Chapter 15 Sera
Sera
Where did James find Michael Devlin after he fled from the police after putting his wife in the hospital? His house, of course.
Honestly, did the police even check there? Without Detective Eddie, is the sheriff’s department made up of nothing but monkeys with badges? Logically, I know that the department has their hands full with a serial killer while being minus one great detective, but still.
The stupid. It burns.
James works his magic on the door, this time from the back to avoid nosy neighbors, and then we’re inside. The place is quiet and still, and each of our movements sounds like gunshots.
Next to me, James holds his favorite knife openly—a thick, wicked blade with a worn handle that fits his grip like it was grown there. Definitely not a tool for subtlety.
My pulse stays steady as we creep through the house and listen for any signs of Devlin. No hesitation coils in my gut, only cold, hard purpose.
The stink of BO grows heady as we climb the stairs, so strong that it coats the back of my throat. One of the bedrooms upstairs is a wasteland of discarded frozen meals, soda cans, and a stained, sunken bed.
And there he is.
He’s exactly as I pictured: bloated face, greasy, thinning hair, and patchy tattoos that look like they were done by a toddler. He fell asleep on his stomach to a morning talk show that’s on mute in the corner.
James scrapes the blade of his knife along the bottom of Devlin’s bare foot.
He jerks upright and blinks in confusion, then narrows his piggish eyes into furious slits when his gaze finds me first.
“The fuck?“ he snarls, struggling to his feet. A leer twists his mouth. “Who the hell are you, sweetheart? Lost? Looking for a good time?”
His eyes drop to my chest and linger.
James moves into Devlin’s periphery, crossing the filthy carpet in two strides. His fist, knuckles like stones, connects with the man’s jaw.
The sound is a wet, meaty crack, and for some reason, it reminds me of stepping on a rotten melon. Devlin’s head snaps back. A spray of blood and saliva arcs through the air.
He collapses back onto the bed like a puppet with its strings cut, then falls and slumps sideways onto the floor. He lands heavily, making a gurgling, choking sound. His jaw hangs at a grotesque angle, already broken from just one punch.
And we’re just getting started.
I step farther into the room and stand over him. He looks up, eyes wide now, full of animal terror and incomprehension. Blood bubbles at his ruined mouth. He tries to speak, but only gurgles come out.
“You put her in the hospital.” My voice is flat and dead calm, the voice of judgment reading the sentence.
He tries to scramble back, crab-like, but his coordination is gone.
“We’re here to make sure you don’t do that anymore,” I say.
He shakes his head wildly, a frantic, pleading motion as he scrabbles weakly at the filthy carpet. He understands now. He understands exactly what this is.
I nod to James.
James grabs the man’s flailing left arm and pins it down under his knee. The man shrieks, a high-pitched, muffled sound through his broken jaw.
James raises his knife, and it glints dully in the light from the TV. He brings it down in a brutal, precise arc onto the elbow joint.
The crunch is louder than his jaw breaking. Bone gives way. Tendon and muscle shred. The man convulses, a full-body spasm, his scream muffled into a wet choke.
James moves on and eyes Devlin’s kneecap next. A heavy stomp from his boot, delivered with shocking power. Another sickening crack. The man arches off the floor, eyes rolling back, then collapses, whimpering, trembling uncontrollably.
“I’ll keep your skull,” James tells him.
“Ye ken what I like to do to skulls, ol’ Devy?
I fuck ’em in their eye sockets until the orbital bones crack and crumble.
Sometimes while the eyes are still in it.
One thrust is usually all it takes. Do ye ken what it’s like to fuck something so hard that it breaks bone?
Do you ken the feeling of sharp slivers of bone scraping along your cock until ye bleed? ”
Goddamn. I heave out a breath, loud enough for James to take notice.
“Did that catch your fancy, Prayer?” he asks with a sly smile.
“Uh-huh,” I say breathlessly and grind my thighs together. “Will you show me sometime?”
His eyes heat as he takes me in from my flushed cheeks to my heaving chest to my hips seeking friction in the empty air. “Did I just unlock a new kink in ye?”
I grin. “I believe so.”
“Aye, I’m gonna need to speed this along, then.” James keeps going in a faster, brutal rhythm with Devlin.
Blood sprays, arcs, pools thick and dark on the grimy carpet. The coppery scent fills the room, overwhelming the stench of BO.
