Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cain
The cabin door slams shut behind us, the sound echoing through the narrow hallway like a gunshot.
My blood pounds in my ears, hotter than the fire we left smoldering back at the cottage.
Celeste clings to me, her body pressed tight against mine, the blood-stained wedding dress smeared across her pale skin.
Those crimson streaks aren't all from the mess we made tonight—some are fresh from the fight, others older, marking her as mine in ways no vow ever could.
Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her fingers digging into my shirt as I kick the door's bolt into place.
I don't waste time.
My hands grip her waist, rough and demanding, lifting her off her feet.
She gasps, her legs wrapping around my hips instinctively, the lace of her dress tearing under my fingers.
“Cain,” she whispers, but it isn't a plea—it's fuel.
I crush my mouth against hers, tasting salt and iron, my tongue forcing its way past her lips to claim every inch.
She moans into the kiss, her nails raking down my back, urging me on.
The hallway is dim, lit only by the faint glow from the living room fire we'll stoke later.
A narrow console table lines the wall, cluttered with forgotten junk—keys, a lantern, some old maps from hunts gone by.
It will do.
I carry her there in three strides, my cock already straining against my pants, hard and aching from the adrenaline of the night.
Her weight is nothing; she is all soft curves and sharp edges, the dress's bodice hugging her tits like a second skin, stained red where blood has soaked through.
I shove her back against the table, my body pinning hers.
She arches up, grinding against me, her pussy hot even through the layers of fabric. “Fuck, Celeste,” I growl, my voice low and gravelly.
My hands yank at the skirt of her dress, hiking it up over her thighs.
The material rips easily, exposing her bare skin—no panties, just like I ordered her to wear under that virgin-white gown turned slaughterhouse chic.
Her pussy is slick, shaved smooth, lips swollen and ready.
With one arm, I sweep the table clear.
Keys clatter to the floor, the lantern tips and rolls, maps flutter like dying birds.
None of it matters.
The wood is bare now, solid under her ass as I drop her onto it.
She spreads her legs wide, inviting me, her eyes locked on mine—dark, hungry, no fear, just raw need.
I grab her thighs, spreading her further, my thumbs digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise.
My free hand fumbles with my belt, the buckle clinking as I free my cock.
It springs out, thick and veined, the head already leaking pre-cum.
Celeste licks her lips, staring at it like she wants to devour me.
But not yet. I position myself between her legs, the tip of my cock nudging her entrance.
She is soaked, her juices coating me as I push in—slow at first, just the head, stretching her tight pussy.
She cries out, her head falling back, exposing the column of her throat.
I thrust forward, burying half my length in one go.
Her walls clench around me, hot and wet, pulling me deeper. “Yes, Cain—harder,” she demands, her voice breaking.
I don't need telling twice.
I slam into her fully, my hips snapping against hers, the table creaking under the force.
The dress bunches around her waist now, the bloodstains smearing onto the wood as I fuck her.
Each thrust is brutal, my cock pounding into her pussy without mercy.
Her tits bounce with every impact, spilling over the low neckline.
I lean down, capturing one nipple through the fabric, biting down hard enough to make her yelp.
She bucks up, meeting my rhythm, her heels digging into my ass to pull me closer.
Sweat beads on my skin, mixing with the metallic tang in the air.
The hallway smells of us—sex and blood, pine from the cabin walls.
I grip her hips, angling her so I can hit deeper, my cock dragging against her inner walls.
She is tight, so fucking tight, her body gripping me like a vice. “You're mine,” I snarl, my teeth grazing her ear. “This pussy, this body—all mine.”
Celeste's hands claw at my shoulders, tearing at my shirt.
Buttons pop, fabric rips, but I don't stop.
I drive into her harder, the slap of skin on skin filling the space.
Her moans turn to screams, high and desperate, her pussy fluttering around me.
I feel her building, the tension coiling in her thighs.
One hand slides between us, my thumb finding her clit—swollen, slick.
I rub it roughly, circles that match my thrusts.
“Come for me,” I order, my voice rough.
She shatters, her body convulsing, pussy squeezing my cock like it wants to milk me dry.
Juices gush around me, soaking my balls, dripping onto the table.
I don't let up, fucking her through it, prolonging the waves until she is sobbing my name.
But I’m not done.
Pulling out, I flip her over, her belly pressing into the wood.
The dress's skirt tangles around her, but I yank it higher, exposing her ass.
