Chapter Twenty-four
Twenty-four
Corabeth
Turner was slumped against a tree, head hanging on his chest. Before him, Corabeth stood transformed.
She had shed the dress from her past, replacing it with one that had a deep red velvet bodice and a voluminous black skirt.
The well-structured top had silver buttons running down the front.
The sleeves were long and puffed at the shoulders.
A delicate black chain draped from the waist. The heavy skirt pooled around her like a shadow.
Corabeth stood some feet away, back rigid, and looked down on the man who had tormented her. She nodded once.
Rooke poured a bucketful of icy water on the unconscious man, who jolted awake instantly. Eyes wide, he immediately started shivering from the cold, his soaked shirt clinging to his chest.
“Stay down,” Rooke hissed and threw the bucket aside.
Turner, however, wasn’t a very good listener. He tried pushing himself up, searching for support from the tree behind him.
Rooke gave him a forceful push, shoving him back to the ground. Even then, he didn’t give up. He scrambled to his hands and knees and launched into a sprint towards the woods behind him. Corabeth had to admit, he was fast. For a human.
It took Rooke a mere moment to catch up to him and drag him back to the tree, throwing him against it so hard, his head thumped against it. For a moment, he was dazed.
“There’s really no point in running,” Corabeth said matter-of-factly.
Turner’s gaze cleared as he turned his hate-filled eyes towards Corabeth. “Burn in hell, bitch,” he spat and went to stand up again.
“This one wants to suffer,” Rooke sighed.
He grabbed one of Turner’s ankles, yanking it out from under him.
With a thump, he landed on his backside.
Holding his leg up, Rooke brought his foot down on Turner’s knee and broke it backwards.
The unnatural angle of the joint, the crunching of bone and ripping of tendons made Corabeth’s stomach churn.
She remained unmoving.
The insults sputtering from Turner’s mouth morphed into a visceral scream. Rooke dropped the foot, rendered useless, and could finally step away from the man without the danger of his escape. Turner stared at his mutilated leg, hands grabbing at his thigh, and screamed and screamed and screamed.
“Turner,” Corabeth called, trying to get his attention. “Turner!”
The shivering man turned his wide eyes, brimming with tears, to Corabeth, mouth agape. His chin was wet from the drool dribbling from his lips.
“I did your brother the courtesy of telling him why he had to die. I want to do the same for you,” Corabeth said, speaking clearly and slowly to break through the man’s shock.
“You fucking whore,” Turner sputtered, “We were right about you the whole time. You sold your soul to the Devil, you lay with a Beast. You are a curse upon us!”
Rooke stepped up again, backhanding the man, much like Turner had done to Corabeth.
“That is the last time you speak of her like that,” Rooke said, coming dangerously close to Turner’s face.
To his credit, Turner didn’t even flinch.
Instead, he spat the blood from his split lip back in Rooke’s face.
A slow, cold kind of smile spread across Rooke’s face as he licked the blood from his lips. Corabeth couldn’t help but admire the way he worked. The blood splatter was in beautiful contrast to his pale skin. He wore brutality like a second skin.
“An early taste,” Rooke murmured, savoring the flavor, before pushing up again.
“Are you listening, Turner?” Corabeth asked.
This time, when Turner looked at her, he made no attempts to move or insult her. “You’re telling me my brother is dead,” he ground with murder in his eyes. His rage still boiled just beneath the surface.
“Yes,” Corabeth confirmed, “and I’m telling you that Giles and your father will also die.”
At this, Turner paled.
Finally, Corabeth thought, a reaction.
“You… you can’t,” Turner stuttered. “You can’t be so evil as to take four lives for… for…”
“For what?” Corabeth asked. “For siccing your brother on me? Or for burning down my home?”
Turner’s expression turned thunderous, telling Corabeth everything she needed to know. She had suspected Turner had been the one to light the match. After all, it had been he who suggested leaving Corabeth to the Beast.
But he clamped his mouth shut, defiant to the very end.
Corabeth let out an exhausted kind of sigh. “You have your ancestors to thank for this,” she said. “They are responsible for the curse that plagues Rooke. That plagues the village. Dying will be the only good thing you’ve done in your life.”
Corabeth wasn’t sure if she was justifying their actions to Turner or herself.
