15. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
Creed
T he mask is waiting for me. Where I left it, on the edge of the bookshelf in the den, winking at me with its slitted, blood-red eyes.
Black, molded plastic, half-face, contoured, a grotesque with a permanent snarl and the memory of old Halloween nights.
I run a thumb over the edge, slow, testing the bite of the resin teeth on the top.
Kairo had all of ours custom made in college, some inside joke about the devil on our shoulders, but I wear it only for moments like this. For the ritual. For the hunt.
I slide the mask on. The world narrows, tunnel vision, all edges and threat, the color bleeding away except for those eyeholes rimmed raw and seeping. I breathe in, the sweat-and- plastic tang like a switch in my brain. My pulse settles, then spikes. I flex my hands and they’re steady as ever.
She wants this. She wants me to come for her.
My perfect girl.
The front door is still ajar, screen hanging limp, the latch scratched from where she yanked it open.
The trail of her footprints is clumsy and obvious, city girl, but she learns fast. Runs fast too.
I close the door with a click, then set out down the stairs, boots hitting each tread with controlled gravity.
The cold is sharp enough to cut. I savor it before wondering how she’s faring with it.
Outside, the world is silent except for the hush of the wind and the distant hollow call of a jay.
The woods soak up sound like a sponge; even the crunch of my boots vanishes after three feet.
Her trail is easy to pick up, especially with her leaving her collar on the ground Naughty girl for that .
There’s a smear of blood on the rim of a birch, bright against the white, and I grin.
She’s already bleeding. My beautiful, doomed kitten.
I pace myself. There’s no reason to rush. I’ve tracked people through deserts, through crowded cities, through hospitals where the scent of bleach and rot was thicker than the walls. This is pleasure, not labor.
She’s fast, but she’s wounded. She wasn’t wearing shoes when she left, so likely a cut on the sole of her beautiful little feet.
There’s a catch in her stride every twenty feet, a slight drift to the left as if her right leg is already locking up.
I count her steps, count the breathless little gaps in the sound.
She’s desperate, but not scared. There’s a difference.
I move through the forest like a fixed point in space. Every time I close my eyes, I see the way her hair whipped around her jaw as she runs. The way her lungs heaved as she sucked in the air, reckless and greedy. I know her pace, her rhythm. I know how long she’ll last.
Two miles. Maybe less. She’s a little gym rat, so her stamina is certainly better than most.
There’s an art to pursuit. You want the prey to think they have a chance.
You want them to taste hope before you take it away.
I slow at the first clearing, kneel in the soft loam and scan the ground.
There, a partial heel print, deep enough to bruise.
I check the direction, then stand and walk parallel for a hundred feet, shadowing her until I see the break in the ferns.
She doubled back, clever. It won’t help.
I let out a breath, slow and measured. “Little kitten,” I call, the words flat and carrying in the cold. “You know you can’t outrun me.”
No answer, but the forest shivers. A rabbit bolts in the undergrowth, and for a second I think she’s doubled back again. I smirk, then drop to a crouch, eyes level with the spread of moss and needles. Another print, fresher. She’s close.
I catch her scent before I see her. Sweat, copper, the faded sweetness of the shampoo from the cabin. She’s not moving now. I slow, then stop, and listen.
There… a ragged inhale, and then the wet hitch of someone trying not to sob. I follow it, slow, every footstep measured so she’ll hear me, so she’ll know the end is coming. The trees part and I see her.
She’s collapsed behind a fallen log, bent over a giant ass boulder, knees jammed up to her chest, arms wound tight around her shins. Her hair is tangled, streaked with mud, and there’s a crescent of blood smeared across her right cheek. She looks up when I step into view.
For a second, I think she’ll break and run again. But she just stares, defiant, blue eyes narrowed above the shivering line of her jaw.
I let her look. I want her to see what’s coming.
I step over the log and she flinches, but doesn’t retreat. The mask makes my voice hollow, guttural. “End of the line.”
She bares her teeth. “Fuck you.”
I laugh. “Later. Right now, I’m going to fuck you.”
She scrambles to her feet, but her legs give out and she falls hard. I take her by the wrist, not gentle, and yank her upright. She spits at me, the drool flecking the black of my mask. I savor it. I twist her arm behind her back and pull her close, until her shoulder is jammed against my chest.
