#dom!remmick

“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.

Lottie had been cooped up inside for weeks when Mama heard of what happened at the Juke Joint a couple towns over. She didn’t go anywhere without her brothers then—although it wasn’t like they didn’t hover before— they stuck to her sides like gnats in a flytrap. It didn’t make any sense to her, why her Mama kept such close watch over her, even though she’d always spin endless reasons why:

“You too pretty, them boys ain’t gon’ act right!”

“You sure as hell ain’t goin’ out with them little fast girls—ain’t bringing back no babies under my roof…”

“You ain’t gone waste your smarts talking to them good-for-nuthin’ boys. You got music to practice fa’ Sunday.”

And on, and on, and on.

It had been summer, too—usually Papa could get his wife to see sense, let the kids go into town under his watchful eye, but the summer after the Juke Joint was different.

Everything after that night was different.

People talked to each other—mothers and aunties, of course, but even the men—pondering their troubles about what they’d heard or what so-and-so might’ve seen under feverish, urgent whisper. Maybe it was from the Klansmen one of the Smokestack twins had killed. Vengeful white men put trouble in the air that reached across sky and land, choking everything in its path. But the white men never came.

Not any new ones, anyhow. Besides, white folks loved Lottie and her Mama—she worked in one of those white men’s houses, and the wife loved having Lottie and her harp traverse the dirt roads into town to sing through their halls. She grew a little famous, even, putting on mini-concerts of Fauré and Debussy for living rooms full of white women, while their patient husbands smoked cigars over brandy in the other room. They would watch her slight, dark hands nimbly dance over the strings with their flutes of champagne on holidays, eyes damn near full of tears—or that’s what her Mama told her, at least.

White folks loved Lottie and her Mama so much the wife hosted her for music lessons on her dime. From twelve to eighteen, she would hitch a ride in someone’s car to meet with Mrs. Desjardins, who was too severe to marvel at her, but too impressed to not impart a compliment.

“You could go somewhere with a gift like that, Charlotte,” she would tell her, “Not too many of you get such a chance.”

But Lottie didn’t think of chances that summer. She heard whispers under the adults’ breath, felt the tension in the air when she played for her church on Sundays, could practically taste the sweat and alcohol and hear the screams echoing out into the unyielding darkness in her dreams.

“I hear there ain’t even no bodies. Just blood and burnt dirt. I tell you, it’s the devil’s work.”

“I ain’t takin no chances with me or my children, Esther,” her mother said, voice hushed, “I mean, how a whole juke joint of folks just up and disappear like that? Just some ashes and some cars. How we know we ain’t next?”

It made Lottie wonder, especially at the worst times when she was the only one awake with the stillness of night to keep her company. She would listen to the crickets and cicadas and feel her heart pound in her chest as sweat trickled down her temples. How could all those people disappear? What was out there, in the darkness, waiting for them?

The thought would make her draw the blinds, trying the get the images of haunts out of her mind so she wouldn’t scare herself to death, but the silence made it worse, pressing down on her mind like the Delta heat.

So, she played.

Softly, so as not to wake anyone else up, especially her brothers, who were already sick of the sight of the thing, always grumbling about having to carry it in and out of the house. No, no, not too loud.

Just soft enough for her to hear. To soothe her nerves. Rêverie did the trick.

Something in the air changed when she played, something she could feel. The night wasn’t so mysterious and vast anymore, full of blood-hungry Klansmen or ghosts and haints. There was no more fear. She could close her eyes, imagine an audience, and play.

She didn’t know the power her playing had, to move people, to heal, to bring God down in the room with you. But she felt Him at night, Him and His angels answering her call, to watch over her and her family through the night.

She didn’t know that one day, the night would answer her call, too.

Years passed, and fear was forgotten for happier times. Lottie managed to pick up piano and become a music teacher. She grew into a woman, too tall and full of curves to be welcomed into a white man’s house by his wife, but received fifty dollars every two months from Mrs. Desjardins, who had her mind set on sending her East. There wasn’t much work for a colored music teacher, but the women she used to play for had begun to hire her for proper gigs. After putting her money together, she’d finally saved enough for a home of her own.

It was a rotting shack at first, but her father and brothers made it up into a proper place to live. Soon enough, talk made it through town of the colored woman music teacher living by the edge of the woods, just outside of town, and gifts poured in to decorate her home. Quilts, drapes, a tablecloth—all mended together by hand by church women. (A shotgun, from her father. A pistol from Freddie, her old schoolmate.)

“Now, all you need is a husband,” her mother told her, “And I won’t have to worry bout nothing no more.”

Lottie laughed at the remark. “Nothing ‘cept some grandbabies making your house a mess.”

Now, she was twenty-three. Too old to be scared of the dark, too busy with students to practice during the day. She practiced her harp late into the night now for work, sitting with God all the while, her fingertips callousing with hours spent perched at her instrument, squinting in the oil-lamp light.

That was when he found her.

It was summer. Too hot to keep the blinds drawn when she desperately needed to let fresh air in, so she’d put screens over the windows and cracked them open. She was working on Vers la source dans le bois, too absorbed in her practice to catch the glimmers of reflective pupils in the trees. Her playing sang into the shadows as her fingers danced over the strings. The music fell onto her ears like rain, drowning out the sweat rolling down her neck, the way her mouth dried with thirst, even the cicadas. Her brows knit in focus and effort as she gracefully traveled back and forth over the strings, her head cocked ever-so-slightly despite her rigid posture, her eyes darting briefly over to the sheet music to check her tempo.

“Ow!”

She winced as her finger slipped, nicking on the string. She stopped abruptly, sucking on her fingertip, then pressing it onto her thigh through her cotton nightgown. Slowly, with a groan, she stretched out her back, then rolled her neck and massaged her hands. She looked around her home as if for the first time, snapped out of her trance.

That was when she heard it: the silence.

It hadn’t just been her playing drowning out the cicadas; they had gone dead quiet in a way that made her stomach drop. She stood quickly, brows drawn again as she swallowed. Her eyes scanned the dimly lit room, then peered out of the windows. On the left, there was nothing, just vast expanse under the moonlight. But…on the right…

Lottie was too grown to be scared of the woods, she knew it, but they didn’t sit right with her the moment she saw them. Trouble was, this house was the only one she could afford while still saving money, so she put on her big girl boots and dealt with it. But now, as her skin crawled under the silence, she regretted her choice.

Quickly, she slammed her left window shut and drew the blinds, unwilling to look out the right. She turned out her oil lamp, finding a sense of shelter in the dark, and after grabbing her pistol from the floor right next to her, finally approached the right window.

Her hair stood on her arms.

She could feel it now.

The eyes watching her from the trees.

She couldn’t see a damn thing through that thicket, but she could feel it. It froze her in place. She didn’t want to move closer, not even to close the window.

Don’t stop, the air suddenly whispered. So lovely.

Lottie felt her heart drop down to her stomach as a soft voice carried over the still air. Her heart was beginning to pick up its pace. Surely she imagined it.

Play.

Lottie clicked the safety of her pistol. She most surely didn’t.

She inched carefully toward the window, pulse thrumming in her ears.

“Whoever out there better be ready to get shot,” she warned, the timbre of her voice surprising her.

She didn’t even think she could speak.

Then, they finally appeared: a pair of wolf’s eyes, but too high to be a wolf’s. Her eyes widened as her shoulders tightened. Ain’t no way it was a bear, either.

Something moved in the trees as the eyes came closer, and Lottie’s legs nearly gave as her eyes made out the silhouette of a man. No man’s eyes glowed like that. His voice gently lilted through the window.

“I don’t mean no harm,” he reassured, coming into view.

It was a white man, dark-haired in a button up shirt and suspenders. Despite what he said, the moonlight carved shadows out of his eye sockets that sent a shiver down her spine. She pointed the gun at the window, making him stop and lift his hands in surrender.

“Just appreciatin’ yer playin’s all.”

She squinted, but couldn’t make out his face.

“What the hell a white boy doin’ in the forest this time of night if he ain’t looking for trouble?”

“Ah,” he remarked, a chuckle making his shoulders shake for a moment, “I suppose it is strange on my part, but I happen to live around here.”

“I ain’t never seen you.”

“Nor I you, till tonight.”

He came closer to the window, and Lottie turned her oil lamp back on to see his face instead of the silhouette that made her blood run cold. His features were handsome, but it didn’t put her at ease. He smiled as if it did.

