Page 111 of Shattered In Darkness

Go. Don’t look back.

I step in. The bedroom stinks of dust, old wood, and him. The window’s a rectangle of misery, thick frost webbing across the glass. My hands fumble with the hem of my shirt. I peel it off, bra, pants, everything. Skin exposed. Nipples pebbled, thighs shaking, sweat already chilling on my back.

Digging through the bag with clumsy fingers, I pull out a thermal shirt. Soft, gray, too big for me. There are sweatpants too, and wool socks that scratch my palms. I hesitate. Something in me wants to delay, to stretch out this half-second of being nothing. My reflection glints in the frosted mirror.

Then I feel it. Pressure. The prickle up my spine, down the backs of my thighs.

I whirl around.

He’s there. Leaning against the frame, shoulders filling the doorway, mask gleaming in the dark. Skulled, monstrous, silent.

Brody’s chest moves faster than before. His eyes—fuck—his eyes blaze through the mask’s holes, locked on every inch of me. Not blinking. Not looking away. Wild, starved, almost murderous. Like he wants to devour me or drag me straight to hell.

For a long time, nothing. Air buzzes with want, my knees threaten to give out, but I fight it. This is wrong. He kidnapped me. I should be spitting fire.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Look at you.” Brody crosses the room in three strides. I don’t retreat. I just wait, shaking, mouth gone dry, pulse jackhammering. He doesn’t kiss my lips. He drops straight to my throat, burying his mouth at the base of my neck, biting hard. His hands dig into my waist, greedy, bruising, hungry. Fingers splay, covering the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. I feel how hard he is, already, through his jeans, pressing at my stomach.

The mask stays on. It grinds against my cheek, cold and unyielding. He mutters, “Mine.”

His hand claws at my ass, yanking me closer. His mouth traces down my neck, over my collar, biting, sucking. He palms my breast, squeezing, fingers pinching cruelly at my nipple.

I gasp but don’t recoil. My cunt aches. I’m already soaking, shame and hunger twined tight.

Brody pushes me down, flat palm at the top of my head. I drop, knees crashing to the floor. The boards bite into my skin, rough and splintery. He stares down at me, mask like death. His cock is out, veins bulging, tip flushed and leaking.

No commands. Just expectation. I wrap my lips around him, swallow deep. He fists my hair, dragging me deeper. His hips snap, bucking into my mouth. Merciless.

I gag, choke, spit leaking down my chin. Tears sting at the corners of my eyes. The mask stares down, unfeeling, but the heat behind his eyes says everything.

Every time he slams into my throat, I feel myself clench. I want this. I want the way he uses me, the way he can’t fucking control himself.

I stare up as he fucks my mouth. “Good girl,” he rasps. “That’s it. Take it. I want you to touch yourself for me.”

Slipping my hand between my thighs, my finger finds my clit and rubs circles, fast and relentless. I arch against my touch, whimpering around his cock. Every twist of my fingers sends sparks everywhere.

My cheeks hollow out and I tighten my lips around his cock. That earns me a groan from him. I use my tongue to lick the underside, the way he likes it. He pulls out and shoves me onto my back on the bed, cock already glistening with spit. He grabs my tits, wraps his shaft between them, and thrusts between them, wet and messy, sliding up to my mouth.

He shoves in deep. I gag again, spit bubbling down my chin. His hand’s in my hair, fucking my face, ruthless and demanding.

My head snaps back from the force. I can barely breathe. Then, he slides down, pinning my hips before lining up his cock and pushes himself inside. No warning.

I cry out. Not in fear. In shock, in relief, in fucking ecstasy.

He fucks me hard, slamming me into the mattress, every thrust threatening to split me in half. The mask never slides. His eyes burn holes in my soul. Angry, needy, desperate.

I claw at his back, hips bucking for more. His breath is ragged. “Mine,” he keeps saying. “Mine, Lola. All fucking mine.”

We’re animals. No, something deeper. Something ruined and perfect and built for this.

He pounds into me, wild, savage, nothing gentle left. My back hits the mattress, legs open, his hips driving me down, hard, again and again. The bed thumps. The old headboard cracks against the wall. Every thrust knocks the air from my lungs. I can’t think. Can’t breathe.

His hand grabs my thigh, yanks it higher, forcing me open for him. I arch, desperate, a moan torn out of my throat.

He’s relentless. His cock fills me, splits me, the pain perfect, the stretch just right.

The mask stares down, cold and merciless, but his eyes are fire—mad, starved, dangerous. His breath is hot on my neck, every growl vibrating through my skin.

He fucks me faster. The world narrows to the wet slide of him inside me, the smack of our bodies, the sweat dripping between us. Shame, want, fury. Every twisted part of me burns for him. I buck against him, chasing the bruises, chasing the hurt.