Chapter 7
HALLOWEEN QUEEN
Seraphina
I 'm standing at the entrance to what looks like it was torn straight from a dark fairy tale, and I can't breathe.
The archway before me is made of intertwined pumpkin vines and deep purple flowers, lit from within by dozens of flickering candles that cast dancing shadows through the fog.
Beyond it, I can see what looks like a stage—an elevated platform surrounded by the most elaborate jack-o'-lanterns I've seen yet, each one carved with intricate designs that seem to move in the candlelight.
What is this?
My legs are shaking from exhaustion and adrenaline, my body still sensitive from the way he fucked me against those pumpkins. I know I should be running, trying to escape into the forest, to find help, to get as far away from this beautiful madman as possible…
But I can't move. I'm frozen at this threshold, staring at whatever elaborate scene he's constructed at the heart of his plan.
He did all of this…for me?
The thought makes my head spin. The magnitude of what I'm looking at—the stage, the candles, the perfectly positioned jack-o'-lanterns—this is months of work. Maybe longer.
But why?
My feet are already carrying me forward, through the archway and toward the stage. I can't help myself. I need to see what's up there, to understand why he’s doing all of this.
Stone steps lead up to the platform, carved from dark granite and lined with more flickering candles. I climb them slowly, my bare feet silent on the smooth stone, and as I reach the top, my breath catches in my throat.
Oh my God.
The stage is draped in black silk that pools and flows like water in the candlelight. Black rose petals are scattered across every surface, and in the center sits a bed—an actual fucking bed with a plush mattress covered in more black silk and pillows.
This is easily the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Gothic and romantic and terrifying all at once.
I walk further onto the stage, my fingers trailing over the silk draping. It's real silk, expensive and smooth against my skin. Everything here looks expensive.
That's when I see it.
On a pedestal near the bed, sitting on a cushion of black velvet, is a crown. Not some cheap costume jewelry, but a real crown made of obsidian and gold, with intricate metalwork that catches the candlelight and throws it back in mesmerizing patterns.
A crown .
He built me a throne room and put a crown in it.
What kind of game is this?
My hand is reaching for it before I can stop myself, fingers hovering just inches from the gold. It's beautiful. It drips power .
"It suits you."
I spin around to find him standing at the top of the steps, having followed me up here with that same predatory grace. The devil mask is still in place, but I can see his eyes through the openings, and they're burning with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
"I don't understand," I say, backing away from the crown like it might bite me. "What is this?"
"This," he says, walking toward me with slow, deliberate steps, "is where everything changes."
His vague answer only confuses me more.
"Where what changes?" I raise an eyebrow at him, feeling too comfortable in this space with him. “I’m nobody to you. We don’t even know each other.”
"You're wrong," he says simply, reaching the pedestal and picking up the crown. "You're so much more than you've let yourself believe."
No. No, this is crazy. This is all crazy.
But I can't look away from the crown in his hands, can't stop imagining what it would feel like to wear something so beautiful, so powerful.
"You're a queen, night monster," he murmurs, stepping closer. "My queen. And it's time you understood that."
His queen.
I’m screaming internally. What does that even mean?
Before I can protest, before I can think clearly enough to move away, he's behind me, lifting the crown toward my head.
"No," I whisper, but it comes out too softly.
"Yes," he disagrees, and settles the crown on my head.
The weight of it is immediate and profound, like it's changing my entire center of gravity. The metal is cold against my scalp, and I can feel power radiating from it—or maybe that's just my imagination.
Fuck .
It feels right . Like it belongs on my head.
"It’s perfect," he breathes, his hands settling on my shoulders as he turns me to face the bed. "Absolutely fucking perfect."
I imagine what I look like to him right now—a woman in a torn vampire costume wearing a crown of obsidian and gold, standing in a gothic temple surrounded by black silk and candlelight.
I look like a dark queen.
I look like someone who belongs in a place as wicked and sinister as this pumpkin patch.
I look like someone who could rule beside a monster as beautiful and possessive as him.
"Now," he says, his voice taking on that commanding edge that makes my back arch instinctively, "let me worship my queen properly."
His hands are on me before I can process what he means, gentle but insistent as he guides me toward the bed.
I should fight him and demand answers. And I know I should ask him who the fuck he is and why he's done all this…
But I don't. I let him lead me to the silk-covered mattress, help me climb onto it, arrange me among the black rose petals like I'm the finishing touch in his art piece.
Like I'm something worth worshipping.
The crown shifts slightly as I move, but it doesn't fall. It stays balanced on my head, like it was made specifically for me.
Was it?
Did he have this crown made for me specifically?
How long has he been planning this?
"Lie back," he says as he nudges me back, and I do, sinking into silk and rose petals and the most comfortable mattress I've ever felt.