“I happen to play myself,” he continued, revealing a banjo strapped to his torso, “Though not half as pretty as you.”

His eyes fixed onto her in a way that set her teeth on edge.

“I don’t think I’ve heard a harp in ages,” he said, “How’d you come across such a fine piece?”

She frowned, unsure if she should shoot the strange white man or humor him. If he was a man—the glowing of his eyes was still fresh in her mind. He lowered his hands, resting them on his banjo and beginning to pick a melody.

“My name’s Remmick,” he said, “What’s yours, darlin’?”

“Don’t call me darlin’,” she quickly replied.

He rose his eyebrows, smile still playing on his lips. Slowly, she clicked the safety back on and set her pistol down in the chair.

“Charlotte.”

He stopped playing, frowning. “Not Lottie?”

She groaned in discomfort, quickly running up the window and shutting it. His face fell as if in hurt. With a swallow, she drew the blinds and turned down her oil lamp, hugging her knees in her bed.

Remmick started playing again, lingering outside the window. His voice came through the glass.

“Was it something I said, darlin’?”

She bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut, willing the stranger away.

“Oh, come now, don’t be so scary,” he teased, “I promise I don’t mean ya any harm. Just heard talk of ya, that’s all. Wanted to hear ya play for myself.”

She stayed on the bed, her knees slipping against her sweaty arms. He played the melody a few more times, then suddenly fell silent. Then his voice sounded closer to the window.

“I know you’re not sleeping in there,” he said, “Not in this heat.”

Lottie stared at the curtains with her heart in her throat.

“Whatchu want with me? Get on outta here,” she said, her voice faltering, “I ain’t got no business with your kind—whatever it is.”

Another chuckle. “Just trying to be neighborly. But if you insist—“

“I do.”

“‘Til next time, darlin’.”

She listened to his playing fade away into the night, and let out a sigh of relief as the sound of cicadas returned.

Lottie barely made it through the day in one piece without a lick of sleep. She couldn’t have after the strange man from the woods. Even after an hour had passed, she half expected to hear him coming back to play his melody again and linger outside her window. She laid still in her bed, sweating through her nightgown, until the sun rose.

Under the protection of the sun, she felt less worried about running into him again, but a pit formed in her stomach as dusk came and went.

She locked up her doors and windows, and began to play. Same piece, same practice, but she couldn’t focus, not in this heat. With a sigh, she sat at the harp in silence, wiping her face and neck off with a cool towel.

Then, a tink.

She tensed at the sound coming from her right window, and sat alert.

Tink.

She frowned. Were those…pebbles?

Tink. Tink.

Slowly, Lottie rose from her seat and peeked through the blinds. The moon was bright tonight, so she could make him out easier. He was between the forest and her window, tossing pebbles at the glass. She squinted.

“Boy, what the hell…”

The light of her oil lamp peeked through her curtains, and he stopped tossing the little rocks, walking up to the window and gently tapping on the glass, puckering out his lower lip in mock sadness. She made a face, wiping her forehead again with her towel. Might as well see what the cracker wants this time.

She pulled one of the curtains open, peering at him cautiously. She unlocked the window and cracked it open. She welcomed the slightly cooler air on her skin.

“I ain’t playing tonight,” she said, “Too hot.”

“Oh, you’re breakin’ my heart, lass.”

“Mhm.”

“I s’pose it’s enough just to see your pretty face, though,” he said, devious smile evident in his voice.

She sucked her teeth, turning away from the window.

“You a fool, ain’t ya?”

“Hardly,” he replied, “I’m just too much a gentleman to say it the first time I met you. Playin’ that harp, you look just like an angel.”

The breeze blew the curtains apart gently, and Remmick leaned against the windowsill, grinning as he cocked his head, his gaze meandering her figure as she turned back around, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Doubt you know much about angels, whatever you is.”

“Enough to recognize one in front o’ me, sweetheart.”

She sighed, wiping her neck and chest as she collapsed in her chair.

“It’s too hot for all that nonsense, quit it. Whatchu doin’ back here, anyway? I told you I ain’t want nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t mean that,” he said, placing a hand on his chest, “I just gave you a little scare, that’s all.”

She didn’t answer. She rose from her seat, taking her towel to the washbin and swishing it around. She wrung it out and wiped her brow, pressing it against the back of her neck for some cool.

“Don’t leave me lonely over here, Charlotte,” his voice called out into the house, daring to sound wounded, “I only mean to be your friend. Little ladies like you shouldn’t be all alone in the night, sitting in the dark, without any friends.”

“Some friend, leering through my window like you do,” she said as she eased herself back into her seat, eyes shut.

“Well, you could always let me inside,” he suggested, no, offered, “Keep ya company through the night.”

Her head snapped over to him, eyes sharp. He smiled at her. She swallowed, looking at his mouth—his…his teeth. They were sharp and glimmering white like a beast’s. She shivered slightly despite having to wipe sweat from her neck again.

“What kinda monster are you anyhow, can’t make his own way into a little lady’s house?”

His teeth glistened in the lamplight. “I told ya I was a gentleman, ain’t gonna force my way in.”

“Can’t get no way in is more like it,” she dismissed, taking a small music program and starting to fan herself with it. She regarded him cautiously.

“I reckon you’d eat me whole if you got in here.”

He laughed softly, a low rumble in his chest that vibrated all the way to her bones.

“All the way up, sugar.”

Suddenly Lottie felt a bit too naked in the thin little nightgown stuck to her skin. She perched slightly in her chair, holding his gaze as he leaned closer to the window, eyes catching a red glow.

“Ain’t seen nothing as sweet as you.”

She pressed her knees together awkwardly, looking away.

“That ain’t no way to talk to nobody. I hardly know you.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, gaze pressing through the fabric, “I’ll fix that soon enough.”

In an instant, he was gone. The vice grip around her heart loosened as she took a deep, gasping breath. With a trembling exhale, she closed the window and shut the curtains.

Another sleepless night passed.

“Where you from, anyway?”

Remmick watched her lithe hands strum through the strings of the harp with a pleased smile on his face. Her pulse was racing, he could hear it, but her hands remained steady. His gaze skimmed the slight curve of her back, the fine muscles working in her slender forearms as she plucked through scales. Then she stopped and looked at him.

“You ain’t from round here.”

“I’m from somewhere long lost, darlin’. Nothing you’d know.”

“Europe, I reckon.”

He grinned, but his focus was on her hands.

“Play something, won’t you? Came all this way just to hear you play.”

The heat had lifted a little tonight, prompting Lottie to cover up a bit with a shawl. She adjusted it over her shoulders with a small bow of her head, then went back to passively strumming the strings.

“Whatchu wanna hear?”

“Somethin’ sweet like you.”

He earned a modest smile from her lips as she shook her head.

“ ‘Spose I can do that.”

She took a deep breath, lifted her arms like a dancer’s, hovering them around the strings. She paused to think, then shut her eyes with a purse of her lips.

“I learned this one a while back,” she said softly. “This here’s Tournier.”

Remmick watched in fascination as her fingers began to work the strings in earnest. The melody started soft, but grew to a resonant level under her hands. The sound was cool and soft, lapping at his ears like the gentle caress of a flowing river. He shut his eyes. The Mississippi heat became a memory as visions of a time long passed flashed in fragments behind his eyes. He could see it, taste it even, the rolling green hills of his homeland, the salt of the crashing sea.

The song only lasted a few minutes. He stood still as she masterfully softened the sound again, gently pulling him from his dream as the music concluded. Slowly, he opened his eyes. Lottie cleared her throat, resting her hands on her knees.

“Well, what’d you think?”

His face had softened. He stared at her hands, then looked up at her face. Where her wide brown eyes watched him curiously.

“You’re a precious thing, Lottie,” he told her, voice soft as silk.

She fidgeted with her shawl again, looking down shyly.

“That’s a mighty fine compliment.”

He smiled slightly, still in a daze from what her playing had conjured.

“Might I listen again from the porch?”

She hesitated, but nodded. He disappeared from the window without a sound. Willing herself to stand, she went to the door, bringing the lamp with her. His weight creaked the floorboards, and she slowly wrapped her hand around the knob, almost too nervous to open the door.

“You promise you can’t come in?”

“Not unless you let me.”

For a moment, her body fought her. She rested her forehead against the wood, her breath trembling. He waited patiently on the other side. She could feel him there.

