Chapter 19
The Bride
A fter a few twists and turns, Slaughter Stage C rises ahead—washed in blood-red light that stains everything in shades of menace. As we draw closer, I make out two lines of people positioned center stage.
The women—Brides—are dressed in varying renditions of my own indecent outfit, which is to say they’re barely covered at all. My dress might actually be the one offering the most cover. The fabric clings like a second skin, black and slick as spilled ink beneath the lights.
Thin straps cross over my chest in a deliberate tangle, framing more than they conceal, before twisting behind my neck. The cutout bares the curve of my ribs and the flat of my stomach, cinched only by a silver ring that holds the skirt together at my hip.
From there, the material drapes low, a single slit climbing high enough to make walking feel like a performance—each step a risk, each shift of fabric a promise I didn’t agree to make.
Though I tried to fight Jack when he forced me into it, I secretly love the outfit. It’s daring, it’s sexy. It’s… mine. When I find a way to escape him, I’m definitely taking it with me.
While the Brides face the audience gathering below the stage, the Grooms stand with their backs to the onlookers. They’re clad in black that echoes Jack’s attire.
It’s unfair how g ood he looks in those black ripped jeans that are hanging low on his hips, and the open leather jacket framing the hard lines of his torso like it was made for him.
He’s not wearing anything underneath, and despite myself, I want to twirl his chest hair around my finger.
“Are you ready?” he asks, not stopping to wait for my answer before pulling me onto the stage.
I don’t notice what each Groom is holding in their hand until we join them. But as soon as I see the masks they hold—gas masks identical to the one Jack used to hide behind—I dig my heels into the floor.
“I’m not doing this.” I don’t need to understand what this is to know I want no part of it. My nerves are already frayed enough.
Jack’s fingers wrap around my upper arm, squeezing tight enough to bruise. “You don’t get to say no anymore. That privilege disappeared when you let my sister die.”
He drags me forward, my heels scraping against the ground as I struggle. The vial of blood swings between my breasts, a pendulum marking time to my racing heart.
“Welcome to the Matrimonial Feast,” announces a figure in elaborate robes, their face hidden beneath a bone-white mask painted with symbols I don’t recognize. “Where Brides prove their devotion and Grooms receive their due.”
While the other women immediately kneel before their partners, I look around for Shelby, finally spotting her at the opposite end of the line. But she isn’t looking my way. Her eyes are on something in the middle of the growing audience.
“The rules are simple,” the announcer continues. “The first Bride to make her Groom come wins. And as for the losers…” He makes a slicing gesture across his throat that leaves little to the imagination.
“I won’t do this,” I hiss at Jack. “I’m not going to—”
The words die in my throat as he produces a knife from his pocket—long, gleaming, wickedly sharp. He presses the blade against my throat, just beneath my jaw.
“Kneel,” he orders, voice muffled slightly as he pulls the gas mask over his face with his free hand.
The knife bite s, a cold kiss beneath my jaw—enough to promise pain if I resist. When I don’t move right away, he presses the blade closer, a whisper from piercing skin. Only then do my knees unlock.
Slowly, I sink to my knees on the stage, the impact jarring through my bones. The crowd below murmurs in approval.
“Good girl,” Jack says through the mask, the filter making his voice inhuman. “Now show everyone what that pretty mouth can do.”
My fingers tremble as I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. The blade remains steady at my throat, a cold reminder of my position.
When I finally free his cock, it’s already hard and leaking. It fills my hand with a weight that feels inevitable, like it’s been molded for my grip, solid and heavy in my palm.
“Countdown begins!” the announcer calls. “Three…”
I look up at Jack, his features obscured by the mask. While some might see this transformation as monstrous, it’s the opposite to me. I like the masked man—it’s Jack I loathe.
“Two…”
My tongue darts out to wet my lips, a gesture that draws a low growl from behind Jack’s mask.
I look across the audience, and my breath hitches when my eyes land on Caleb. He’s standing in the middle, cradling his broken arm, wearing a scowl that makes my insides freeze. Just before I look away, he drags his index finger across his throat and sneers at me.
The hell is his problem? And… not that I’ve thought about it since the wedding, but I guess he isn’t Shelby’s Groom if he’s down there instead of on stage with the rest of us.
