Chapter 20 Sera
Sera
He was in my house, touching what belonged to me and leaving with the nonchalance of zipping up his pants.
He touched my kitchen counter with those same hands that had left bruises shaped like fingerprints on my throat. He breathed my air and contaminated it with that godawful spicy cologne that still makes my skin crawl.
The whole time he was here, he hardly looked at me. I was just a body to him. Interchangeable meat that served a purpose and was discarded.
The other officers swarmed my house, their boots tracking mud over my already filthy floors, their voices loud and overbearing.
They’d bagged the body, but not one of them truly looked around.
Not one saw the crimson footprints pointing straight to the basement door.
Or if they saw them, they dismissed them as the whimsical stains of an old, decaying house.
Are they even real? The footprints? Or is this house, with its damp breath and groaning bones and writhing shadows that fuck me every night, just a mirror for the rot festering inside my own skull?
Only Shadow Daddy knows. I can feel him coiled in the silence now, a cold, watchful presence in the walls.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three sharp, deliberate raps on the front door. Not James. His knock was a single loud bang. This one is measured. Official.
My shadow daddy explodes into motion. Scratching erupts inside the walls, frantic and furious, like a trapped animal trying to claw its way out. A low, guttural whisper curls against my ear, colder than winter breath: Careful.
I ignore him and cross the living room, and after a quick check out the peep hole, I pull open the door.
Detective Eddie Crowe stands on my porch.
Rain glistens in his dark hair, plastering stray strands to his forehead and sticking his long lashes together.
His leather jacket is damp, the collar turned up against the chill.
His eyes, sharp and blue, sweep over me, then past me into the gloom of the hallway behind me before refocusing on me.
He looks like he belongs here, standing in my doorway, his presence solid and unyielding as granite.
“Detective Crowe,” I say, summoning a smile, though it feels brittle on my face. “I got your message that you needed—“
“Penelope Seskeny.”
The name hits me like a bullet to the chest. Penelope “Penny” Seskeny, the girl I was before the world peeled me raw. The name buried under layers of ash and rage. My breath hitches, just for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. His eyes catch the stumble.
He sees me.
He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, brushing past me.
His shoulder bumps mine, a deliberate invasion of space.
He prowls the living room, his gaze raking over the stained wallpaper, the dusty fireplace, the closed basement door.
He’s casing the place, but not like a cop.
Like a predator assessing a rival’s den.
“Tell me why you’re really here, Penelope Seskeny,” he continues, his voice low, scraping over gravel. “Why the name change? Why lie?”
The walls groan. Shadow Daddy’s fury vibrates through the floorboards. A vent rattles overhead, spitting dust motes into the weak moonlight filtering through the grimy windows.
Eddie’s head snaps up, his gaze sharpening. “What the hell was that?”
“Like I said the last time you were here, old house,” I say, waving a dismissive hand. “Settling, probably. Or rodents of unusual size.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, a trapped bird. Charm won’t work on him. Not now. He’s peeled back a layer. Does this mean I’ll have to kill the pretty detective?
“Why lie, Detective? Why does anyone lie? Safety. Reinvention. The thrill of starting over when your old skin doesn’t fit anymore.
“ I step closer, tilting my head, letting my voice drop into something softer, more intimate.
Dangerous. “Maybe I just liked the sound of Sera better. It sounds more…final.”
His eyes are chips of ice, locking onto mine. He prowls closer, invading my space again. The air crackles between us, thick with tension and Shadow Daddy’s mounting rage, a visceral pressure building in the room.
“Cut the crap, Penelope. You’re here for him, aren’t you?
Vincent.” His voice is a low rasp. “But this city eats revenge for breakfast. It’ll chew you up and spit you out before you even get close to him.
” He gestures toward the basement door. “You’ve seen firsthand what the dark underbelly here looks like. ”
The scratching intensifies, frantic clawing tearing at the inside of the walls near the hallway. Whispers slither through the air, indistinct but laced with venom: Mine. MINE.
