9. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Xena
I try to open my eyes, but everything is dark. It must still be nighttime. But I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. What the fuck? My head spins from the pills, my mind fuzzy, disoriented. Warmth pulses between my thighs. For a second, I think it’s Marcos inside me—Jimmy could never make me feel like this. But no… the rhythm is too familiar, too intense. This isn’t Marcos either. It’s too good, too deep, too overwhelming.
My body betrays me, giving into the pleasure as the realization hits me like a punch in the gut. This isn’t Jimmy, and it isn’t Marcos. It’s Roman. His touch is unmistakable, even through the fog of my confusion.
But how?
My traitorous body gives in with each brutal thrust, a twisted mix of terror and pleasure. How is this possible? Romans supposed to be out of reach in prison. The nightmare of his touch overwhelms me, leaving me questioning reality as I’m caught between fear and an unwanted climax.
I try to move, but my arms are locked above my head. Panic shoots through me as I realize my wrists are bound. The cool bite of something twisted around my wrists makes me shiver. The texture is smooth and slightly metallic, but there’s an electric hum beneath it, like faint vibrations against my skin. I can’t see—I’m shrouded in darkness by a blindfold. Yet, the soft, twinkling light against my skin tells me it’s Christmas lights, not just any ordinary rope. Terror swells inside me, but beneath it, that eerie pleasure continues to build. I hate how my body responds, how it betrays me, the climax creeping closer with each brutal thrust.
I know it’s him.
Roman.
His rough hands, his familiar violence, the way he claims me without hesitation or restraint. His grip on my throat tightens, cutting off my air as he fucks me harder. Each breath becomes a struggle, each second a countdown to something darker, something deeper.
"Roman…" I whisper, barely able to get the word out between gasps, but he doesn’t stop. He won’t, not until he gets what he wants.
The orgasm rips through me violently, leaving me shattered beneath him. My body convulses, torn between agony and ecstasy as he holds me captive in that moment, pushing me to the very edge. The pain becomes part of the pleasure, an inescapable torment that wraps around me like the lights binding my wrists. His hand tightens around my throat one last time, and the world goes dark as I lose consciousness.
When I wake up, the room is dark, quiet, and cold.
"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, realizing I’d slept through the entire day again. My limbs are free, the Christmas lights are still hanging where I left them, and the blindfold is gone. Was it all just a dream? My body aches with the memory of what happened—if it even happened at all. I should really lay off the drugs. Disorientation sharpens the edges of my thoughts, the lingering warmth clashing with the cold emptiness of the room. I sit up slowly, trying to piece together the fragments of my memory when a knock on the door makes me freez e
Sliding out of bed, my body still trembling, I grab the bat I keep behind the door. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I move cautiously toward the door. Only when I’m inches away do I realize I’m holding my breath. I exhale sharply, relief washing over me as I see it’s Marcos standing there, fully dressed in his green Cedarvale hoodie and jeans. Meanwhile, I’m still very much naked as I open the door.
Marcos’s expression is tense, worry etched into every line of his face. His green eyes look straight past me. "Xena, have you seen Jimmy?"
I shake my head, my voice trembling.
"No, I haven’t," I manage to say, forcing the words out through the fog in my brain. "I—I saw him this morning before he left for work…" My voice feels distant, like it’s coming from someone else.
Marcos shoves a box into my hand. "Did you notice this out here?" he asks. I shake my head, the box feels heavy, and there’s a metallic smell to it. What the fuck?
Marcos steps inside, scanning the room before his eyes land on me with concern. "What is it?"
"I have no clue," I reply, my voice shaking slightly. I open the box, and it falls to the ground with a loud thud. Disbelief washes over me as I stare at the contents. Dismembered hands.
"What the fuck, Marcos?" I screech, panic seeping into my voice. His green eyes widen as he crouches, picking up one of the hands, the left one.
"Xena, what the fuck is this?" he asks, his voice low and horrified. Tears sting my eyes as I try to process everything—Jimmy’s disappearance, what happened earlier, and now this. Hands. In a fucking box.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Marcos?" I snap, my mind spiraling out of control.
