Chapter 8
CALISTA
Men are so terribly predictable.
Show a little skin, give them a coy smile and they become putty in your hands. The problem with thinking with your dick is it leaves the rest of your anatomy vulnerable to any form of attack.
Something Harold here had to learn the hard way.
“I love it when you scream, baby.” Digging my knife deeper into his cheekbone, I carve my own little design on the big boy’s skull, “Keep it going.”
Chunks of flesh litter the forest floor as I finish off a rather productive evening. Vector got his pussy quota for the week and I added another few kills to the list.
I don’t actually keep count of the number of rapists I hunt down. It’s more of an estimate, a sense of justice finally being served to those who deserve to be punished. Karma is a living breathing force, but sometimes she moves a bit too slow.
So I take care of the rest for her.
“Do you want to know the best part?” Sheering off what’s left of his hair, I start picking away at his brain tissue, “When I finally leave this wretched place, you’re going to find me waiting for you in hell.”
He lets out a gurgled cry, one that doesn’t sound quite right thanks to the tongue I removed from his mouth.
Leaning in close, I brush my lips over the blood stained ear that’s going to be the next thing to go.
“And then we’ll do this all over again.”
The scent of tattered flesh and torn brain matter gets picked up and carried through the forest, an offering for the beasts to come out and play. Wolves howl and crows start to circle overhead, the scavengers eagerly waiting to help me finish off the torment this man brought on himself.
But I don’t kill him. Oh, no.
I leave him just enough intact that his last few minutes will be spent being torn apart by predators much stronger than him. Harold will get to experience the same helplessness as his victims, the same incapacitation that will destroy any sense of power and privilege this man once thought he had.
“See you on the other side.”
Letting the promise slip from my lips, I snag his tongue from the ground and start the long trek home.
My runners are dense and soggy, my spandex shorts and matching sports bra equally soaked with human remains.
It keeps my pace fast and light, pushing my legs to a harder tempo until there’s nothing but memories staining my skin.
Memories that force me to keep going.
The forest becomes a blur as I run from the past. I run from the sleepless nights that continue to haunt me, the whispers of men who no longer roam this earth.
I run from the blood dripping between my legs. The phantom ache of degradation that has never gone away.
As if sensing my darkening mood, the sky opens up and lets out my tears. Fat raindrops splash down on me, plastering my blood-soaked hair to my face and letting another man’s blood wash off my hands.
But most importantly, it offers an excuse for the chills screaming through my body.
A twig snaps me out of my stupor. The blurry forest blinks back into focus as I flick my blade into my palm, casting my eyes over the familiar foliage.
There.
Crouching down, I slither closer to the silhouette tucked behind the bolder. The sound of my steps are smothered by the falling rain, the droplets running down my face stained pink instead of red.
That might be about to change.
Reversing my grip, I flip the knife so it’s pointed towards my elbow, edge out. The hidden figure moves slightly, their position behind the oversized rock the perfect place for an ambush.
Amateur.
I lunge, sweeping my legs out and knocking the person to the mud-covered floor. Slashing my blade down, I catch the inside of his bicep and lock his legs between mine, making sure to leave a nice trail of blood before making myself comfortable on top.
“Miss Drache.”
Dark eyelashes glitter with raindrops, the amused curve of his lips pulling into a troublesome smile.
“Devil.” My lips tilt to greet his own, and I watch his pitch black eyes roam the space carelessly, “Looks like you fell into the wrong trap.”
“Or the right one, depending on which way you look at it.”
He grins, seeming unbothered by the gash I left on his arm. Crimson liquid flows freely from the wound, the pitter patter of rain sending the vibrant colour scurrying over the artwork painting the right side of his body.
Running my knife over the hard lump of his traps, I nick the soft flesh of his throat before scraping his Adam’s apple teasingly. The wolf tattooed along his neck snarls back at me, the archers surrounding the animal almost as deadly as the press of my blade.
“But now that you’re caught, what am I going to do with you?” Purring softly, I flash my teeth at the beast trapped beneath me, “So many options with a pretty boy like you.”
“Letting me go sounds like a viable one.” Tilting his head, he doesn’t shy away from the sting of my blade, “Although I’m quite enjoying our current position. I do my best work from below, you know.”