“You put up a good fight,” my voice is feral, barely recognizable, even to me.
“Go to hell,” she gasps, fighting to get loose.
I drag her through the clearing, past the trees, until we reach a squat, granite boulder.
I shove her face-down against it, the rock cold and slick with last night’s rain.
She tries to twist free, but I use my weight to pin her in place, one hand pressing her wrist into the stone, the other fisting her hair.
“Let go,” she snarls, but the sound is broken. I know she’s half-hoping I won’t.
I use my free hand to yank down her jeans. The air hits her and she stiffens, the backs of her thighs a canvas of bruises and scratches. I kneel behind her, let my fingers drift up the length of her legs, then rip into her underwear, tearing it until it’s shredded, laying limply to one side.
She kicks, wild, and her heel catches me in the shin. Pain flares, but I don’t let go.
Instead, I lean in close, the mask pressing into the nape of her neck. “You want this,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t have run if you didn’t.”
She shudders, the fight draining out for a second. “You’re twisted,” she says, but her voice is softer, a thread of longing in the venom.
I smile, unseen. “And you’re mine.”
I unzip, push my jeans down enough to free my cock. I don’t take my eyes off the back of her head, the crown of dark hair that’s already matted with sweat. I run the tip up the inside of her thigh, slow, savoring every inch of skin, every tremor that runs through her body.
She tries to buck me off, but I use my hips to force her forward, until her cheek grinds against the granite.
I push in, slow at first, letting her feel every inch. She groans, but not in pain. Her hands scrabble at the rock, nails leaving shallow gouges.
I set a rhythm, steady and brutal. Each thrust rocks her up onto her toes, her bare feet scrambling for traction in the moss. She fights, even now, twisting, snarling, trying to elbow me, but I have her locked down, every move anticipated and neutralized.
She manages to break an arm loose and swings it back, nails clawing at the exposed skin of my thigh. I welcome the pain. I grab her wrist again, pin it to the stone, and slam into her harder. The sound of our bodies colliding echoes off the trees, brutal and harmonious.
I reach up and fist her hair, yanking her head back so I can see her profile. Her cheeks are flushed, tears streaking down in perfect rivulets, but her eyes are clear, blue fire.
“You can take more,” I say, and shove in deeper.
She chokes on a sob, but arches her back, taking all of it. I feel her pussy clench around me, tight and desperate, and I know she’s close.
I use my free hand to reach around her, fingers finding her clit. I rub it in tight, vicious circles, the way I know she likes, and her body convulses, once, twice, then breaks.
She screams. The noise pierces the sky and I want to drown in it. I cover her mouth with my hand, let her teeth sink in if she wants. She comes, soaking me, her thighs shaking so hard I think she’ll collapse.
I follow her over the edge, coming with a grunt, hips jerking, the world narrowing to the heat of her body and the sweet smell of her.
We stay like that for a minute, bodies locked, the only sound our breathing. I let go of her hair, let her slump forward against the boulder.
She doesn’t move for a long time.
When I finally pull out, I drag her to her feet. She’s unsteady, legs quaking, but she doesn’t shrink away. Her hair is plastered to her face, her mouth swollen from where I had my hand.
I take off the mask, toss it onto the moss.
She looks at me, eyes blazing.
“You win,” she says, voice hoarse.
“No,” I say. “You do.”
She blinks, surprised.
I kneel in front of her, strip away the last of her jeans, and kiss the inside of her thigh, tasting the sweat and salt and the faint tang of blood from where the skin is scraped raw.
Looking up at her, I murmur, “You’re everything, Julianna.
I’ll never give you more than you can take, but damn baby, you can take a lot. ”
Looking her up and down, I note the various cuts and scrapes I’ll tend to when we’re at the cabin before grinning. “Next time, run harder.”
She laughs, the sound broken but real. “Next time, catch me faster.”
I stand, pull her close, and kiss her mouth, tasting blood and spit and victory.
She doesn’t resist.
I hold her there, our foreheads pressed together, the mask grinning up from the moss at our feet.
This is what love looks like.
This is what it means to belong.
I carry her back to the cabin, her arms limp around my neck, her legs trailing down my arms, and I know that when we do this again, neither of us will ever want it to end.