"I need a fix... I ran out," he mutters, already heading toward our stash like the severed hands are nothing.
Quickly, I shove the hands back into the box and push it outside, out of sight. I don’t have the energy to deal with this right now. Just like I do with everything else, I’ll pretend it didn’t happen. I follow Marcos, knowing exactly where he's headed—our little stash hidden behind the toilet.
"He’s not answering," Marcos says, voice laced with unease.
"So what now?" I ask, my heart racing. "Jimmy’s missing, and there’s a fucking box of hands."
A cold shiver creeps up my spine, but Marcos just shrugs. "I don’t know, Xena, and I don’t care. I just need a fix."
"You think he might have overdosed or something?" I ask, trailing behind Marcos into the bathroom. He doesn’t respond, too focused on retrieving the oxy from its hiding spot.
We pop the pills, and I settle onto the bathroom counter, legs exposed as Marcos traces my tattoos with lazy fingers. "You worried?" I ask, watching his hand pause mid-trace.
"Should I be?" He leans in closer, his breath warm against my skin. I shrug, not really caring either way. His lips wrap around my nipple, sucking gently, making me shiver as his tongue plays with my piercing.
"Mmm... I bet you got him high somewhere, just so you can fuck me all night," he teases, chuckling against my chest. His fingers dig into my thigh, sending sparks up my spine.
I smirk. "Now that’s something I didn’t consider."
Truth is, I’m not worried. Jimmy’s always going MIA—he’s probably strung out on some other chick’s couch, and I can’t say I’m mad about it. Right now, this is perfect. Decent sex while I wait for sweet oblivion to take me under. The storm outside intensifies, the wind howling like something alive, rattling the walls as the power flickers erratically. Marcos groans, his voice muffled against my skin. " Shit, you might lose power tonight."
For the first time, unease creeps in, tightening low in my gut. My mind drifts back to earlier—the dull ache still lingering between my legs. It’s not the kind of soreness Jimmy’s cock would’ve left behind, nor Marcos’.
"Probably," I mutter, trying to piece together the fragments of whatever the hell that was. Something doesn’t sit right, a strange pulse of memory I can’t quite grasp. I bite my lip before asking, "Marcos... Did you sneak into my house today? Or do you know if Jimmy came back while I was asleep?"
Marcos steps back, his green eyes locking on me, a flicker of confusion passing over his face. He scratches at his goatee, the sound grating in the quiet. "Nah, I didn’t. I was at some girl’s place, having fun. Jimmy should be with his dealer, getting more merch. He’s not answering though, so he’s probably high, fucking some whore."
I nod slowly, trying to convince myself that he’s right—that I’m just tripping. But fuck, that felt real. And now, the need, the ache , is back, crawling up my spine and making my skin hum. Enough to make me want Marcos’ dick inside me right this second, just to chase away the lingering discomfort. Just to feel something.
"Fuck me," I whisper, my hand slipping beneath his hoodie, fingers trailing down the happy trail to the waistband of his pants.
His green eyes darken, and without a word, he growls, "Bend over."
I jump down from the counter, turning to face the bathroom mirror, gripping the edges of the sink as I bend over. Marcos fumbles with his pants, tearing open a condom wrapper with his teeth. There’s a brief, charged silence before he groans, sliding into me. "Fuck, you're wet already, Xena."
Yeah, I’m wet, but not for him. Not for this. Whatever happened earlier, that’s what I want. The fullness, the pain, the punishing thrust that made me feel something beyond the numbing haze. But Marcos isn’t that. His hands tangle in my hair, nails scraping my scalp as he yanks my head back, fucking me hard and fast. There’s no rhythm, just raw need—his need to cum.
I can feel myself slipping away, the sensation muted. My hand slips between my legs, fingers working my clit, desperate to feel something, to chase the orgasm that’s just out of reach. But it’s not happening. Frustration builds, simmering just beneath the surface. I can’t replicate that feeling from earlier—the intensity, the satisfaction. I need it, crave it, but all I’m getting is rough, empty sex, and it’s not enough.