“I promise I don’t mean you no harm,” he assured her.

After a moment of stillness, the locks clicked and the door slowly creaked open. Lottie peeked out from the other side, eyes both curious and weary. She wasn’t sure what good a devil’s promise was, but his voice sounded different. Gentler. She opened the door wider, turning her lamp up so she could see him better.

Up close, he wasn’t half as scary. More beautiful if anything. The warm light kissed his pale skin lovingly, caressing the manly curve of his jaw, the soft blue of his eyes. He looked more like a man than she had imagined possible. She shifted onto one hip, looking down at her feet.

“My, you’re lovely,” he said to her, slowly leaning against the doorframe, “Swear I ain’t ever seen nothing as lovely as you.”

He’d been around too long for that to be true. She slowly met his gaze again through the screen door. He smirked.

“What’s the matter? Man ain’t never told you how lovely you are?”

No man ever came near Lottie. Everyone was too afraid of her Papa to even think of speaking to her in an inappropriate matter. All the boys in town knew he’d come with a shotgun if her Mama caught sight of them looking at her the wrong way. Her brothers grew up big, too, and kept watch like dogs guarding sheep. She used to long for one of them to come in the night, take a chance when the men were fast asleep and her harp sang out the window softly, but they never did. Maybe that’s why Remmick had appeared. Maybe she’d still been calling into the night without realizing it.

His eyes glinted. “Man ain’t never taken care of you?”

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, and she stepped back.

“That ain’t a proper thing to ask.”

“I asked you nicely, didn’t I?”

“Whatchu asking for in the first place,” she hissed back.

His gaze dragged over her face as if he was learning every inch, and he languidly caressed the screen door with the back of his knuckles.

“I’m just tryna figure out what I’ll give you in return for your lovely music. I’m a real generous man, y’know.”

She rose her eyebrows, unamused. “Is that right?”

“Right it is.”

She rolled her eyes and fanned her neck with her shawl. Remmick leaned closer, inhaling her scent. He hummed, hiding his hand behind his back and clenching it into a fist. He could taste it, the sweat on her skin, that slight fruity scent that clung to it.

“You droolin’?”

He quickly wiped his mouth, chuckling a little.

“Look at that,” he remarked.

She eyed him suspiciously. “You tryin’ to eat me?”

He laughed, stepping back from the door. “No, no, I won’t eat ya. Might keep ya, but won’t eat ya.”

She swallowed, frowning at his words. “I think it’s time you went on, Remmick.”

His smile lingered on his lips as he rubbed his lower one with his thumb. He studied her a bit longer, a white silhouette in the doorframe, then descended the steps of her porch.

“You’ll see when I come in,” he said, “It’s not too bad, being kept.”

She turned off her lamp and locked the door. She listened to him play his melody into the night, shutting her eyes with a sigh.

Lottie didn’t know how to feel about it. Being kept. The word echoed in her mind as she watched unsure hands stumble over piano keys inside the chapel, and it made her feel guilty—she couldn’t pinpoint why. The dry air was like sandpaper against her throat as she smiled and gave an encouraging nod to the young boy who glanced up at her in question between measures.

“You’re doin’ just fine, Joe,” she told him.

The boy stopped abruptly and rubbed his hands, wincing. Lottie peered down at him curiously.

“I’ve been playin’ thirty minutes straight, Miss Lottie,” he complained, “Can we take a break?”

Lottie’s heart stopped. Had the time passed that quickly? Why hadn’t she noticed? All she’d been thinking about was…

She blinked rapidly and cleared her throat, cheeks burning in shame. Him, she realized. She’d been thinking of him. His strange sounding voice, his slender fingers grazing the screen door, the slight scent of sweat that clung to his skin, the way he’d looked at her.

She smoothed a hand over her hair. “Of course.”

The boy eyed her strangely. “You alright, Miss Lottie?”

Lottie laughed breathlessly. “What makes you say that, Lil’ Joe? ‘Course I’m alright.”

He shrugged, massaging his wrists. Lottie’s mind cleared, and she considered his hands again with newfound perception.

“Play that last part for me again, will you?”

He gave her a rueful look, but obliged. She quickly stopped him before the first note rang out and circled her fingers around his wrists, lifting them slightly then correcting the arch of his hands.

“You gotta hold them like this, okay? Like you’re holding a small baseball.”

“But that hurts worse!”

She tapped his elbows correctively so he’d lift them, then nodded for him to play.

“I can’t, Miss Lottie,” he complained.

With a smile, she lifted her hands to the keys to demonstrate the correct posture.

“Okay, then watch me. I’ll go slow.”

She was about to start playing when the wooden door creaked open, breaking her focus and making her stomach jump in shock. Joe’s father’s eyes widened in surprise, then crinkled as he smiled.

“Didn’t mean to give you a scare, Miss Lottie,” he apologized, taking off his hat as he stepped in, “Just came to get my boy.”

She frowned, checking her watch in confusion. They had about fifteen minutes left.

“We off to visit my mama today, she’s a town over,” he explained, lingering by the doors.

Joe jumped up from the piano bench as Lottie slowly rose, gently closing the piano and gathering up the music from the stand. She watched the young boy ran up to his father and embraced his legs with a smile, following behind him. His father grinned, gathering him up in his arms and resting the boy on his hip, putting his fedora on his son's head. He looked to Lottie warmly.

"Where you headed, Miss Lottie?"

Lottie clutched her music to her chest. "Oh, I don't know, Charlie. Maybe into town, get me something to drink."

She just knew she couldn't go home. Not when Remmick's presence had imprinted itself onto the doorway. She needed a clear head, even for a moment, even if it required corn liquor and muggy, dark rooms.

Charlie flashed a charming smile at her. "Well, we'll walk you there."

Lottie smiled and looked down as Charles offered her passage out of the chapel and closed the door behind them, careful of his son as he went through the doorway. It was high noon—the sun was beaming down with a vengeance today, hotter than usual, with no breeze to grant a reprieve. Charlie and Lottie's feet moved in sync as they walked down the dirt road, squinting under the sun and stealing glances at each other, offering one another polite, fleeting smiles.

"How's work treatin' you," Charlie asked, brown eyes blinking through the sunlight to look at her face. "You seem mighty tired."

Lottie nodded, rubbing her sweaty neck and wiping it off on her dress. She glanced over at Joe pulling Charlie's hat over his eyes to shield them from the sun, and smiled again.

"Work's treatin' me just fine. It's when I'm home the trouble starts."

Charlie's eyebrows rose from their low knit, and he stopped walking, letting Joe down. Joe scampered on ahead, hat bouncing. Charlie eyed Lottie with concern, stepping closer to her in one stride as they started to walk again.

"Ain't a man, givin' you trouble, is it?"

Lottie chuckled. "No, my brothers would've handled any man quite easily."

Charlie hummed, then hesitated. "A woman?"

Lottie gasped, slapping Charlie's arm with her music sheets. "Charlie!"

He let out a deep laugh smooth as molasses, dark forehead glistening in the sun. He stuck his hands in his pockets, cocking his head playfully with a shrug.

"Just askin'."

"Dog," she shot back, a smile playing on her lips. "Bet you'd like that just fine, wouldn't you?"

Charlie squinted at the sky, devilish smile playing on his lips. "Well..."

Lottie shook her head with a chuckle. "You a damn dog. God knows what you teachin' Lil' Joe."

"Aw, no, now, Miss Lottie," he said, "Joe's a good boy. Gonna go to Chicago one day, just like you."

He flashed another brilliant smile, and Lottie was helpless to do anything but be soaked in its radiance. She met his eyes with a small smile of her own, and their gazes lingered on each other for a moment before breaking and focusing on the road ahead. Joe was looking at them curiously, clearly waiting for the slow old people to hurry on up. They picked up their pace accordingly.

"But really, Miss Lottie," Charlie began, eyes focused on his son through the rippling air. "You alright?"

Lottie sighed. That seemed to be everyone's favorite question lately. Her mother, her brothers, Lil' Joe, and now his father. It was only this time, though, that she felt she could answer honestly.

"Somethin's been heavy on my mind," she admitted. "Something...strange."

Charlie nodded, eyes wandering in thought. "What kinda strange?"

