Chapter 11 Bones
Bones
Scarlett
Ihadn’t realized Hunter’s knife had sliced into me while he fucked me over the guys' grave until now. Crimson marks are scattered across my neck and chest, dried blood clinging to my skin. Instead of washing it away, I leave the wounds undisturbed, fixing my hair into a loose bun. I change into one of Blade’s old shirts, nostalgia almost trapping me in the bathroom for the entire night once his scent envelopes me, but I know Hunter is waiting for me in the living room.
The scent that wafts around me is distinctly him—a reminder of more than just his favorite shirt. I have to physically force myself to push open the door and step out of the bathroom, trying to banish thoughts of Blade and our twisted love. It was sick and so incredibly wrong, but it was ours.
He knew everything about me, but I didn't know much about him, other than he was a Marine and he and Saint were adopted brothers.
But I loved him. He was gorgeous with his blue eyes and short, dark curly hair.
His bright smile even though darkness crept behind it.
His muscles that looked literally painted on.
But what I loved most, was his twisted way of showing me he loved me too.
He'd unlock my cuffs when the others weren't around.
He'd take me outside of the mausoleum so I could get some fresh air.
One minute he'd hold my hand and shower me in affection, and the next he'd be recuffing me to the bed and fucking me while he kept his knife against my neck.
He'd force pills down my throat when Nixon was around, but wouldn't press the issue when it was just us.
He had a funny way of showing me love. But I saw it in almost everything he did.
The stalking. The breaking into my apartment and forcing me to do things.
Forcing me to kill. For some reason none of it bothered me when it came to Blade, or Saint for that matter.
With Riley and Nixon it was quite the opposite.
And now I'm starting to feel things again for Hunter and the others, but it feels wrong. I feel like I'm betraying the guys, even though they're dead. I can't quite move past it or figure it the fuck out.
I find Hunter sprawled across my bed when I discover the living room empty, flipping through TV channels.
His long blonde hair spills across the pillowcase, framing his sharply defined jaw, lightly dusted with stubble.
The white T-shirt he wears hugs his body but rides up, accentuating his lower stomach and the sculpted V that leads enticingly down to his cock.
“See something you like?” Hunter teases, noticing my gaze.
I shake my head, attempting to maintain my composure, but it’s incredibly difficult. “No, I’m good. Just zoning out.”
“Yeah, zoning out on my cock,” he laughs, and I can’t deny the truth in his words.
“If I wanted you or your cock, believe me, I’d have you,” I responded, my tone sharper than intended but playful nonetheless.
As I settle on the edge of my bed, I make the mistake of glancing at the only picture frame I have—a photograph of my father and me on my seventh birthday, just before he was convicted of murdering my mother in front of me.
I lose myself in his eyes, which mirror my own.
That genuine smile raises questions I can’t answer.
Did he know he would take her life when this picture was taken?
Was he truly happy, or merely performing for the camera?
Too many questions swirl, and I’m left with no fucking answers.
I jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder, and swiftly pull my knife out, pressing the blade against his knuckles.
It takes a moment to reorient myself, and only then do I realize Hunter is here with me.
I drop my knife when it dawns on me, clearing my throat to confront him.
There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes, but I know there's a similar gleam in mine.
“Is that why we’re doing this? Killing off random people for your old man?” he questions, clearly already aware of the answer.
“I’m getting my father out of prison, and certain people need to die for that to happen,” I respond, sounding more like an automated recording than a person, trapped in a rehearsed trance.
“I understand he’s your father, but why would you want him out when he’s clearly using you?” His tone ignites my ire, and rage surges like a riptide through me.
I pivot and straddle him, pressing the knife against his throat, already drawing blood.
Seething, I glare at him, our noses nearly touching.
My heart races. The ringing in my ears grows louder.
I feel drops of sweat trickle from my forehead onto Hunter’s face, and the rage surging through me causes my body to tremble.
His hands find my hips, gripping me firmly, keeping me pressed against him as his cock rises against my inner thighs.
