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“Would you like it if I used it on you?” he asks, his eyes focusing on mine. “Would you like to bleed for me?”
I nod without a hint of shame. Even now, the thought makes my channel clench, and his fingers tighten around my throat.
“The others won’t like the marks I leave on you,” he admits. “They’ll want to add their own.”
He lowers the knife and presses it gently against my collarbone. There’s a tiny sting before he leans down and traces whatever mark he left on me with his tongue. I jerk beneath him and groan. When the knife trails down to the top of my dress and cuts the material without effort, I practically purr, my thighs rubbing together. He cuts a long line down until my dress hangs open and I’m bare.
“You’re so beautiful when you’re like this,” he muses, leaning up to get a better look at me.
“Like what?” I ask breathlessly, needing more.
His eyes meet mine. “Full of darkness.” His eyes are black pools, his own darkness dancing in his gaze, begging to be let out. “I liked it when your mouth was wrapped around my cock, Ember. This time, I won’t leave you wanting.”
He slides down the hood of the car until he can stand, then he grabs my thighs and pulls me to the edge of the hood, my ass hanging off the shiny metal. I watch as he kneels before me, but I tense when he holds the knife between my thighs. I’ve had knives near my pussy before, and it wasn’t a fun time. I’m covered in scars, and I’m no different down there, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he leans down and presses the flat of the blade against my clit. He doesn’t cut, but the cold steel shoots through me and I gasp. I don’t move though, afraid he’ll hurt me.
“Tame your fear, Queen,” he murmurs. “You have nothing to fear here. Not from me, never from me.”
I try, but my past threatens to come up through my throat. My heart kicks wildly in my chest, and my body is so tense, my shoulders hurt.
“My real name is Heath,” he says suddenly, and I look down my body at him, meeting his eyes. “I don’t have a last name, not that I know of. My mother wasn’t given one, so neither was I. I was raised around prostitutes and criminals, and by the time I was seven, I was running drugs.” He unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off. “This scar right here is from a bullet when I was nine,” he says, pointing to a starburst scar. There’s a tattoo of an ouroboros now that wraps around it, as if it’s displaying the scar rather than trying to hide it. “This one is from when Freedom got me when I wandered too close and she didn’t like it.” He points to a long, thin scar on his bicep. It’s small for a tiger scratch, but clearly not meant to be life-threatening.
He points to a scar on my inner thigh, a particularly large one. It’s ragged and poorly healed, one that’ll never go away. I swallow and meet his eyes. “Roger thought I was flirting with the neighbor because I thanked him for the casserole his wife sent over when she had too much. He sliced me open with a serrated bread knife.”
He nods, and although the corners of his eyes tighten, he doesn’t get angry. He points to a series of five small round scars, all puckered and ugly on top of my left thigh. There are three more on my right.
“Cigarette burns,” I whisper. “Each for a different reason. I don’t remember all of them.”
His fingers trail up to my stomach, to the lines there. I turn my face away, not wanting to talk about them, but his strong fingers grip my chin and force me to look into his eyes. He traces the scars again.
“I . . . I was pregnant,” I choke out. “Roger didn’t want kids.”
This time, his features contort with anger so intense, it washes over me. Despite the fury simmering in his eyes, he leans down and presses a kiss to every slash, to every scar there before moving to my thighs and doing the same, tracing each and every one. His eyes meet mine.
“You are not her,” he rasps. “Not anymore. You are not afraid. You do not fear the darkness. You are the darkness. Just as I am, just as Spade, Diamond, and Heart are.” His fingers tighten on my knees. “You’re not alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I repeat, my eyes on his, afraid to look away and see the ghosts surrounding us.
He nods. “Never again.”
The moment lingers between us, hanging heavily in the air, and then my mind clears. The fear dissipates, and another emotion takes its place—desire.
“Pick up your knife,” I say. He does so without hesitation. I grab his hand and guide it to my collarbone where he already cut. “Here,” I encourage. “Carve a club.”
He jolts in surprise, his eyes widening with both desire and shock. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “Do it.”
He watches my face for a few seconds before he comes over me and presses the tip of the knife to my skin. It stings for a moment, but then it fades to a dull ache that makes my pussy throb. He moves with a skilled hand until he leans back and admires his handiwork.
“All done,” he murmurs, folding up his knife.
“Good,” I whisper. “Now fuck me.” When I see his expression, I add, “I said I wanted all of you.” I lean up and wrap my arms around him and whisper, “We’re the freaks, remember?”
I reach between us and unzip his slacks before reaching inside and cupping his cock. He’s as hard as steel, and when my hand wraps around his length, it jumps. He groans, and then his hand encircles my throat again.
“As you wish,” he growls, repeating his words from earlier.
The gentle exploration disappears. Gone is the sweet man who wanted to take me on a normal date, and in his place is a demon who likes to play with knives.
