathes against your neck, slipping his nose over the bloody holes his teeth made in the crook. “Now let’s see how that pretty little hole takes my cock, shall we?”