He smirks at my fury, his hips thrusting upward to provoke a reaction from me.
The truth is, I’m not sure how to respond.
I know what he said about my father triggered my anger.
I can’t explain why I defend and support him despite his actions; it almost feels like an obligation.
He took my mother away from me, yet I feel indebted to him. Make it make sense.
From that fateful night onward, my life changed forever.
Things were never the same; I was neglected in foster homes, treated like a punching bag, a vessel for anger, and a quick release.
But despite the chaos, my failing mental health, and my struggles with schizophrenia, I tried to build a life for myself.
I graduated high school, pushed through college in Salem, and thought I could escape the shadows.
But then everything unraveled: Carli’s murder, me killing River, the masked men, the bloodshed, the drugs—my life spiraled into absolute ruin.
They tormented and tortured me, yet I found myself inexplicably drawn to them, even when they planned my death. I loved them.
Lost in the memories, I’m jolted back to the present when Hunter flips me onto my back, taking my knife and using it against me, making me feel small under his commanding presence.
He drags the blade down the center of my throat, gliding it across my collarbone.
Our eyes lock, and I can’t look away, even as I feel him pressing the knife into my skin, drawing blood and revealing the artistry of his viciousness.
He winks before lowering his head, his tongue trailing across the cuts, tasting the blood he spilled.
An unexpected thrill courses through me from the sensation of the cuts stinging.
Locking my legs around him, I pull him closer until our bodies align, his cock pressing against my pussy. I sink my nails into his inked back, raking my hands beneath his shirt, leaving deep, red scratches in my wake.
“Tell me what you want, Bones,” Hunter murmurs, his lips barely inches from mine.
“You,” I admit breathlessly, disregarding how desperate my confession sounds.
“Funny, because I fucking want you too.” He grins, then closes the distance between us with a kiss that ignites an inferno within me.
The kiss is electric, sending shockwaves through my body as warmth radiates from our bodies, hot and desperate.
Hunter’s lips claim mine with an intensity that dares and promises, intensifying the chaos swirling inside me.
A part of me knows I should resist—should fight against him and the turmoil of what we’re diving into.
But all rational thoughts evaporate as I pull him closer, deepening the kiss and surrendering to instinct like an addict.
His fingertips brush over the cuts on my chest, merging pleasure and pain in a way that makes me shiver.
I’ve never felt so alive, lost in a whirlwind of adrenaline and lust, the ground beneath us fading into oblivion.
The tragedy surrounding Blade feels like a distant echo, a haunting past unable to penetrate this reckless embrace.
“Let’s not pretend,” he whispers into my mouth, breath hot against my skin, “that we aren’t going to test those boundaries tonight.”
His words send a thrill surging through me, the imminent danger too intoxicating to ignore. The knife remains in his grip, a reminder of how unpredictable he is. The thought only fuels the inferno within, igniting suppressed fantasies. I want to be reckless, to burn it all to the ground again.
“Then let’s play,” I challenge, my voice low, dripping with invitation.
He chuckles darkly, the sound reverberating against my lips. “Oh, we will.”
In an instant, he pulls back just enough to scrutinize my eyes, measuring the wildness behind my gaze.
I see the devil in his smirk, the dangerous edge that has drawn us both to this moment.
He nudges the knife, its coolness teasing my skin—a reminder of what lurks just beneath the surface.
The threat has always been part of our game, but I’ve always danced on this fine line, toes dangling perilously over the edge.
Hunter’s hands move with fervent intent, tracing the scars of my past and the wounds I thought healed.
His touch feels transformative, as if he’s mapping the contours of my story, each mark resonating with unspoken truths.
I arch my back, baiting him, hungry for release, desperate to blur the lines between pleasure and pain and to forget about the scars on my body that tell the tragic story of my past.
“More,” I demand, pushing against him as I bring the knife closer until the pressure forces a gasp from my lips. “Show me how far I can fall until you catch me—if you catch me.”
The heat igniting his gaze sharpens, shifting from playful allure to primal need. “You ask for it, you’ll fucking get it, sweetheart.”