It doesn’t take long for Marcos to finish, groaning my name as he spills inside the condom. His body slumps against mine for a second, his breath hot on my skin. "When are you gonna let me make you my girl? Fuck Jimmy and his pills," he murmurs into my neck, teeth grazing my flesh as he kisses and bites me lazily.
I sigh, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My brown eyes are dull, the smudged remains of days-old mascara smeared beneath them, making me look as tired as I feel. "You know I don’t do relationships," I mutter, my voice flat.
He pulls out of me with a hiss, tossing the condom in the trash. I watch as he steps back, my mind already somewhere else, waiting for the pills to finally take me under.
"You going to Wonderland?" he asks, slightly slurring the words as he walks to the toilet, pissing without a second thought.
I shake my head. "Nah, I thought it was invite-only."
He shakes his cock off, smirking as he zips up. "It is. I was gonna bring you as my plus-one if you weren’t invited."
I shape my mouth into an exaggerated "O," then grin lazily. "Yeah, I’m down."
Marcos doesn’t bother washing his hands. Instead, he slaps my bare ass, the sharp sting rippling through me, before grabbing the back of my head and crushing his lips against mine. "It’s on Christmas night," he murmurs low, voice thick and slurred. "Dress like an angel... for the nice list."
My lip's part, but the words die in my throat. My tongue feels heavy, useless. We stay like that, our mouths moving against each other, slow and sloppy. His tongue tangles with mine, clumsy but insistent, as my arms wrap around his waist. We make out lazily, the drugs finally creeping into my system, dulling everything but the slow burn under my skin.
After what feels like an eternity, Marcos and I stumble out of the bathroom, our limbs loose and unsteady, the drugs taking full effect. We move toward the living room like puppets on broken strings, disjointed, our bodies still buzzing from the sloppy sex and the cocktail of chemicals coursing through our veins. The big open windows reveal the snow-covered forest outside, blanketed in white under the eerie glow of the moonlight. The TV flickers with a jazz channel still playing softly, the smooth notes of a saxophone weaving through the storm’s howling outside.
It’s perfect for tonight. A strange, surreal kind of perfect.
"Let’s go watch the snow fall," I suggest, my voice rough, scraping like gravel in my throat. We collapse onto the couch, sinking into the cushions like they’re swallowing us whole, the warmth of the fire contrasting with the cold world just beyond the windows.
I stretch my legs out, feeling the weight of Marcos’ arm fall lazily across my lap. His breath is already slowing, his body relaxing into the fog of the pills we popped earlier. I stare through the glass, watching the snow fall in heavy, hypnotic waves, a quiet that feels suffocating despite the storm outside.
For a second, I almost believe this peace is real. Almost. But I know this fake… an illusion of everything I dreamed of one day having and a grim reminder of what I could never have.
The Christmas lights, which were supposed to add some holiday cheer, now flicker like they’re auditioning for a horror movie, casting weird, jumpy shadows across the room. It’s like the lights know something we don’t, and honestly, it’s freaking me out a little.
Marcos pulls me onto his lap with an urgent grip .
"Need you, Xena," he mutters, his voice rough and desperate. There’s no warmth in his touch—just a raw, frantic need to escape. I straddle him, our lips crashing together in a kiss that’s more teeth and desperation than passion. We’re both just trying to feel something real, something solid, in the middle of all this chaos. I want to feel what I did during my drug-induced dream.
His hands grip my hips with bruising intensity, guiding me as he thrusts upward with a rough, insistent rhythm. There’s no condom this time, but I’m too high to care, lost in the haze of the pills and the raw need to forget. The sensation of him sliding inside me is dull, nothing spectacular, but it does the job, his urgency mirroring the storm raging outside.
The Christmas lights around us flicker like they’re on a frenzy, casting odd shadows that dance over our tangled bodies as I ride him. Each thrust is powerful, almost violent, pushing us both closer to the edge. The forceful pleasure is overwhelming, my moans mingling with the sound of the storm battering the windows.
"Fuck, Xena, you feel so good," Marcos growls, his breath coming in heavy, uneven bursts. His words are almost drowned out by the wind howling outside due to the snowstorm and our frantic movements. I can barely respond, my own voice a low, breathless whimper as we continue. His hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back before lowering his mouth to my nipple. His tongue flicks over my piercing, the one Roman forced on me ten years ago. Call me sentimental, but those piercings are all I have left of us.