Eddie’s gaze darts toward the sound, his jaw tightening.
“And what about Rick?” he asks, his gaze snapping back to me, watching, always watching. “Rick Walker. Your boss. He’s officially missing as of three hours ago. His family’s in a panic.”
Eddie searches my face, hunting for guilt, for fear, for any flicker of acknowledgment.
I feel nothing but a surge of exhilaration, bright and sharp as a knife blade, because he sees me.
He sees the cracks, the rot, the carefully constructed facade.
He sees the rage simmering beneath the surface, and I want him to see it all.
I want to peel the rest of myself open and show him the bloody mess inside.
The fact that he’s here, that he knows exactly who I am, that he isn’t tossing me in jail for conspiracy to commit murder says so much.
The vent above us shrieks, a metallic scream that makes Eddie flinch. Dust rains down. Shadow Daddy is losing control. His jealousy is a physical force now, pressing in, cold and suffocating.
My annoyance flares. I don’t have time for shadow tantrums.
Before Eddie can react, before he can ask about the noise again, I grab his wrist. His skin is warm, the pulse beneath it strong and steady. I yank him forward, pulling him towards the front door.
“Outside,” I snap. “Too much dust in here.”
We step out onto the porch, into the damp, cool embrace of the night.
I slam the door shut behind us, muffling Daddy’s furious whispers.
Rain slicks the porch boards, the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves heavy in the air.
Crickets chirp in the overgrown grass, a relentless chorus beneath the sighing of the wind in the trees and the soft plinking of rain.
The darkness feels alive, pressing close.
Eddie pulls his wrist from my grip, but he doesn’t step back. We stand inches apart, the rain misting our faces.
“You left burning bags of dog shit on Vincent’s property,” he states, his voice flat. “Repeatedly. That’s arson. Trespassing. I should arrest you.”
“Then why don’t you?” I challenge, stepping forward, crowding him back against the porch railing. My voice is low, dangerous. “What’s stopping you, Detective? Duty? Or something else?”
His gaze holds mine, intense and searching.
“Because I know what he did to you in Kansas City,” he says, the words quiet but brutal in the night air.
“I read the report. Saw the pictures.” The faintest tremor runs through him.
“I should turn you in, but…I don’t want to hand you back to him.
I want to…” His jaw tightens. “I don’t know what I want.
To stop you from getting yourself killed, maybe.
To save you from whatever the hell this is you’re doing. ”
Save me? The words ignite a cold fury. I don’t need saving. I need an accomplice. I need someone willing to get stained. Or I need him to leave me the fuck alone.
A savage grin twists my lips.
“Save me?“ I echo, my voice dripping with venom.
I close the distance between us, pressing my body flush against his and pushing him harder against the porch railing. Heat radiates from him, and I can feel the solid muscle beneath his damp clothes.
I snake my hand up, tangling my fingers in the hair at his nape, my nails scraping his scalp.
“You think I need a knight, Detective Eddie? I need a fucking war dog.” I press my other hand flat against his chest, feeling the hammering of his heart against my palm.
“He took something from me, something that can’t be given back.
You want to save me? Prove you’re not his to command.
Prove you see the monster he is. Believe me. ”
The last words are a hiss, hot against his ear.
He stiffens. His breath catches. Then his hands clamp down on my hips, his fingers digging in hard, like a claim, a challenge.
“I believe you,” he growls, his voice rough. “But believing isn’t enough, is it? You want blood.”
“I want everything,“ I snarl back, my teeth finding the tense cord of muscle in his neck.
I bite down, hard, tasting salt and rain and the metallic tang of his skin.
He grunts, a sound ripped from deep in his chest, part pain, part fury.
His hands tighten, hauling me closer still, crushing me against him.
Then he shoves me back against the rough wood siding of the house.
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs.
Rainwater trickles down my neck from the holes in the porch roof.
