46. Him
HIM
DOWNHILL
“Please,” she whispers, her dejected voice hoarse from screaming.
Clara doesn’t know we’re still in the cellar with her. We haven’t spoken a word, haven’t made a sound. We bet she looks so pretty with tear stains on her face right now. So fucking pretty. Can’t wait to see them.
We’ve lost track of how much time we’ve sat in the dark, listening to her beg, plead, and scream. She doesn’t like the dark like we do. Doesn’t find solace in it. The musty air carries the salt of her tears, the fear-sweat that makes our mouth water. Sooner or later, she’ll learn to embrace it.
“Turn on the light, turn on the light, turn on the light.”
It sounds like a prayer, and we wonder who she’s praying to.
“Please, please, please .” Her voice is getting louder now. She’s gone back and forth between an angry little kitten and a sobbing mess.
“Turn on the fucking light, Samson!”
“Well, that wasn’t very nice,” we say suddenly, causing her to shriek. “That isn’t how you ask, Clara. Try again.” We reach beside us on the pallet, fingers closing around the knife’s handle—cold metal, sharp promise.
“Why are you doing this? Just turn on the goddamn light!”
“Try. Again.” We let the silence stretch, counting her ragged breaths in the darkness. One… two… three… The knife feels perfect in our grip.
We hear her shift on the dirt, hear her inhale deeply before she exhales. Makes us wish she were close to us, so she’d breathe us in and we’d breathe her in.
“Samson.” A broken whisper, but she says our name like a plea. Like now we’re the one she’s praying to. “Will you… please turn the light on? Please, Samson.”
“There’s my good girl. See how sweet you can be when you try?” We push up from the makeshift bed, tucking the knife behind us into our waistband. It takes no time at all to screw the lightbulb in and turn it on.
We glance down and find Clara with her legs pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them like they’ll comfort her.
But only we can comfort her now. And we were right—she’s so fucking beautiful when she cries. Her face is streaked with dirt and tears, just like we imagined. Perfect.
“Stand up,” we order firmly. The command echoes off the stone walls, bouncing back to us like an amen.
We can tell she wants to refuse, but she’s smarter than that—especially since she woke up from her earlier disobedience in the dark. Her punishment.
She hesitates, but she obeys and stands to face us. Her legs shake, and her entire body stiffens to hold herself up.
We circle her slowly, drinking in every detail—the way her chest rises and falls too fast, the pulse hammering in her throat, the way she tries not to flinch when we move closer. The knife feels heavy at our waist—a reminder of our control.
As soon as she’s steady on her feet, we move and pull her in. Fuck, it feels good to have her body pressed against ours again. She’s so warm, so alive.
“We missed you so much, Clara,” we say, nuzzling her neck. “Missed your smell, your skin. Mm, the way you fit against us.”
“No,” she pleads, an almost inaudible whisper. “Please don’t do this.”
“Need to feel you.” Our words come out more as a growl than anything else. We trail our nose along her neck and flick our tongue against her ear. “Need to taste you.” The salt of her skin… so fucking delicious.
Clara forces her hands between us, placing her palms against our chest in an attempt to push us away. “Samson! No!”
We pause, letting her think she has a chance.
Letting hope bloom in her eyes before we crush it.
Because we can’t have that. We do need her, and we’re done waiting.
Abruptly, we spin her around, banding one arm beneath her breasts and the other across her hip.
“Be still for us, Clara. You’re only making this harder for yourself. ”
Her scream is a force to be reckoned with—that’s all right. We don’t mind. We said we’d be good to her this time around, but that doesn’t mean we don’t still love hearing her scream for us. The sound bounces off every surface, filling our ears like a symphony.
She thrashes against our body in a futile attempt to escape. Doesn’t she realize that makes us want her even more? That she’s just making it worse, rubbing herself against our cock? Fuck, we’re so hard.
Holding her close with one hand splayed along her ribs, we reach down and unbutton her jeans. We just need them down a little bit—just enough to sink into her. This time is going to be fast and hard. We can’t help it; she made us wait too long.
Her pants are below her hip bones when we hear the unmistakable sound of the hatch being thrown open. A sound that doesn’t belong in our sanctuary—metal groaning against metal.
Heavy footsteps sound above us, deliberate and purposeful. Who the fuck is that? Who has the fucking audacity to disturb us? No one’s supposed to fucking be here. No one’s supposed to know where we are.
“We have company, Clar,” we whisper in her ear. Pulling our hand from her pants, we reach behind us, retrieve the knife from our waistband, and press the tip to her throat. “Don’t move. Don’t want you to accidentally hurt yourself. That’d make us very upset.”
The footsteps thunder on the wooden steps—so loud the rickety staircase creaks beneath the onslaught.
We keep our gaze fixed on the bottom of the stairs, waiting to see who dares come in uninvited. Just when the thundering footfalls stop, that motherfucking FBI agent appears, gun pointed directly at us.
Our lips pull back in a snarl. “You’re not supposed to be here,” we growl. “She’s ours! Ours!”