Round, firm, marked with faint bruises from before.
I spread her cheeks, my cock sliding along her slit before I thrust back in from behind.
This angle is deeper, her pussy taking every inch as I grip her hair, pulling her head back.
She pushes back against me, greedy for more.
I pound into her, my balls slapping her clit with each stroke.
The table rocks, scraping against the floorboards.
Her ass jiggles with the impacts, and I can't resist—my hand comes down, spanking her hard.
The crack echoes, her skin reddening under my palm.
She moans louder, loving it, her pussy clenching in response.
I spank her again, then again, alternating with thrusts that shake her whole body.
“Take it,” I grunt, my control slipping.
The pressure builds in my balls, hot and urgent.
Celeste reaches back, her fingers digging into my thigh, urging me faster.
I oblige, fucking her like an animal, raw and unrelenting.
Her second orgasm hits suddenly, her walls spasming around me.
That is it—I bury myself deep, roaring as I come.
Cum floods her pussy, pulse after pulse, filling her until it leaks out around my cock.
I hold her there, grinding against her ass, riding out the aftershocks.
We stay like that, panting, my body draped over hers.
The hallway is a wreck—table askew, debris scattered, our mingled fluids staining the wood.
Celeste turns her head, her lips curving in a satisfied smile. “Welcome home,” she murmurs.
I pull out slowly, watching my cum drip from her swollen pussy.
Tucking myself away, I help her up, her dress a ruined mess.
But she looks perfect like that—marked, claimed, utterly mine. The night isn't over yet.
Blood washes pink down the drain, swirling with soap and the last evidence of our wedding night.
Celeste stands under the spray with me, Patricia's ruined dress abandoned on the bathroom floor like shed skin.
Her body bears new marks—bruises from recoil, cuts from broken glass, a burn on her wrist from a shell casing.
Battle scars from her first night as a killer.
We made love twice—once against the door, still fully clothed and covered in evidence, unable to wait.
The second time in bed, slower, mapping each other's damage with tongues and teeth.
Consummating our marriage with violence still singing in our veins.
Now, in the shower's steam, she's washing her father's blood from under her fingernails with the same OCD level precision I use.
She's learning that the physical evidence is easier to remove than the psychological residue.
Sterling will live under her nails forever, no matter how hard she scrubs.
"The cottage will be found today," she says, watching the water run clear. "Someone will see the smoke."
"Let them. Sterling had many enemies. A disgraced sheriff, a missing trafficking ring, angry fathers looking for their daughters—anyone could have killed him."
"They'll come here to question me."
"And you'll perform grief perfectly. The devoted daughter, shocked by revelations about her father but still devastated by his loss."
She turns off the water, steps out, wraps herself in a towel.
In the mirror, we look like what we are—newlyweds with secrets.
Normal except for the darkness in our eyes, the satisfied set of our shoulders.
"I should cry," she says. "When they come. Daughters cry for their fathers, even monstrous ones."
"Can you?"
"I'm a writer. I can imagine anything, even grief for him."
The morning light through the bedroom window is harsh, revealing.
Patricia's dress looks like evidence of a massacre, which it is.
I bag it for burning later, along with our clothes from last night.
The weapons are already cleaned, returned to their hiding spots.
We're good at this, natural born killers playing house.
Celeste makes coffee while I cook eggs, domestic normalcy with an undercurrent of electricity.
Every time she passes, we touch—fingers grazing, hips bumping, the constant need to confirm we're both real, both here, both irreversibly changed.
"Do you regret it?" I ask.
"Which part? Marrying you? Killing them? Watching my father die badly?"
"Any of it."
She considers, sipping her coffee. "I regret not doing it sooner. I regret the girls we couldn't save, the ones who came before. I regret that Mrs. Barrett died quickly." She sets down the mug. "But no, I don't regret last night."
A car approaching, gravel crunching. Too early for the police—they haven't found the cottage yet.
It's Juliette, looking haggard but satisfied.
She enters without knocking, carrying a box of pastries and a laptop.
"The news is starting," she announces, setting up the laptop on our kitchen table. "Three house fires last night. Judge Hamilton's place, Dr. Wallis' office, and a cottage on the old Lockwood property. Bodies found in all three."
The screen shows aerial footage of the smoking cottage.
The reporter is speculating about connections to Sheriff Sterling's disappearance.
"How?" Celeste asks.