“Is that so.”
Leaning down, I brush my lips across the tip of his ear. I’m still straddling him, and a slight shift of my hips has my spandex shorts rubbing against the wet material of his cargo pants, “And if I were to take you home and tie you up, just for a little fun, what would you say to that, Devil?”
“Lead the way, darling.”
I stare down at him, at the chiseled jaw and the impossibly dark hair plastered against his forehead. Rain drips from my nose onto his face and this man doesn’t so much as blink.
Until I start to laugh.
The curse I was born with flows out of my mouth and into the sky. Crows shriek and take flight, the neighboring peasants slamming their windows shut for fear of the witch the cackle belongs to.
It’s not a pretty sound, but it is an honest one. A laugh that speaks to all parts of my soul, not just the bitterly sweet layers on the outside.
“Holy shit.”
Christopher’s mouth drops open, his eyes crinkling with surprise and something that looks an awful lot like horror.
How tragic it must be to realize beauty only goes so far beneath the surface.
“Is that your real laugh-
“Don’t make me remove your tongue so soon after your arrival.” The threat cracks like a whip between us, “I would hate to miss out on that accent of yours.”
He blinks slowly, scattering the droplets clinging to his lashes. A callused thumb brushes the outside of my thigh, a fleeting warmth that quickly disappears beneath the rainfall.
“Wouldn’t be the only tongue you’re keeping in your pocket.”
Harold’s tongue flies through the small space between us and lands limp against the thin cotton of Christopher’s t-shirt. The flimsy piece of flesh immediately starts to bleed through, but not before the British bad boy attempts to disarm me.
Attempt being the key word.
Bucking beneath me, we go rolling through the mud as Christopher tries and fails to gain the upper hand. An elbow to the face has him swearing, the curses growing louder when we stop exactly how we started.
With me on top.
“You didn’t think I’d let you get away that easily, did you?” Grinning like a madwoman, I bend down and run my tongue along his bottom lip, “Once you’re caught, Devil, you don’t get released until I say so.”
“If you’re waiting for me to ask nicely, that’s not going to happen.”
“Ask nicely? Who said anything about asking nicely?” Smearing the blood from his nose, I paint it solemnly across his cheekbones, “I’m more interested in hearing you beg.”
“Darling, there’s something you should know about me.” His dark eyes flicker as a temper sparks to life, “I don’t beg. Not for anyone or anything.”
“You will when I’m through with you.”
Instead of struggling against my hold, Christopher lifts his head and kisses me.
As if a kiss was going to distract me.
Cool lips press against mine, molding the surface with a challenge he has no chance on winning. His hips lift beneath me, the bulge in his pants noticeably harder with this new position.
Snagging his lip with my teeth, I tug on his bottom lip before sweeping my tongue inside his mouth. His body twists slightly, the rough pad of his thumb sneaking up beneath my wet hair to grab the back of my neck.
I grind down against him, feeling my pussy clench against the cold wet surface of his cargo pants. Squeezing my neck, he lifts me up and sets me higher on his hips, keeping my tongue occupied with the warm cavern of his mouth.
My knife scrapes the delicious stubble gracing his jaw, the razor edge shaving off a patch of sexy fucking hair. It gets lost in the midst of wandering hands and thrusting hips, but next time I’m bringing an envelope to steal some for myself.
I fucking love dark hair.
“Calista.”
His voice is drowned out by the suction of my lips, eagerly sucking his tongue back into my mouth.
Nipples sharp enough to cut diamonds press painfully against my sports bra, the bitter combination of freezing rain and a hot body beneath me enough to drive my hips back down on the bulge in his pants.
Except the bulge seems to have disappeared.
“Awe, does this baby suffer from performance anxiety?”
I’m teasing him, rubbing against him like a kidnapper in heat, but all he does is smirk back.
“Sorry, darling. Looks like I wasn’t just happy to see you.”
Pop. Click.
I look down and find a grenade pressed tight against my stomach. A grenade that was clearly hiding in the front pocket of his cargo pants.
Christopher’s boyish grin is back in full force, the safety pin hanging from the tip of his little finger.
Son of a bitch.