I stand there and watch, detached but fascinated, taking mental notes while my body lights up with need. The satisfaction is a physical thing, spreading through my veins with throbbing heat that centers in my pussy.
I know what comes after James is done with Devlin’s brutal ending. It will be the same as what happened after Rick, when murder led to fucking, blurring the line between the two and making them indistinguishable.
I sink my hand down into my panties while he does his work and find myself soaked and spasming.
This isn’t just punishment. It’s erasure. This pathetic, cruel excuse of a man is being unmade piece by piece. This is justice delivered by my Fist.
James’s strength is terrifyingly beautiful. He is pure, focused violence.
My violence.
James stops and watches me as I slowly stroke my clit while I watch him, already covered in blood and gore, and he groans and palms his hard cock over his jeans.
“Don’t ye dare come without me,” he growls.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I whisper, but I wish he’d hurry.
Eyeing me reverently, he strips his black T-shirt off and flings it to the floor, baring his huge, corded muscles. Then he gets to work again.
Life leaves Devlin slowly, reluctantly, soaked into the carpet beneath him. His eyes glaze over, fixed on the ceiling, reflecting the flickering images of two women talking about skincare on a morning talk show.
Finally, his tremors stop. The gurgling ceases. Silence descends, thick and heavy, broken only by the ragged sound of James’s breathing.
He stands over the body, his chest heaving. He’s splattered in blood, his face, neck, arms, and chest painted in streaks of crimson. His knuckles are raw. His eyes are wild, his pupils blown wide, and they lock onto me.
The heat in his gaze isn’t just adrenaline. It’s feral and primal. It ignites something deep in my belly, a spark that explodes into a wildfire.
I look back at him, at the raw, terrifying power. At the absolute, unwavering devotion that turned him into this engine of destruction.
For me.
The lethal beauty of it is overwhelming, and desire hits me once again, hot and urgent and undeniable. It’s the power, the shared darkness, the utter completion of the act.
He closes the distance between us in one long stride. His hand, slick and warm with gore, cups my face. I lean into it, pressing my cheek against the sticky warmth. The smell of copper and sweat and violence fills my nostrils. His other hand finds my hip, his fingers digging in possessively.
“How was I?” he asks with his alluring, manic grin.
I grin right back. “Horrifying.”
His mouth crashes down on mine. His teeth scrape my lip, and the coppery tang of blood fills my mouth. Whether it’s his, mine, or the dead man’s, I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. It tastes like victory.
He backs me hard against the wall beside the door, and plaster dust rains down.
His body presses into mine, his hard muscle against my soft flesh, the gore between us a slick, binding paste.
His hand tangles in my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my throat.
His breath is hot and ragged against my skin.
The knife is still in his other hand. The cold steel presses against my side through my thin shirt. The feel of it, of him, of this carnal power between us, draws a moan from me.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes burning. He brings the knife up slowly, deliberately, and then traces a path down my throat, over the frantic pulse hammering there, over my Shadow’s and my Mind’s marks that are already there.
The contrast is electric—the cold metal, the heat of his body, the slick warmth of the blood. A threat and a promise, indistinguishable.
My breath hitches, and I arch into his touch, demanding more.
“Do it,” I whisper, my voice rough. “Mark me.”
His eyes flare as he shifts the blade and presses it lightly against the skin just below my collarbone. Then the pressure increases. A sharp sting that awakens every cell in my body.
I gasp. Warmth blossoms as the skin parts. A thin, perfect line of crimson beads to the surface. James watches it, mesmerized. His breath catches as he lowers his head, and his tongue is hot and rough as it laps at my blood.
The sting intensifies as he pushes the blade in farther, merging with the heat pooling low in my belly, becoming something else entirely. Pain and pleasure blur into a single, white-hot point.
He continues to suck and lick at the wound while my hips instinctively rock forward against him.
But then I push him back slightly and grab his blood-slicked hand holding the knife.
I guide the blade, pressing the tip against the rock-hard muscle of his chest, just above his heart.
His perfect, beautiful skin dimples, then breaks.
A single fat drop of blood wells up, dark against the smeared gore there.
I lean forward and lick it away, and his groan vibrates through me and heads straight to my pussy. The sound I make in the back of my throat as I thrust my hips against him is a guttural plea.
Then his hands are on me, tearing at my clothes until I’m completely naked and just as covered in blood as he is. He lifts me and pins me hard against the wall, and I wrap my legs around his waist.