Chapter 10 Jackson
Jackson
“Oh, fuck,” I choke out between thrusts, chasing the nut that escapes me unless I fuck someone close to death.
I’m not like Fredrick—I need my victims breathing until I come. It’s why Fredrick and I work so well together. He picks up where I leave off—just as they flatline.
The unhinged fuck is a pain in the ass, but he’s family.
Family.
The word burns—acidic, corroding my skin as I pump into this chick.
What fucking family?
The reminder of where we came from. It was family love that put us here—turned us into harbingers of death.
The CryptKeepers. We mete out your fate—as it is our fate.
“Get the fuck off of me, you twisted piece of shit,” she screeches, still full of life even as her end is on the horizon.
Being the dick that I am, I press down on the exposed, broken bone in her leg and chuckle.
“Such a dirty-mouth twat,” I snap. “You’re lucky I wanted my dick in your cunt more than in your mouth.
” The defiance never leaves her eyes, which only serves to make me equal parts pissed and turned on.
“But don’t think I won’t dislocate your jaw. ”
A blood-curdling scream rips from her that threatens to pierce my eardrums. I press just a few moments longer, only letting up because I don’t want her to pass out.
I’m not into dead fish sex. As if she isn’t one injury away from death, her brown eyes flame with rage, and I recognize it for what it is—terminal lucidity.
My nostrils flare as indignation engulfs me.
How fucking dare she think she can die so quickly?
I haven’t fucking come yet.
Clenching my teeth, I peer down at the broken bird before me. Her wings—purposely cut. I study the spot the invisible dove tattoo is located, enjoying seeing it saturated in crimson—still naked to the eye.
She’s a Volkov slut. And Serge Volkov’s girls are always irrevocably broken.
As if sensing my thoughts, disgust fills her face, painting her broken body with an air of superiority as if I’m beneath killing her. “I’m going to gut you like a pig when I get out of here,” she argues, glaring into my eyes like she can see under my mask.
Joke’s on her. It’s her challenge—that stubborn will to live… the way it burns in her gaze, denying the Reaper—that gets me hard.
Unfazed, I grip her tits and squeeze until her babbles turn into shrill cries. Her eyes roll back—hips lifting as her pussy grips my dick.
I’m so close. I feel the tingle shoot up my spine, then down my cock. My thrusts double, my hips pistoning with enough force that I know the wetness I feel is blood and not her arousal.
Smirking, I raise my knife above my head as I grip her throat. “You thought you could escape death,” I taunt. “But no one leaves purgatory alive. Remember that in your next life.”
Her eyes widen briefly before melting to hooded and lust-drunk.
Pain fucking slut. Just like our mothers—whores trained to take whatever scraps we give them.
The thought sparks a memory of that night, eighteen years ago.
A smile creeps up my face, smarmy and slow, as I watch the scene play out before me. It’s just like they said it would be if I followed their instructions.
Snorting, I watch as Mikah thrusts in and out of his mother’s mouth. He always acts so above it all—like he’s on some mission to save the purity of his siblings’ souls.
But what savior thinks the solution for that is to kill—no, slaughter them? They’re barely identifiable. I know Fredrick, and I turned two of them into at least a one-hundred-piece puzzle.
Mikah may be remorseful, but I feel nothing. I never feel it—not until the very end, but I don’t do kids, so the opportunity to fuck his mom again is no skin off my back.
His parents—our parents are soiled in immoral decay. The stench of evil oozes from their pores—purulent and putrid.
There are very few options when you grow up in families like ours—
Fight…
Death… Or
—Surrender.
Mikah struggled before caving.
Me?
I basked in the dark glory of being free of morality. It allowed me to unmask and be my most authentic self.
No more fake smiles or emotions. Just beautiful silence.
It’s why I chose to be Jason. His trauma freed him to kill indiscriminately without ever muttering a word. Silent, but deadly. He called to me.
“Enough, Fredrick. We need to go before the cops come,” Mikah barks, shoving Fredrick off his dead mother.
Not one to bend to reason, Fredrick braces himself by squeezing Charlotte Gordon’s barely still attached tits and plowing into her semi-warm pussy.
“I’m not finished, asshole,” Fredrick argues. “You can leave if you want, but you know cops aren’t coming to do anything but phone it in for pretense sake.”
Annoyed that Fredrick is not listening, Mikah storms out of the house, and Griff quickly follows, leaving me to enjoy the show.
“What crawled up his ass?” Fredrick asks.
Shaking my head, I reply, “Sometimes I think you were dropped on your head as a child because you’re missing some brain cells. What do you mean, what crawled up his ass?”
Twisting to look at the door Mikah and Griff exited, I glance up the hall where Mikah’s siblings’ bodies are littered before I continue. “He just killed his whole family. The only lifeline to his righteous defiance.”
Shrugging, he pulls out of Charlotte and jerks himself until he comes all over her lifeless body. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
I whirl around, eyes narrowing to slits at Fredrick’s question. My full attention—on each word.
Isn’t.
That.
Why.
We’re.
Here.
My lips part to ask, but Fredrick subtly shakes his head. “Not now. Just know, I know what you do.
“Holy… fuck… shit,” I heave, the vice grip of her cunt catapults me back into the present.
Grunting, I roar out my release, slamming down into her chest until only the hilt protrudes, the blade penetrating flesh like a hot knife through cold butter.
But before I can bask in my dominance and revel in my kill, something sharp pinches the back of my neck.
Looking up, I see the smug glee in the cunt’s eyes before I’m falling.
Time feels as though it stills but also keeps moving. I can’t put it into words, I just know something’s wrong. The alarm bells are ringing, my neurons are shooting off emergency sirens, but I still can’t place it.
Blinking up, I can sense my awareness slipping from my grasp as I hit the ground slumped.
“You’ll look good on my little fox’s shelf,” the man in a black tactical suit singsongs.
Blood still drips from his sword—my blood slips down his sword.
He steps into the moonlight, his face covered in a mask that fits a warrior—a skilled contender of the highest caliber—the only opponent worthy of my death.
He raises his katana again, and this time, I see the strike coming.
And as Hell’s gates crank open, I willingly accept the reckoning before me.
I step on the threshold and can’t help but wonder as the blade connects with my neck—
What do you call the person who reaps the soul of the Reaper?