“You’re delusional if you think you’ll get close to them now,” Turner rumbled. His face twitched as he tried to adjust his position, the pain in his leg beginning to overwhelm him.
Corabeth turned to Rooke, standing beside her, poised and ready. “I think it’s time,” she said.
“He won’t be able to run,” Rooke said, observing Turner’s shivering body on the ground. “Shame.”
“No,” agreed Corabeth. “But I think I would prefer to watch this time.”
Rooke’s head whipped to Corabeth. It was something they hadn’t shared yet, not entirely. The kill. The moment life left a man’s eyes. But now, Corabeth wanted it.
She gave him an encouraging nod.
One moment, Rooke was beside her; the next, he was on top of Turner.
The man’s attempts to fight back were futile as strong hands forced him onto his back.
But now, Turner refused to scream. He didn’t scream when Rooke tore open his shirt, when he sank his fangs into the skin of his neck, or when he tore away a chunk of his flesh.
Corabeth watched, mesmerized, as crimson spurted from the open wound onto the white snow. Rooke spat the flesh out and lowered himself to the wound once more to drink up the lifeblood with a satisfied groan.
Such viciousness. Such ferociousness. Such danger.
And it was all hers to command.
Rooke pushed himself up, head thrown back, eyes closed in satisfaction, mouth so full of blood it ran down his chin and neck in rivulets.
A low groan came from deep inside of him, so close to the sounds he had made while buried between Corabeth’s thighs.
She felt a gentle throb come to life there now.
The stain of crimson around Turner’s head kept growing as he was reduced to nothing but a lethargic body.
“Rooke,” Corabeth whispered, taking a careful step closer to them.
Rooke’s feral eyes landed on Corabeth, a familiar hunger in his gaze. Then something else flared into life in them. Something that was reflected in Corabeth’s own gaze.
Rooke was upon her in a single blink of an eye. When his tongue invaded her mouth, the still-warm blood surged in and flowed down their faces, painting them both in crimson. Metallic filled her mouth.
Rooke’s hands grabbed at her feverishly, pressing their bodies together, pulling at the fabric on Corabeth’s chest. This time, he ripped only a few buttons when he exposed Corabeth’s breasts and brought his bloodied mouth to her pebbled nipples.
To anyone else, it would have seemed as if Rooke was feasting on another victim. But it was Corabeth who guided Rooke’s movements. It was Corabeth who pushed him to the ground, who straddled him and sank onto him.
Corabeth’s breathing hitched as she felt him deep inside of her, hard and ready. As ready as she was for him. Their desire for each other burned equally bright.
Rooke’s fingers tightened on her hips as she started to move against him, fast and frantic. There wasn’t anything gentle or tender about their union this time. It was all carnal and untamed.
Turner lay next to them, forgotten and twitching.
Rooke gripped Corabeth’s waist, helping her through every movement, his hips thrusting upwards to meet her strokes, a feral grin on his blood-stained face. He sat up then, capturing her mouth in a kiss that traveled down to her jaw, neck, chest, leaving smears of blood in its wake.
The change of angle enabled Rooke to reach new depths inside Corabeth, and the sounds she made were nearly inhuman.
Again and again, she ground herself against him, climbing towards new heights of pleasure.
Their hands grabbed at each other, desperately grasping at skin and fabric as if they couldn’t touch each other fast enough.
Their only focus was this primal urgency thrumming between them.
Corabeth could feel how close Rooke was now. How impossibly hard and large he had grown inside of her. All she wanted was to reduce this predator into a whimpering mess below her. She angled back, sliding herself up and down on him, faster and faster, finding her own pleasure along the way.
Rooke roared his release into the night, throwing his head back, his body shuddering under her.
She felt his warmth spill out of her, and in a few thrusts, she followed him.
Corabeth threw her arms around Rooke’s shoulders, holding on to him as waves after waves of pleasure washed over her, drowning her entirely.
Foreheads pressed against each other, they stayed like that, still connected, until their breathing returned to normal. Rooke was so warm against Corabeth, she didn’t even feel the chill of winter.
It was only once Corabeth turned her gaze from Rooke to the ground on their left did she realize that Turner had died, his lifeless eyes staring through them.