Lottie fell quiet, unsure how to begin. How could she explain to Charlie the strange feelings swirling inside her about her dark visitor with the gleaming fangs and beautiful blue eyes? About how he purred, how he smiled, how he always kept coming back despite her attempts to push him off? How could she tell him how it made her feel, for the first time, alive in a way only her music could?

She swallowed, frowning, then abruptly asked--

"What does it mean for a man to keep a woman?"

Charlie paused, taken aback and thoroughly amused. "Thought you said it wasn't a man."

It wasn't, she thought to herself. More animal than man. More creature than human. She quietly fumbled with the worn edges of her music pages, pursing her lips.

"Will you tell me, or not?"

Charlie laughed, then sucked in a deep breath, broad chest puffing up under his overalls and dirtied button-up. He reached for his hat to rub the brim, then remembered it was gone. Awkwardly, he wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

"Well, Miss Lottie...it means a man's found something real special. Something he can't share with nobody. Something that's...that's got to be all his or he'll go mad."

He stared at Lottie's profile thoughtfully, then cleared his throat and looked away when her eyes slid over to his in question.

"At least, that's what I'd say it means."

Lottie frowned at her shoes in thought, turning the information over in her head. Charlie stole a couple glances at her, then finally spoke again.

"Man want to keep you, Miss Lottie?"

Remmick's soft gaze flashed in her mind, making her breath catch in her throat. Charlie noticed this and tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder to comfort her.

"Lottie," he said gently, "If a man's botherin' you, all you need to do is say the word and I'm there."

She blinked away the image of Remmick's face, gripping her music pages tightly. Lottie let out an exhale, then gave Charlie a small smile.

"Nothing's wrong, Charlie," she assured him, "I promise. I'd tell you if there was."

She knew not to, but she let him look at her.

She’d play for him, then she’d leave the door open like she ain’t had no sense, and let him linger there, eyes glowing red in the dark as she smoked a cigarette in her bed, knees drawn, her nightgown pooling at her hips. Her chest and thighs sparkled with sweat in the faint lamplight, and she could feel his eyes grazing her bare skin.

She didn’t know why, but something was being drawn out of her by him. Something that liked to be watched. Seen.

She’d look at those glowing embers in the dark and feel some kind of charge build under her skin, a new kind of heat that made the muggy air unbearable. She’d stretch and wriggle slightly in her bed, staring back at them, exhaling smoke as he watched her from the doorway.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to tempt me,” he said to her.

She chuckled to herself, sitting up and grabbing her carton of cigarettes.

“Can devils be tempted, Remmick?”

She took a lighter between her fingers and went over to the door.

“They just as helpless as any ol’ man?”

She opened the screen door slightly, and he pressed himself through the crack, opening it fully. She leaned slightly against the door, blowing cigarette smoke into his face.

“You know what you’re doing, little lady,” he questioned.

She pulled a cigarette from the carton, twirling it between her fingers. She lifted it to his lips, smiling wryly.

“Want one?”

“I take it you don’t.”

“What am I doing, then?”

“You’re playing a game you’re set to lose.”

“I thought you’d love a game,” she said softly.

She gestured for him to come closer, and he did. She placed the cigarette in his lips, then leaned forward to light it with hers, her head peeking out of the doorframe. He inhaled, his cigarette sparking. The corner of her mouth curved slightly, threatening to send him over the edge. He could see her breasts down her nightgown, and swallowed. She quickly ducked back inside, letting out a heavy breath.

“You still scared of me,” he said, smiling, the cigarette hanging from his lips, “I can smell it.”

She just held his stare, finishing her cigarette.

“What ya scared of?” He put the cigarette out on the doorframe. “Scared I’ll fuck you too good?”

He hadn’t said it yet before that moment. He just teased it with his eyes, the rasp of his voice, the way he caged the doorframe like a hungry animal. She licked her lips, taking a shaky breath.

“Oh, don’t get nervous now, darlin’,” he reprimanded gently, “Not after you got me so excited to give you what you want.”

“I ain’t scared of you.”

He tutted at her, shaking his head. “No one likes a liar, baby.”

She honestly hadn’t thought of it before he said it. Now she could see it clearly in her mind. She stepped closer, her heart pounding in her chest as she threatened to cross her own threshold. She was looking at him proper now, imagining what it could be like to feel a man’s touch, or a not-so-man’s touch, and her fingers crept across the doorframe.

“I’m happy to give you what you need, Lottie,” he said, “Just gotta be a big girl and say it.”

She drew her eyebrows, finally meeting his gaze.

“C’mon,” he whispered, “You know I’ll take good care o’ ya.”

Before she could regret it, she grabbed him by the collar and sealed her lips against his, pushing up on her toes to stay behind the doorframe. Then, she quickly jumped back, a line of drool stretching and breaking between them. He looked shocked. Shocked she actually did it, kissed him like that. He didn’t take her to be that bold. Just a little neglected, wanting to toy with him.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. It was like watching a foal learn to walk. She stepped carefully near him again, her hands trembling.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she admitted, “But I ain’t never wanted a man much as I want you.”

“I ain’t no man, darlin’,” he said with a grin.

She saw the drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. She leaned forward on her toes again, licking it off. His breath shuddered. She stepped across the doorway, kissing him again, putting his hands on her waist. She nuzzled his neck, taking off his thin suspenders.

“Maybe that’s what I like.”

“Say it,” he told her, “If you’re so big and bad.”

She leaned in to kiss him again but he pulled back, making her weak legs nearly buckle as his glowing eyes peered down at her.

“Come in.”

He smiled.

“Come in and do what?”

His hands palmed the fullness of her ass and squeezed greedily through her nightgown. He could feel her pulse thrumming eagerly as she pressed herself against him, her hips pushing against his.

“Come in an’ fuck me good like you say you can.”

She hooked her fingers into his collar and dragged him in as he kicked the door shut, grabbing the back of her neck and hotly pressing his lips against hers.

“Mm, if you so big and bad,” she breathed into his mouth.

He chuckled and shook his head, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back. She whined softly and grabbed at his shirt, trying to pull him closer. His drool smeared against her neck as he bared his fangs against her skin, pressing them against her pulse, feeling how helplessly she melted against him. He gathered up the skirt of her nightgown and dabbed his chin with his fingers, slid his hands between her legs and groaned, pressing her against the wall.

“You’re a sweet little thing, ain’t ya,” he whispered, fingers rubbing firm circles against her clit. “Tried to show off for me, but you’re just a good girl.”

Her breath fanned against his face as he pressed his forehead against hers, making her hold his stare as he pressed two of his fingers inside her and curled them just right enough to make her eyes fall shut in anguish.

He fell to his knees and pushed her thighs apart, inhaling the smell of her sweat and slick with a growl. He buried his face between her legs without thinking, lapping up her taste greedily before he could remember himself, flicking his tongue against her clit and sucking it until her legs shook too bad for her to stand as she moaned like a sick man. She gripped his hair as her thighs quaked against the sides of his face and clenched as her pussy clamped down on nothing and her body flooded with white hot heat. He groaned into her, only spurred further instead of cooling down.

“Oh god, I can’t—I can’t—“

He held her up by her hips and continued, sealing his mouth over her pussy and circling her clit with his tongue before pushing it inside her. Lottie cried out and grabbed onto nothing desperately, trying not to fall onto his face but gradually sliding lower and lower down the wall as her body melted. Her head was fuzzy and the room was spinning and Remmick only kept going like he was attached to her. Her breath stopped and started as she tugged at her own nightgown and stretched the neck until she came into his mouth with a tortured sob.

She had collapsed on the floor, staring in a daze up at the ceiling as he finally came up from between her legs. His chin and mouth were dripping with sweat and juices. He grinned at her, wiping his face clean and unbuttoning his shirt as she breathed heavily, gently writhing beneath him.

“You’re in for it now, lassie,” he warned, tugging his shirt off, “Sun’s coming up soon, I ain’t goin nowhere, and neither are you, are ya?”

She shook her head slowly, struggling to move. He laughed softly.

“Don’t tell me you’re all tuckered out now, I haven’t even started.”

“No man…ever licked me like that before,” she said under her breath.

“That’s a real shame,” he lamented, shaking his head, lowering himself between her legs again. “Want me to do it again?”

“Yes, please.”