I bounce on his cock as his hands spread my ass apart, his hips thrusting upwards with each bounce.
"You on the pill or anything? I don’t think I can pull out," he grunts. It’s unlike him to fuck me raw, but he lifts me, almost dropping me before picking up the pace. It’s nothing close to what Roman gave me, but still, he manages to make me cum, my pussy clenching around his length.
"Fuck, baby," he groans as he pulls out, his warm seed coating the mound of my pussy. Finally, we collapse in a tangled, exhausted heap on the couch, the storm’s fury outside a distant, muted roar compared to the intensity of our desperate encounter.
Then there’s a sound from the kitchen—a soft creak, like someone moving through the house.
Marcos stiffens beside me.
"Did you hear that?"
I nod, my heart racing.
"Yeah. It’s probably just the storm. Or Jimmy."
Before we can react, a shadow moves into the living room. A man with a familiar build step into the doorway, his face obscured by a mask—or is it? As he moves closer to the flickering Christmas lights, I realize it’s not a mask at all. It’s Jimmy’s face.
I scream.
The chill in my spine intensifies, dread pooling in my chest. Marcos sits up, confused and alarmed.
"What the hell?"
The figure lunges. Marcos barely has time to react before the man’s fist connects with his face, the sickening sound of flesh meeting flesh reverberating through the room. Marcos struggles, trying to fend him off, but manages to break away.
"Run, Xena," he shouts, as I stand there naked, cum still spread on my pussy. Great.
My mind races through countless horror flicks, realizing that running deeper into the cabin could get me killed. But the woods—I know the woods like the back of my hand, so I make a break for it. My body jolts forward, sprinting for the door. Marcos must’ve had the same thought because he’s already there, yanking it open.
"Where’s your car?" I shout, running behind him, the cold biting into my skin, my toes painfully frozen.
"Down the hill!" he yells back, and we keep running through the woods, our breath visible in the frigid air.
Then the sound of a bear trap snapping shut fills the night, followed by a blood-curdling scream.
"AHHH!"
"Marcos!" I yell, skidding to a stop beside him, my breath fogging in the icy air. He’s sprawled in the snow, terror and pain twisting every feature of his face, his leg mangled in the steel jaws of a trap. Blood stains the pristine white around him, seeping into the snow like ink spreading across paper.
"Fuck… fuck… fuck," I mutter, panic clawing at my throat as I scan the surrounding woods, desperately hoping for something—anything—to give us a way out. The wind bites at my skin, and my limbs ache from the cold, trembling as if they might give out beneath me. My hands shake, useless in the freezing air, and I can barely think past the sound of Marcos's screams, raw and filled with agony.
I drop to my knees beside him, my mind racing, unable to focus. What the hell do I do? My fingers hover over the trap, but it’s brutal, unforgiving. There’s no way I’m strong enough to pry it open, not without tools, not in this condition. I'm freezing. And Marcos… he’s wailing, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps, his green eyes wide with terror.
I do the only thing I can think of—I slap a hand over his mouth.
"Shhh! Whoever’s out there could hear us," I whisper harshly, my heart hammering so loud I can barely hear my own words. His eyes lock onto mine, so wide, so scared, and then I feel it—warmth, wetness—his tears spilling over my fingers, soaking into my skin.
"I know… I know it hurts," I choke out, my voice barely holding steady, "but you have to stay quiet. Please. "
But it’s already too late. The figure is closing in, the grotesque mask of Jimmy’s face swaying with each step, the storm swirling snow around him like he’s some kind of demented ghost.
"Please… no!" I scream as the man approaches, but my voice is swallowed by the storm. I’m so cold my limbs lock up, and I just stay there, kneeling beside Marcos, who’s cursing at the man.
"Who the fuck are you, man?" Marcos’s voice breaks as the figure cocks his head to the side, brandishing a knife, the blade glinting in the dim light.