His hands are everywhere—stroking over my skin, spreading my legs wide as he kneels between them. The devil mask looks even more dramatic in the brighter candlelight. It’s demonic beauty.
He's going to eat me alive.
And I'm going to let him.
"Such a beautiful Halloween queen," he growls, running his hands up my thighs. "Such a perfect fucking queen."
I arch beneath his touch, already desperate for more. My body is learning to crave him, to respond to his voice and his hands with an eagerness that should shame me but doesn't.
Not when he has me like this.
Wearing his crown and sprawled out over the most expensive silks.
He reaches beneath the pillow beside my head and pulls out something that makes me blink in confusion—a vibrator, but not just any vibrator. It's shaped like candy corn, orange and yellow and white, and it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen.
A candy corn vibrator.
He brought a fucking candy corn vibrator to his gothic sex altar.
I recognize the absolute insanity of this situation, but I start to laugh. It bubbles up from my chest before I can stop it, and once I start, I can't seem to stop.
"You think this is funny?" he asks, but there's amusement in his voice too.
"It's Halloween-themed," I gasp between laughs. "Of course it's Halloween-themed. Of course you have a candy corn vibrator."
This beautiful madman planned everything down to the seasonal sex toys.
"I'm thorough," he says with a grin I can hear in his voice. "And I thought my queen should have something appropriately festive."
His queen.
He keeps calling me his queen.
And I keep letting him.
The laughter dies in my throat as he turns the vibrator on, the soft buzzing sound mixing with the Halloween music still playing in the background. He traces it over my inner thighs, not quite touching where I need him most, and I'm instantly on fire again.
Fuck .
How does he do this to me?
"Please," I whisper, and there's no shame in it anymore. No embarrassment. Just need.
"Please what, my queen?" he asks, still teasing me with the ridiculous vibrator.
"Please touch me," I breathe. "Please make me come. Please don't stop."
Please don't ever stop.
Please keep me here in this dark fairy tale forever.
"Since you asked so nicely," he murmurs, and presses the vibrator against my clit.
I cry out, my back lifting off the silk as pleasure shoots through me. The setting is perfect—not too intense, not too gentle, just exactly what I need right now. And the fact that it's shaped like candy corn makes it even more arousing, like he's claiming me with Halloween itself.
His hands, his voice, his ridiculous seasonal sex toys.
Everything about this man is claiming me. And I want to be his.
He works me with the vibrator and his fingers, building me up slowly this time, drawing out every moan until I'm trembling and begging and completely lost to the pleasure.
"That's it," he says, watching my face with those intense green eyes. "Come for your king, my queen."
My king.
He thinks he’s my king and I'm his queen and this is our dark kingdom.
I shatter around his fingers, the crown shifting on my head as I throw it back and scream for him into the night. The orgasm explodes, and I cling to the sheets like I’m desperately trying to hold onto reality.
As I come down, he's still kneeling between my legs, still watching me with that possessive gaze.
I need more.
I need all of him.
"I want to ride you," I hear myself say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I want to fuck you while I wear your crown."
His eyes flash with hunger. "Then take what you want, my queen."
He lies back on the silk, pulling me up to straddle him as he frees his cock from his pants. I can see all of him now—the tattoos across his chest, the way his muscles flex as he moves, the perfect masculinity of him beneath me.
My king.
My beautiful, dangerous king.
I sink down onto him slowly, savoring every inch as he fills me completely. The crown is heavy on my head, reminding me with every movement that I'm his queen, that this is my throne, that he's made me into something powerful and dark and absolutely his .
This is where I belong. As fucked up as it may seem to literally anyone else, this is who I am.
I start to move, riding him with increasing desperation as he grips my hips and helps guide my movements. The silk slides beneath us, the candles flicker around us, and the crown stays perfectly balanced on my head like it was always meant to be there.
"Fuck," he groans, his head falling back as I take him deeper. "Don’t stop"
Now he’s the one begging me to keep going. I feel a sense of pride, like I’ve somehow gained an ounce of control in this situation.
I'm close again, the pleasure building with every roll of my hips, every flex of his hands on my skin. I can feel him getting close too, in the way his jaw clenches beneath the mask, in the way his breathing gets ragged.
"Come with me," I demand, using the voice of a queen giving orders to her king. "Fill me with your cum until I can’t take any more. I want your seed dripping out of me."
He does, roaring loudly as he empties himself inside me, and I follow him over the edge, my crown shifting but never falling as I collapse against his chest.
We lie there panting under the moon, my body draped over his, our limbs tangle in a sticky mess.
That's when I see it .
A glint of metal against his throat, half-hidden by his open shirt. Something small and round hanging from a chain around his neck.
What is that?
I lift my head slightly, trying to get a better look, and my breath catches. My heart stops.
It looks like…