He kissed down her thighs, inhaling deeply, eyes shut as he brushed his nose against her soft skin. He moved slower this time, each kiss getting a slight twitch out of her as it connected, listening to her breath hitch in her chest every time his tickled her pussy. His head dipped low, and Lottie took a deep, heavy breath as he pressed his full tongue against her clit and dragged it up slowly as if he’d already forgotten her taste. The sensation was unbearable, her sensitive nerve endings enveloped by his mouth, velvet tongue sliding up and down and side to side as she pushed into him, her legs pried open by the strength of his hands, her back arching off of the floor.

“Like that?”

“Mmm,” she groaned, sliding her fingers into his dark hair.

His teeth gently scraped against her clit, making her hips buck up in response.

"Attagirl," he whispered.

His tongue danced nimbly against her clit as if he’d already been doing it a lifetime. For all Lottie knew, he had--he was devouring her like a man starved, rough fingertips digging into bruising, soft flesh. She suddenly lurched forward and cried out, nearly sitting up straight before collapsing onto her right elbow and keening against his tongue. The feeling was impossible enough, but the noises...the sounds of slurping and sucking and his feverish, guttural groans against her core sent her over the edge. She could see white out of the corners of her eyes before they rolled back, and her mouth fell open. No sound came from her lips as heat consumed her body like a possession--this must be what it felt like to have some kind of demon take control of your limbs, rip your soul from its throne within your heart. Choked, stuttering breaths broke free from her throat, and she slowly crumbled onto the ground, a tremor rolling down her spine and colliding with Remmick's greedy mouth.

Sweet Jesus.

Her mind was fuzzy for a moment, but he didn't give her one. Before she knew it, he had scooped her up in his arms and threw her over his shoulder, one hand securing her by her ass. Her thighs trembled as she blinked away tears in her eyes that she didn't realize were there. She had barely sucked in any air into her lungs before he tossed her onto the bed, knocking it all out of her chest as she bounced.

Her glassy eyes made out Remmick’s silhouette as he closed the windows and tugged the curtains shut, leaving her in complete darkness. Lottie held her breath again as she waited, listening to him rustle around, kicking off his boots and taking off his pants. She sat up and fumbled around in the dark blindly until she clutched the oil lamp, jumping back at the residual heat, then turned it on with trembling, clammy hands and set it on the chair.

She only saw a flash of pale skin and he was on her. Lottie gasped weakly as his fingers curled painfully into her hair, tugging roughly to keep her eyes on his. Her heart pounded wildly as those small suns pierced into her soul. Her ragged breathing made him smile.

"Now, darlin'," he said, leading them both to her bed with every step, "I'm gonna need you to listen to me. Can you do that?"

She fell into sitting on the bed and found herself met with his cock. It bobbed gently between his thighs, risen to attention, already leaking with precum. It was thick, small veins protruding on the sides, and the sight tortured her—she needed it. He yanked her head upwards to make her eyes focus on his. He tilted his head, smiling.

“Baby, I asked ya a question.”

It was too much to ask of her to speak anymore. Instead, Lottie reached up her back to start to undo the buttons of her nightgown to answer, fingers trembling as they struggled to grab hold of the tiny buttons, spent arm muscles strained in the awkward angle. Remmick watched as the cotton fabric went limp around her chest, exposing her fine clavicle bones, the gentle swell of her breasts, the dainty points of her dark brown nipples. Her breath trembled as she nervously peeled it off, looking up at him for approval, for direction.

His hold in her hair loosened as he stepped closer, grabbing her chin and slowly circling her lips with his thumb. She parted them, and, balling up her nightgown into fists on her thighs, closed her lips around it, letting him ease the pad of his thumb further down her velvet tongue. Her eyes fluttered shut as she took a stuttering breath, knees falling open on their own—much to Remmick’s pleasure. He nudged her chin, making her eyes open. They stared up at him with that same look that drew him in the first night he’d seen her: soft, sweet, lost.

“Don’t take your eyes off mine,” he said, dragging her mouth open with the force of his hand, “Don’t even think of it.”

She shook her head slightly to show her agreement, and he tilted her head further upward, releasing her tongue from his hold.

“I’ll take good care of you, okay? Real good.”

He leaned over her, staring achingly at her open her mouth. She was perfect, already so obedient, waiting on him to do as he pleased. So good.

It was a shame he had to ruin her.

“Gimme yer tongue,” he instructed softly.

Shyly, she obeyed, pink tongue glistening in the lamplight as she stuck it out. Without missing a beat, Remmick’s thumb caressed her jaw as he leaned further down and slowly spit into her mouth. She made a soft, timid sound of surprise, her eyes widening as it trickled to the back of her throat, slimy and alien. She never thought it’d be so easy, but she could feel the spark of desire squeezing her thighs together again.

Straightening up, he hooked his thumb against her teeth and opened her mouth wide, relishing in the confusion that glistened in those brown pools as they remained fixed onto his gaze. He placed his other hand on the crown of her head, positioning her before using it to take hold of his length. His breath shuddered as he teased his tip against her wet, soft lips and watched her gaze soften with desire, begging him to go further. So he did.

He was going to be gentle with her, he’d promised himself. Nothing too harsh, lest he scare her away. But when he felt the way her mouth sucked him in, saw her pretty little lips wrapped around his cock, he couldn’t stop himself. He grabbed the base of her head again and pushed, easing his hips further into her mouth in greedy lust. He sucked in air sharply, brows furrowing as he moved her head—her mouth—slowly along his shaft to ease her into what he was about to do to her despite himself. She moved in sync, a soft moan rumbling at the back of her throat, the vibration barely reaching his head as his breath shattered out of him. His eyes flashed down at her in surprise.

“Careful, lass,” he warned, but she didn’t listen. She flattered her tongue against him instinctively, one of her beautiful, sacred hands reaching up to close around the base of his cock, squeezing him just enough to make his hips jerk forward. “F-Fuck…”

His fingers lifted slightly off of her skin as she eased off of the bed, her nightgown falling and pooling around her knees as they met the wooden floor. Remmick lifted his head slightly, staring down at her in disbelief as she dragged her mouth back along his length, took a small breath that teased his cock with cool air, and then enveloped him in that soft warmth again, pushing up on her knees. His hand moved from the base of her head to her hair, tugging her forward, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. She allowed it, moved into it, pressing her breasts against his thighs as she moved her hand away and let him sink deeper into her mouth. He hissed quietly, hips snapping a bit as the tip of his cock pressed hotly against the back of her throat. He held still, pulling her further, daring to slip past into her throat. A violent gag erupted from her body, making her lurch and cling onto his legs as if it would help.

“Don’t move,” he breathed out, firm hold returning to the base of her head, “Stay fuckin’ still.”

Her nails dug into his skin as another gag built up inside her that she fought to keep down. Remmick’s hips keened forward, testing as she tried to breathe, to get any sort of relief, but failed. Everything, every sense she had—her taste, her smell—it was all him. His eyes shut as his head tilted back. He reared his hips back slowly, only to for Lottie to lean forward, determined to take all of him like her body begged for, but he grabbed his cock and pulled it out of her mouth roughly, tutting his tongue.

“What did I just tell you?”

She caught her breath, hands falling to her lap. Remmick sighed, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“ ‘M sorry,” she managed to say, head spinning as her eyes blurred, “I just…need you.”

And she did. Painfully. Her lips trembled as she watched his part thoughtfully, his knuckles caressing her cheekbone tenderly. Her eyes were teary, but Remmick could see the quiet determination in them, the hunger, the need. It was only the gentlemanly thing to do to oblige her.

He gathered up her hair in his hand and her mouth fell open naturally, tongue finding his head like it was the only place it belonged. Remmick allowed it, fascinated by the woman he was now watching worship his cock who had trained a pistol on him barely a week ago. She curved her tongue underneath his shaft and licked up its length, tilting her head to keep her eyes on his like he’d told her to. She let spit bubble from her mouth and, with quivering breaths, spread it slick over him with her lips, watching him melt into her touch as a heavier, deeper sigh escaped his lips.

“That’s a girl,” he said, voice barely a rasp escaping his throat.

She took him into his mouth, eyes flitting up expectantly. He grinned, fingers curling roughly against her scalp.

“You want me to fuck every little part o’ ya,” he muttered, forcing his cock down her throat, “Is that it?”

The sensation was so intense that Lottie felt each thrust echo through her whole body. He didn’t give her time to gag on him, just take his force, his heat, and all of it pooled between her legs as weak moans vibrated out of her. She placed one hand on the floor between her thighs to steady herself, pressing her arm against her swollen clit and squeezing around it to find some release—Remmick was too distracted by the sensations of her mouth to stop her.