"Why are you doing this?" I plead, but the figure stays silent, drawing closer. And then it hits me, like a punch to the gut. I know that stance, that swagger. He’s more muscular now, covered in more ink, but it’s him. I know it’s him.
"Ro?" I whisper, my voice barely audible over the storm. And that’s when he pauses. Marcos looks at me, confused—he doesn’t know Roman personally, but everyone knows about my crazy stepbrother. The one who raped me and killed my boyfriend during a psychotic break. Everyone knows our family tragedy.
"Your crazy brother’s out of jail?" Marcos spits, his voice tinged with desperation. But there’s no escaping Roman—believe me, I’ve tried. Even in my dreams, he’s there, haunting me.
Roman rips off the mask, revealing the face beneath. Those once beautiful eyes are now cold and merciless, a twisted smile curling across his bloodstained lips.
"Boo," he says with a chuckle, "or should I say, ho ho."
I shake my head, trying to make sense of the nightmare unfolding in front of me. Roman can’t be here. This can’t be happening. I can’t die like this. But deep down, I know he wants to break me. This ghost from the Christmas past is here to exact his revenge.
"Roman… No!" My voice trembles, caught between horror and disbelief. Roman’s eyes gleam with cruel satisfaction as he closes the distance between us. I scramble backward, away from Marcos, who’s desperately pleading with me .
"Xena, don’t leave me!" But it’s too late. Roman’s hand wraps around the back of Marcos’s head, and with a sickening crunch, he drives the knife deep into his throat. Marcos gurgles, trying to speak, but only blood spills from his lips before his body slumps forward, lifeless. His green eyes lock onto mine as the life drains out of him.
"Fuck… fuck… fuck," I mutter, my brain barely processing what just happened.
Slowly, I look up at Roman—the devil himself. The most handsome devil, with a grin that spreads across his blood-stained face. Despite the carnage clinging to his skin, he looks good enough to eat.
"Did you miss me, Xena Bean?" Roman’s voice is a chilling whisper, his breath visible in the freezing air. His hands, slick with blood, slide across my cheek. Tears stream down my face—the drugs have worn off, and there’s no escape. I sob, the anguish racking my body as the snow bites into my flesh, but Roman’s presence is a blazing inferno, consuming me with brutal heat.
Without warning, he throws me down into the snow, his grip tightening around my throat as he forces himself inside me. I scream, but the wind howls louder, drowning out my cries. The storm rages on, the snow swirling violently around us as Roman fucks me, relentless and merciless. A twisted mix of arousal and disgust churns in my gut, but I can’t deny it—I welcome it. Each painful thrust burns through the remnants of my sanity. I don’t even realize I’m pushing back against him until his hand fists in my hair, yanking me closer.
"You’ve always been such a desperate whore," he growls, his voice dripping with venom. "My cock is your true drug, my little junkie. But I’m here now. I’ll fix you. I’ll give you exactly what you’ve been craving."
His bloody hand slides down to my clit, pressing hard as he fucks me into the freezing ground. The sharp contrast between his brutal heat and the icy cold sends shockwaves through my body. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my vision blurring as Marcos’s blood seeps toward us, staining the pure white snow a sickening crimson. Roman’s thrusts grow more violent, his grip on me unyielding as he pulls me closer, deeper into this nightmare. He’s so deep inside me I can feel his balls slapping against my skin, the weight of him crushing me into the earth.
The snow beneath us turns scarlet, mingling with the blood of the man Roman just killed, as he fucks me into sweet abyss. Each thrust drives me further into oblivion, the horror of what’s happening slipping away, leaving only the raw power of his dominance. My body betrays me, responding against my will, caught in the brutal rhythm of his desire. Finally, he stills, buried to the hilt, and I feel the sickening warmth of his cum invading my pussy.
I climax again, my screams lost to the storm. Roman leans down, his breath hot against my ear.
"You must’ve been a good girl. Santa came early this year. Merry Christmas, my little junkie," he whispers, dark amusement dripping from his words as his grip tightens around my neck. The world begins to blur, the blizzard outside swallowing me whole while Roman’s twisted laughter echoes in my mind. Darkness creeps in, overtaking me, leaving only the torment of my own desires and the unrelenting cold of the storm.