Then he kisses me like he’s trying to brand my lips, his mouth hot and demanding, his teeth scraping. I bite back, drawing blood, and the coppery taste floods my mouth. I claw at the front of his leather jacket, my nails raking through the fabric of his shirt, searching for skin.
He pins my wrists above my head, his body pressing mine into the unforgiving wood. His knee forces my legs apart. The friction is brutal, electric, as I buck against him.
His free hand fists in my hair, yanking my head back, exposing my throat.
His mouth descends, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh just below my jaw.
Pain blooms, sharp and bright, a counterpoint to the frantic heat coiling low in my belly.
I arch against him, a wordless snarl tearing from my throat.
He releases my wrists. My hands fly down, grabbing the front of his shirt, his jeans, ripping buttons and cupping the swollen length of him straining through denim. I work my fingers over the hard planes of his chest and dig in my nails.
He groans, the sound raw, and his hand slides down my body, then under my shirt. His fingers are rough against my ribs before they find the curve of my breast. His thumb circles my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, a rough, deliberate friction that makes me gasp.
I drive my hand between us, fumbling with his belt buckle, the cold metal slick with rain. He helps, shoving his pants and boxers down only just enough to spring out his cock, hard, thick, straining against my palm. I stroke him once possessively, feeling him pulse and quake.
Then I guide him to my entrance. I’m wet, aching, the damp fabric of my leggings shoved aside. Did he do that, or did I? He drives into me in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
The stretch is sudden, and I cry out, the sound swallowed by the rain and the wind. He holds himself there for a heartbeat, buried deep, his breath ragged against my throat.
Then he pulls back and slams into me again. And again. Purely raw and animalistic, punishment and possession rolled into each savage stroke. The rough wood scrapes my back as he hikes my shirt up even farther and pinches my nipple.
Rain stings my face, and the lightning above flashes in his intense gaze. His hips piston, driving into me with a force that steals my breath, that pushes me up the wall with every thrust.
I wrap my legs around his waist, digging my heels into his back, pulling him in deeper, harder.
He bites my shoulder. I rake my nails down his spine, drawing blood I can feel welling under my fingertips. He growls, the vibration humming through my body. His hand fists in my hair again, controlling my head, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes are wild, feral, stripped bare of all pretense.
There’s no detective there now. Just a man consumed by the same dark fire that burns in me. He sees the ruin. He sees the rage. And he’s not running.
I see it too, the understanding, the willingness to step into the abyss. This isn’t just fucking. It’s a pact sealed in leather and thunder and shared fury at the injustices of monsters.
He’s choosing a side. My side.
My orgasm tears a ragged scream from my throat, a violent wave cresting and breaking. The detonation of the tension coiled tight inside me since he said Penelope Seskeny.
“Come inside me,” I insist on a whisper. “I can’t get pregnant.”
Not with my fresh supply of birth control and negative bloodborne diseases tests.
His thrusts turn erratic, losing their brutal rhythm. A guttural groan tears from him as he buries himself deep one final time, shuddering, his forehead pressed hard against my collarbone.
We collapse against the wall, shaking with exertion and adrenaline, and rain slicks our skin, plastering our hair to our faces.
His breath rasps against my ear, ragged and uneven. He shifts, his arm still locked around my waist, his body a heavy, warm weight against mine in the cold.
“I’m not done with you,” he whispers, the words rough and raw.
A laugh bubbles up from deep in my chest, a feral, cruel one that echoes the wildness still humming in my veins. I tilt my head back, letting the rain hit my face.
“Good,” I breathe.
He traces my slick jaw and then grips it tightly in his strong grasp. “No more bags full of shit. You hear me? If he finds out—and he still could—he’ll come after you himself. There’s no telling what he’ll do then.”
I nod, but not because of the detective. The fiery shit was only the beginning of this psychological war, but that stage has passed.
Eddie presses another rough kiss to my lips.
From inside the house, muffled by the closed door but still chillingly clear, a whisper snakes through: cold, possessive, thick with jealousy and hunger. Mine.