She pressed against her wrist, grinding slowly until Remmick abruptly stopped, pulling out of her mouth with a pop. She made a soft whine, trying to catch him. He raised a brow, tugging her head back.

“Think yer slick, rubbing your pussy like that?”

She swallowed against her sore throat, eyes trailing away shyly. Remmick grinned, but dropped it as soon as she managed to meet his eyes again. She really was too perfect. He leaned down, grabbing her by the throat and standing her up on her weak legs. She gasped, hands fluttering around his on her neck, nearly stumbling over her feet. His eyes meandered her lovely, ruined face.

“Such a sweet girl,” he whispered, grinned creeping back in again, “Can’t help yourself, can ya?”

She shook her head feebly against his strength, pussy throbbing. She needed him, and she needed him now.

“Please,” she begged quietly.

He leaned his head toward her, moving her closer by his hold on her throat, making her gasp as she was lifted to her toes. She could feel herself getting lightheaded, she hadn’t gotten enough breath after his cock had smothered her before.

“What was that, darlin’?”

“Please,” she choked out, “Please…fuck me.”

He smiled, looking down at her quivering lips, her trembling hands holding onto his securely around her neck. He squeezed gently, toying with the flesh, then pulled her closer to place a soft, slow kiss on her lips. She gasped for air as their lips parted, their mouths slick with saliva and laced with each other's taste, grabbing onto his shoulder and rubbing her thighs together desperately.

"I could snap your neck," he said softly, brushing dark coils off her forehead gently, "I could kill ya without even trying."

He lifted her up a bit more, eyes studying her face as if he was thinking it over, and Lottie couldn't believe how good it felt to be weak, at his mercy. Remmick chuckled.

"I could kill ya, and all knowing that does is make ya even wetter?"

He tossed her back onto the bed, listening as she yelped and gasped for air, rubbing her throat and crawling further onto the bed. Remmick climbed on top of her, admiring the handprint he'd left on her neck, caressing it gently with his fingertips and watching her shiver. He smiled, shaking his head.

"No one knows, do they?"

"Know wha--mmm..."

She eagerly closed her mouth around his fingers, sucking on them as he slid them out of her parted lips. Remmick couldn't help but chuckle again as he parted her weak legs, slowly pressing his two digits inside her slick pussy. He pursed his lips and hissed, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Ooh, no one 'cept me knows."

He slowly dragged his fingers across her spongy walls, curling and pushing them out and in, admiring her slickness as she moaned, grabbing onto his arm as her knees bent to open up more for him.

"Please," she begged, " 's not enough..."

Her head fell back into the bed as he pushed his fingers inside roughly, that wicked grin permanently plastered on his face. His thumb pressed against her clit and rubbed as he picked up his pace with his fingers, watching her hips rock in sync, her pussy desperately closing around his digits and squeezing tightly as she whimpered and came.

"Oh," he murmured in mock surprise, "That easy, baby?"

Lottie felt close to weeping. Her body was on fire--each release only made the feeling worse, the ache for his length to be pounding inside her until his seed quenched the flame raging between her feverish thighs. He slid his fingers out, sliding them into her mouth and smiling as she sucked off her own juices, too hungry for his skin to be put off by the taste. She whined as he slipped his fingers out of her mouth again, grabbing his hand and cupping it against his cheek so he could feel what he was doing to her; the heat...it was unbearable.

"I know," he muttered affectionately, "I know."

His hand slid back to her neck and gripped it tightly as he pressed himself on top of her and kissed her forcefully. Her fractured breath burst out of her nose as she kissed him back, her mouth opening wider for their tongues to meet. The heat on her skin grew stronger each time their jaws moved together, and she began to lose herself in the feeling, the agonizing blaze becoming a little easier to bear, so long as he never stopped kissing her, so long as he never stopped grinding his shaft against her puffy folds and groaned into her mouth. He broke his mouth away from hers, peppering kisses on her cheeks and grunting into her ear.

"You need it, darlin'?"

Her words slurred out, mind numbing out as she struggled to find them. "Fuck, please--"

"You sound so good when you beg," he whispered against her cheek, lining his hips up with hers. "Keep doin' it."

She groaned heavily as he dragged his tip against her cunt, teasing her entrance. "I need you to fuck me so badly, please don't make me wait anymore."

Another whine escaped her lips as he pulled her upright, holding her against his chest as he lined himself up with her cunt then slowly, excruciatingly, eased her onto his cock. Her weight leaned onto him as an overwhelming wave of relief weighed down her limbs, tears pricking at her eyes. It was good, it was so good, it felt impossible to bear. Slowly, with shuddering breaths, she pressed herself deeper so she could fill herself up to the brim with his length, whimpering at the feeling of his engorged head kissing her cervix. Her nails dug into his shoulders as his hands slid up her back and fastened onto the base of her neck, holding her down firmly as her hips slowly rocked against him.

"So good," she slurred, lips smushed against his neck as she gasped, " 's so good, Remmick..."

Lottie's mind swirled into nothingness as her body moved on its own, picking up the pace. She had never felt so full, so complete, and the friction of him against her sweet spot made her keen onto him, shuddering breaths slowly evolving into moans as Remmick's breath grew heavy against her breasts.

"Fuck, baby," he uttered softly, inhaling that fruity scent, pressing his lips into a firm line. "You gon' give it all to me, huh?"

She nodded, eyebrows creasing as she bit down on her lip. The bed began to squeak as they rocked against each other, shaky moans and heavy grunts filling the room. Lottie could feel something sharp digging into her skin, dragging down her back, but the pain only made her squeeze around him as she cried out, grinding against him harder, a surge of energy striking through her like a second wind.

"That's it," Remmick encouraged, voice quaking as his forehead wrinkled, "Oh, that's a girl."

Her hips began to rock and down as she clung to him, desperately trying to create more friction inside her, her folds dragging against ever little ridge of his cock, her pussy clenching and sucking him in as her ass began to bounce off of his thighs, Remmick's hands quickly shifted to her hips, claws digging into her sweaty stomach and lower back as he moved with her, his gravelly moans filling her ears.

"All those boys lookin' at ya," he breathed into her ear, "Thinkin' you're so pure and innocent, scared to touch ya..."

The thought made Lottie groan in frustration as her teeth broke her skin. Remmick moved her hips, his strength lifting her up and down on his cock, claws scratching her thighs and ass as the slivers on her back and stomach began to weep out droplets of blood. His nose flared, fangs peeking out of his gums at the sweet aroma of arousal that poured from the ruby red substance.

"I ain't scared to touch ya," he said, "Am I?"

Lottie shook her head, straightening up and tilting her head backward, tears spilling out of her cheeks. Remmick stopped moving her to grab her chin and kiss her, tongue swiping over her bloodied lips as he let out a soft growl. She whimpered, afraid to open her eyes and see the monster she could feel against her nude, slick body, hanging onto the back of his neck as their tongues met and another painful wave of heat burned through her muscles.

"You taste so sweet, darlin'. So sweet."

Remmick lifted her up to her knees--much to her weak noises of disapproval-- and turned her around, pushing her face into the patchwork quilt and pressing his hand into her back to ease it into a curve. He bent over, tongue greedily skimming the blood on her back, and gently nipped at her neck with his fangs.

"Please--please--"

He caged her body underneath his, leveraging his weight above her, spitting in his blood-smeared hand and stroking his length. "I'm putting it back in, baby."

He did it in one rough thrust, taking all the air out of her lungs. Her breath rasped as he eased his hips against hers, the tip of his cock pressing firmly into the deepest crevices she didn't even know she had. He hooked one hand around one of her hips, leaning on his other, which he placed lovingly on her head, and shifted his hips back and forth slowly to ease her into the new angle he was piercing her with. A string of breathy moans broke through her lips as she gripped onto the quilt, swallowing as heat and slick filled her pussy and gushed around Remmick's cock. He let out a breathy chuckle, then a whimper as his hips moved faster until they drove against hers, making the headboard crash against the wall.

"Oh--my--oh my god," Lottie squeaked, leaning desperately into him, "Oh my god!"

He dug his claws into her punishingly. "Bad word, dove; dirty word."

She cried out, hand flying back to squeeze his wrist and try to tug his claws off of her. He loosened his fingers to ease the pain, watching the muscles in her back shudder and relax. The headboard hit the wall loudly, overpowering the sounds of skin against skin, whimpering, and Remmick's low muttering into Lottie's ear.