“One…”
Unable to help myself, I flip him off, ignoring the pressure as Jack presses the knife harder into my flesh, breaking skin. A single drop of blood slides down my throat, a hot trail of surrender.
“Begin!”
I take Jack into my mouth with desperate urgency, driven by the blade at my throat and something darker—a sick need to perform well, to win this twisted competition. To show Caleb what he’s lost.
My lips stretch wide around the thick girth. The an onymity makes it easier to give in, to pretend it’s not Jack using me, but some darker, faceless thing that doesn’t exist outside this moment.
I can want the monster. I can take from him. But when the mask comes off, I’ll go back to hating the man beneath. I’m not giving Jack anything—this is for the man who showed up at my door at midnight, the one who claimed me before I ever had a chance to fight back.
The first bump of his Jacob’s Ladder drags across my tongue, and my hips roll—small, involuntary, shame tightening low in my belly.
I didn’t expect to like the piercings. I thought they’d feel strange in my mouth.
But they don’t—they feel obscene . Every barbell is like a bruise he’s planting inside my throat, and I want all of them.
One hand fists my hair, forcing the angle he wants, while the other holds the knife steady at my throat. He pushes deep, hard enough to make my eyes water, and the gag reflex kicks.
I swallow around him instead of pulling back, desperate to feel the next rung scrape my tongue.
“Fuck,” he growls, the sound raw and cracked through the mask’s filter—half moan, half threat—like he can’t decide whether to praise me or break me. “You’re so fucking good at this.”
Jack’s praise washes over me, making me preen under its weight. It’s fucked up that I’m so into this, that I’m not faking my enthusiasm. But every gag, every wet choke, every hum of pleasure is real.
Spit slicks his shaft, sliding down to where his balls hang heavy and bare through the open fly. I suck harder just to hear the obscene sound it makes when he pulls out a few inches.
The crowd is so close I can feel their heat, their stares crawling all over me. I bet they’re imagining my mouth on them, and instead of shame killing my arousal, it spikes it higher.
Jack uses me like I’m nothing but a toy—fucking my mouth with ruthless precision, the metal rungs catching on my lips each time he pulls back. The sting rips a moan from me, the vibration shuddering up through him.
When I look up, I’m certain his gaze locks on mine through the mask’s lenses. A muffled groan leaks from him, low and wrecked, as if the sight alone could finish him. I know he sees it— the hunger I can’t hide.
The part of me that isn’t just enduring this, but chasing it. My smirk is small but deliberate, a silent dare he can’t ignore.
“Take me deeper,” he orders, voice rough enough to scrape my nerves raw.
I obey, relaxing my throat until my nose almost brushes his abdomen. The gag is sharp and wet, but I hold, eyes watering, drool spilling from the corner of my mouth.
Jack twitches in my mouth, and I know he’s close. The mask turns every sound he makes into something monstrous, and it drags me straight back to that night when he fingered me in the hallway, while making me moan loud enough for Caleb to hear every filthy sound.
My hand slides between my legs under the slit of my dress, pressing hard against my clit through the soaked fabric. The crowd catches it—low gasps, a few ragged cheers—but instead of allowing shame to stop me, the exposure makes the ache worse.
I cup his balls with my other hand, rolling them slowly while dragging my tongue over each piercing like I’m mapping them blind, refusing to let him catch his breath.
His breathing changes, and his hips jerk.
The knife slips from his fingers, clattering to the stage, but his grip on me doesn’t loosen.
Both hands now lock me in place; one yanks my hair, the other clamps my shoulder. “Swallow it all,” he growls, the command hitting me low in the gut. “Every. Fucking. Drop.”
The first hot surge hits the back of my throat, and I moan around him, swallowing greedily like it’s the only thing I’ve been craving. Another pulse. Another swallow. I don’t stop until I’ve drained every last drop from him, until I’m breathing in his scent and tasting nothing but him.
I keep sucking even after he’s spent, milking him, wanting more. The vial of our blood still swings between my breasts, but this—this is the true seal. My clit aches so hard I swear I might come here and now.
The world tilts, the crowd a blur, the lights blinding—but all I see is him above me, breathing hard, still gripping my hair like he’s not ready to let me go. I’ve made him lose control in front of all of them. And fuck, I’m already wondering how soon I can do it again .
“We have a winner!” the announcer calls, voice booming over the speakers. “The Knight couple takes the victory!”