"You make the perfect whore, ya know that? You're my perfect little whore," he said hotly into her skin, "I'm not sharing ya with anybody--you're mine. All mine."

Lottie could feel it building at the base of her spine. She tried to lift a weak arm to touch herself, but couldn't manage the strength. With a pained grunt, she backed into his thrusts, making the bed rock fully. It felt like the walls were shrinking, closing in, stealing air from her lungs as the ball of fire inside her built and built until she shrieked.

Her vision went white, and she shuddered violently underneath Remmick's body, trying to bear the force of release that was overtaking her. She thought her brain would melt inside her feverish head and leak out of her ears. Remmick gave two more stilted, harsh thrusts, but the way she squeezed around him was too much. He dug his claws into the quilt, tearing the fabric, fangs baring as hips stuttered and locked against her, cum spilling inside her, hot and fast as her blood.

"Remmick," she gasped, "Remmick, it's inside--"

She moaned as he covered her mouth, grunting, relishing the feeling of emptying into her as she softened beneath him, hips keening into him. Remmick caught his breath, slowly straightening up, fingers gently grazing her back. Lottie's hands trembled as she lay still, eyes shut, the fever mercifully broken.

"Shit," she whispered, inhaling deeply through her nose.

Remmick smiled at the remark. "You liked that, didya?"

Still inside her, he laid them down onto their side delicately, mindful of her cuts. She let out a deep sigh, reaching for his hand and pulling his arm over her waist to hold her closer, intertwining his fingers with his.

"You a real generous man, Remmick," she said, weak smile forming on her lips. "Real generous."

Remmick chuckled, pressing a soft kiss onto her neck. He eyed the baby blue light of the morning against the white drapery, then looked back down at Lottie’s peaceful face. He brushed the hair off her forehead and kissed it, listening to the crows calling outside.

You were the kind of girl folks counted on.

Always had been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He came in on a Tuesday.

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

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

A white man.

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

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

“Evenin’, miss.”

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

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

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

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

Then he came back the next night.

And the next.

Always right before closing. Always alone.

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

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

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

Said you had a voice that sounded like morning.

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

Said you smiled like it meant something.

You rolled your eyes. Called him too much.

But you didn’t tell him to stop.

No one had ever looked at you like that before.

Like you were worth slowing down for.

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

And slowly, your world started to tilt.

Not all at once.

Just by degrees.

Like a house shifting its weight before the foundation gives.

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

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

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

But you never gave them a name.

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

And eventually, they stopped asking.

Your parents noticed the shift too.

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

You told them everything was fine.

Told yourself the same.

And it was. He said it was.

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

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

Like his person.

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

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

But he saw you.

And you believed him.

Of course you did.

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

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

Like it was breaking his heart.

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

It felt like care.

He missed you, after all.

He needed you.

And you wanted to be needed.

God help you, you did.

So you let them drift.

One by one.

Until their names felt strange on your tongue.

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

It felt like love.

Like a cocoon being spun around something precious.

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

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

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

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

You believed him.

You believed everything he said.

And he rewarded that belief.

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

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

You told yourself it was kind. Thoughtful.

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

Not until later.

By then, it had already begun.

The soft steps outside your door at night.

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

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

And if someone asked you when the line was crossed,

You couldn’t say.

You never even saw it pass beneath your feet.

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

Not a smear. Not a spot.

Soaked.

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

He didn’t speak right away.

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

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

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

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

You blinked.

He smiled. Small. Serene.

“Didn’t suffer long.”

You screamed.

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

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t apologize.

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

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

Right there. Blood and all.

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

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

You pulled back.

Didn’t matter.

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

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

You shook your head. Weak.

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

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

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

He pressed his forehead to yours.

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

He exhaled slow.

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

You didn’t speak.

You couldn’t.

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

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

But the words didn’t come.

Because his hand moved then.

Not to your neck. Not to hurt.

But to your collar.

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

And the blood marked you.

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

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

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

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

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

And you believed him.

That was the worst part.

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

You were streaked in red.

Your cheeks damp with tears.

And he smiled.

Not wide.

Not cruel.

Just soft.

Like it was all going to be okay.

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

You didn’t answer.

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

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

It was a question.

And you answered.

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

You didn’t want to know.

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

And you didn’t leave.

Not that night.

Not the next.

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

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

But he always leaves the door cracked open.

Just a little.

Just in case.

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

He doesn’t pretend to be human anymore.

Not around you.

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

And still, he kisses you goodnight.

Brushes your curls back from your face.

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

And when he says it, you believe him.

You are the best thing he’s ever had.

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

You woke to the feeling of being watched.

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

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

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

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

Not blood.

Just spit.

But too much of it. An unnatural amount.

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

Sizing you up.

You didn’t flinch.

Not anymore.

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

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

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

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

Behind you, the mattress dipped under his weight.

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

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

You should’ve felt caged.

Sometimes you did.

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

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

You closed your eyes and listened.

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

You didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t move either.

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

Some mornings were like this.

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

Others weren’t.

There were days where something in him just… shifted.

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

He wouldn’t look at you.

Wouldn’t speak.

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

He never did.

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

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

It never was.

Sometimes you cried.

Most of the time, you did.

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

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

Not from outside.

Just from wherever he’d gone inside himself.

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

And he’d kneel.

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

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

But not anymore.

Now he licked them.

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

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

You never asked why he did it.

You just nodded.

And let the licks turn into kisses.

You tried not to think too hard on those days.

Because when he was good to you?

He was perfect.

Like now.

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

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

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

He meant it.

He always meant it.

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

He kissed your hair.

“Ya awake?”

You gave the smallest nod.

He chuckled, breath warm and steady against your ear.

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

You nodded again.

And let him pull you out of bed.

Because that’s what you did on good days.

You let yourself be loved.

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

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

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

He pulled your chair out for you.

Waited for you to sit.

Then served your plate himself.

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

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

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

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

Not like a man waiting for praise.

Like a man watching a miracle.

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

Just warm.

Maybe a little shy.

But warm.

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

His mouth curved. “Good.”

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

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

Your breath caught.

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

You swallowed and looked down at your plate.

Let yourself smile.

Just a little.

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

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

Let your guard slip.

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

He never forced it.

Never had to.

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

You glanced up. “Errands?”

He nodded. “Might be a while.”

You waited, hoping he’d elaborate.

He didn’t.

You didn’t press.

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

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

You leaned into it.

Didn’t mean to.

But you didn’t pull away either.

He tilted his head. Studied you.

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

You blinked. “You don’t have to-”

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

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t have to.

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

And for a second, everything felt so normal.

So painfully, heartbreakingly normal.

Like this was just a house.

Like he was just a man.

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

You let yourself stay in the moment a little longer.

Finished your tea in slow sips.

Let him watch you.

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

You knew better than to believe in quiet mornings.

Not here. Not with him.

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

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

But peace, in this house, was never given.

Only loaned.

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

“Ya look so soft in this light.”

“That color’s real pretty on ya.”

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

You let him.

Because it was a good day.

Until it wasn’t.

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

He didn’t speak while he dressed.

Didn’t look at you, either.

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

“Be good while I’m gone,” he said.

And that was all.

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

Not with a knock. Not with warning.

Just the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

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

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

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

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

You slowly closed your door.

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

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

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

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

So why?

Why this?

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

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

Then the parlor door clicked shut.

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

You stared out your window.

And then, a sound.

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

Then another.

And then it began in earnest.

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

You covered your ears.

Pressed your palms so tight it made your head ring.

But nothing could drown it out.

Your whole body trembled.

Not from shock.

From knowing this was intentional.

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

He wanted you to.

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

It was about you.

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

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

But you felt it, in your gut.

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

The screaming stopped eventually.

But the silence that followed was worse.

Because silence didn’t end anything in this house.

It only marked the beginning of the next thing.

You waited.

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

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

And then,

You heard it.

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

His footsteps were quiet.

Measured.

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

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

Not yet.

You heard the stairs instead.

One. By one.

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

Time to compose yourself.

Time to prepare.

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

The knob turned.

You hadn’t even realized your door was unlocked.

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

Standing in the threshold like a vision from a fever.

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

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

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

Calm.

Completely, terrifyingly calm.

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

Just… peaceful.

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

His voice sounded like the morning.

Like nothing had happened at all.

You didn’t answer.

But your body moved.

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

He didn’t move to meet you.

Just waited.

Like he knew you would come.

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

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

Blood smeared warm across your skin.

You flinched.

But didn’t pull away.

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

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

That broke you.

“No,” you whispered, voice breaking.

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

“I know,” he said.

But his grip didn’t loosen.

Your knees nearly gave. Your breath hitched.

And he leaned in close, lips almost brushing yours.

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

That’s when he said it.

Soft. Sweet.

Final.

“Y’ain’t got a choice.”

The words weren’t cruel.

Weren’t laced with threat.

They sounded like a lullaby.

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of pride.

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

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

“There ya go,” he whispered.

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

You shook your head, tears streaking your cheeks.

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

“Remmick, please-”

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

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

It felt like surrender.

He led you to the rear hall.

Step by step.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t want to know anything.

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

You hesitated.

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

The man’s feet were cold.

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

You choked.

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

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

He didn’t offer to take it from you.

Didn’t let you drop it either.

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

Outside, the air hit sharp.

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

You swallowed hard.

Walked blind behind Remmick.

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

Never carrying someone.

Remmick hummed as he walked.

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

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

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

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

Not with a shovel.

With his claws.

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

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

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

He stood.

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

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

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

The canvas landed with a heavy thud.

You flinched again.

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

Your stomach turned.

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

He looked up at you. Expectant.

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

You hesitated.

“Remmick-”

Your breath caught.

“I said, go on.”

So you did.

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

One, two, three.

You heaved.

He lifted.

And together, you laid him in the earth.

It wasn’t graceful.

It wasn’t clean.

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

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

“Almost done.”

The dirt came next.

Heavy, clumpy, wet.

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

Remmick packed the final mound himself.

Then stood.

Brushed his hands together with a soft clap.

And turned toward you.

Smiling.

Like you’d just exchanged vows.

Like something had been sealed tonight, sacred and unbreakable.

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

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

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

And you didn’t correct him.

Didn’t move. Couldn't.

He reached into his coat.

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

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

He held it out to you. Waiting.

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

You didn’t answer.

Just stared.

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

He unwrapped it slowly.

Bit by bit.

Like unveiling something sacred.

A necklace.

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

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

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

“Belonged to his wife,” he said.

His eyes never left your face.

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

Your breath hitched.

He said it like a kindness.

Like a mercy.

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

You didn’t want to know.

You never did.

He stepped closer.

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

His fingers were careful.

Precise.

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

Then he stepped back. Just a little.

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

You didn’t look down.

Didn’t touch it.

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

He kissed your cheek next.

Then your jaw.

Then your mouth.

Soft. Tender.

Loving.

Like a reward.

Like a promise.

You didn’t kiss him back.

Didn’t turn your face away, either.

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

You weren’t sure what you were anymore.

Not a prisoner.

Not exactly.

Not a partner.

Not fully.

Not a killer.

Not yet.

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

Because you were.

You could see it in his eyes.

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

He kissed you once more.

And whispered your name like a hymn.

His girl.

His gift.

His only.

The morning was red.

Not pink. Not gold.

Red.

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

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

But it was yours now.

All of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitched, low in your throat.

Tears stung your eyes.

You blinked them back.

You didn’t hear him come in.

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

But you knew.

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

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

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

Behind you, he stepped closer.

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

The words landed like stones on water.

You didn’t respond.

His reflection didn’t show in the mirror.

It never did.

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

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

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

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

But it cracked when it came out.

Your voice. Your face. Your control.

It cracked all the way down.

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

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

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

But he didn’t say sorry.

Not once.

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

Something permanent.

He was behind you now.

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

You startled, just a little.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

“But I hoped ya’d keep it.”

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

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

He leaned in.

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

His voice sank into your skin.

“Because it looks right on ya.”

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

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

But inside?

Something gave.

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

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

Then he stepped back.

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

You nodded once.

Didn’t meet his eyes.

You heard his boots on the stairs.

The front door creaked open.

And like always, he left it ajar.

Just enough.

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

You’re not locked in.

You’re free to go.

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

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

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

“I love ya.”

The words sat heavy on the floorboards.

You didn’t say it back.

And you knew he’d remember that.

Would carry it like a splinter under his skin.

Would mention it again someday.

Long after you’d forgotten it.

Long after you’d wished you hadn’t.

You drifted to the garden.

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

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

It was overgrown now.

But beautiful. Wild.

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

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

This was what he did.

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

And they worked.

He loved you.

In his way.

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

And you.

You didn’t know what you felt.

Not entirely.

But it was real.

Not soft. Not easy. But real.

Real enough to stay.

Real enough to clean up bodies.

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

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

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

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

You went inside.

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

Back into his house.

Your house.

Home.

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

Sapphire blue.

The exact shade of the necklace.

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

They were still wrapped in tissue paper. Still perfect.

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

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

You didn’t cry.

Didn’t smile, either.

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

And maybe it had.

Maybe he was watching.

Maybe he never stopped.

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

Blue as blood in moonlight.

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

That you’d never be alone again.

Even if you wanted to be.

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

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

And you needed to be ready.

Two bodies.

That was all you saw at first.

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

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

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

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

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

But it never did.

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

You knew it when he left without telling you where.

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

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

The quiet of the day had been too full.

The stillness too practiced.

The gift too kind.

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

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

Casual.

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

And he smiled.

Sharp. Crooked. Gleaming even beneath the gore.

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

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

Those clever, expressive things.

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

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

And around his neck,

The gold chain.

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

Now, it caught nothing.

Just blood.

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

With memory.

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

Now he brought bodies.

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

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

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

You stared.

At the man. At the woman. At Remmick.

At the man who said he loved you.

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

At the one who’d bought you shoes.

And finally, finally, looked at you proper.

Then, he smiled again.

Like this was nothing.

Like it was love.

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

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

“-damn, if it didn’t feel good.”

The book slipped from your lap.

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

Couldn’t.

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

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

You opened your mouth.

Closed it again.

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

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

He blinked.

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

“I can’t do this.”

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

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

“No- Remmick, I mean it.”

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

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

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

He didn’t say anything.

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

And yet he watched you.

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

Like the rest of the blood didn’t exist.

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

He dropped the second ankle.

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

He started walking.

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

His claws hadn’t retracted yet.

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

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

“I’m not mad,” he said gently.

God, why was that worse?

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

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

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

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

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

You sobbed harder.

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

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

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

“Sometimes I think about killin’ ya.”

Your whole body went still.

Not in fear.

Not in surprise.

In something worse.

Recognition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

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

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

His hand dropped lower.

Over your ribs.

The curve of your waist.

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

You whimpered.

And it made him shiver.

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

His hands moved again. Gentle. Worshipful.

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

Until you could see the bodies again.

Still sprawled on the parlor floor.

Still leaking onto the wood.

Your knees locked.

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

His claws scraped your knee where the fabric had risen.

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

His eyes gleamed.

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

You were shaking now.

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

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

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

He kissed the corner of your mouth again.

Then lower.

Your jaw.

Your throat.

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

And it was still happening.

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

He leaned back just enough to look at you.

His kissed a tear from your cheek.

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

You should’ve screamed.

Run.

Shoved him back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were shaking.

Spent.

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

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

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

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

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

The tub was already full.

Of course it was.

Warm. Steaming. Waiting for you.

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

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

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

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

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

But it already had.

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

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

His voice never rose. Not once.

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

He kissed your eyes dry.

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

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

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

And he was so gentle now.

You wanted to scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And still, you didn’t sleep.

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

He shifted behind you. Pulled you closer.

There was no space left between your bodies.

None between the truth and the lie of it.

And you still didn’t move.

You kept your eyes open. Fixed on the wall.

And thought about everything.

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

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

If they thought about you.

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

Or maybe they didn’t ask at all.

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

You thought about your mama next.

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

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

Not like this. Not with him.

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

And maybe he was right.

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

You blinked slow.

Your throat ached.

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

There was no lock on the door.

No chain at your ankle.

No order in his voice.

But it was a cage all the same.

A soft, warm, gilded cage.

And you had stayed.

Because where else was there to go?

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

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

Here.

With him.

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

And now you had nothing left to bargain with.

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

So you stopped thinking.

Let your muscles go slack.

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

You’re safe, darlin’.

My beautiful girl.

I love ya.