It doesn’t, though.
The monster is here again, his fangs visible through his sardonic smile. His eyes are as dead as the boogeyman from Dad’s bedtime stories.
I crouch further, eyes squeezed shut, and I cover my ears with my sweaty palms.
Don’t touch me.
Please.
Daddy! Mommy! Help!
“You’ll never escape me, you little rascal.”
No!
I startle awake, sweat soaking my whole body and my hair sticking to my neck. My breathing comes in long, chopped inhales and my heart palpitates in my chest.
No, no, I can’t be back there, I can’t—
“Welcome back to the world of the living, sleepyhead.”
My attention swings to the source of the voice, and it’s none other than the second monster in my life.
The one who barged in without knocking or even announcing his presence.
Landon sits on the half-torn chair opposite me, working on a medium-sized statue. Only, it’s not made of stone. Judging by the dark material that’s seeping between his fingers like butter, he’s using clay.
The scene slowly comes into focus. We’re in the haunted house that could be used to scare misbehaving children. Some of the candles have gone out, and the remaining ones surround me as if I were the object of a satanic ritual.
Considering Landon’s extremely unhinged nature, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Earlier, he showed me a part of myself I didn’t know existed. Yes, I suspected it, but I never dared to try it. And maybe, if the psycho hadn’t forced me, I never would have.
All I know is that I enjoyed it more than I’d like to admit. I enjoyed it to the point that I’m completely ashamed.
But another part of me, the part that fell apart due to his rough touch and psychopathic tendencies, is still humming at the recent memory of his and my fingers inside me.
As if that wasn’t crazy enough, Landon pushed me to the edge of the fragile stairs and fucked my throat. The fact that we could have fallen at any second did nothing to diminish the pure animalistic way he touched me.
In fact, the louder the wood creaked, the harder he thrust in and out of my mouth. It didn’t matter that I’d already come twice, seeing Landon’s lusty gaze under the moonlight made me hot and bothered again.
I can still smell him—a fatal combination of cedarwood and male musk.
After he came down my throat and made me swallow every drop, he helped me down the dangerous stairs. I should’ve gone down myself, but I was too lethargic to do anything.
It’s probably why I must’ve fallen asleep after I put my dress back on. I remember thinking the sofa looked nice and mindlessly walking toward it.
Something must really be wrong with me, because I felt safe enough to fall asleep around the bastard.
A bastard who’s the definition of a life hazard.
Said bastard is now half naked as he watches me from beneath his lashes with that smirk of je ne sais quoi and blows a cloud of smoke in the air. Smudges of clay cling to his muscular abs dusted with fine hairs that lead to a place I prefer not to think about.
It doesn’t help that his pants hang low on his lithe hips, revealing the defined V-line and leaving practically nothing to the imagination.
I catch glimpses of snake tattoos slithering up his side, one of them is shaped into an infinity symbol, eating its own tail. It’s an ouroboros, I realize—dark, striking, and gives off deadly vibes.
A third nipple would’ve been so nice, but no, the asshole had to be physical perfection.
His middle finger that’s all gray with clay wraps around his belt’s loop and pulls. “Want a closer look? My cock would certainly appreciate a second round. Maybe make the acquaintance with your cunt this time?”
My gaze snaps back to his sardonic face I suspect has never known what happiness looks like. And I don’t mean his makeshift joy or the feeling of accomplishment that he fakes so well. But real happiness that the likes of him can probably never feel in this lifetime.
“Why are you half naked, pervert?” I sign.
“You were shivering.”
I look down at myself and sure enough, I’m wearing his shirt and it has nothing to do with an action I’ve taken.
No wonder I’ve been smelling him on me. I chalked it up to earlier, but turns out, he’s actually on me. Well, his shirt is.
“And they say chivalry is dead.” He grins like a hedonistic lord. “You should thank your lucky stars for ending up with a well-mannered gentleman like yours truly.”
“More like cursed stars.”
“Don’t be so negative. Life has brighter sides—namely me.”
I physically roll my eyes, and I don’t usually do that. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“For all the right reasons.” He stubs his cigarette in the ashtray, letting it join a dozen others lying about, and motions at the coffee table where there’s a takeout box. “Eat.”
I lick my lips. “How did you know I was hungry?”
I didn’t get to eat earlier because of this same bastard, so the sight of food makes my stomach growl.
“Because of that. Your stomach was making itself noticeable, even when you were slumbering away.” He chuckles and I inhale deeply, but I smell him more than the food.
He’s all around me, and even metaphorically inside me. It’s a mismatch of colors and emotions that leaves me hopelessly chaotic. I’m unable to process anything when he’s everything I see, hear, and breathe.
I can even taste his cologne on my tongue.
So I choose to focus on something I understand. Food.
It’s Italian—my favorite. But it’s not really that weird that he got it since most people love Italian.
I dig into my pasta without bothering to glance in his direction.
“Your manners must’ve left the building.” His voice echoes around me like the Grim Reaper’s favorite lullaby. “The least you can do is express gratitude for my thoughtful behavior.”
I swallow the mouthful of pasta, put the fork down, and sign, “People who have thoughtful behavior don’t expect gratitude.”
“I do.”
“Thank you.”
A grin lifts his lips. “You’re welcome, little muse.”
“This doesn’t negate the fact that you interrupted my actual dinner.”
“It was totally worth it, and if you weren’t drowning in absolute nonsense, you’d admit it as well.”
I lift my hand to give him the middle finger and he raises a brow. “Just think about where that finger will be if you flip me off.”
I snarl, because I know he absolutely delivers when it comes to threats, and choose to dive back into my pasta.
At least this makes sense.
He definitely doesn’t.
Silence stretches in the living room, minus the sound of the fork against the cardboard plate. It’s strange that he didn’t grace me with one of his over-the-top mocking replies.
I chance a glance in his direction only to find him studying me so closely and coldly, I feel as if I’m being dissected by a mad scientist.
“What?” I sign after I gulp loudly.
“I was just thinking that you look edible in my shirt, possibly more than the food you’re consuming. Want to consummate your push-pull relationship with my cock?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t hurt to ask.” He lifts a nonchalant shoulder. “But mark my words, Mia. You’ll welcome my cock in your tight little cunt, whether by choice or after we do another discovery journey of your kinks. One thing’s for certain, though. He’ll be your favorite flavor.”
I really can’t believe him.
He could easily bag an award for the most arrogant and impossibly unbearable man.
“What about your kinks?” I ask in an attempt to turn the tables on him.
He uses a tool to sculpt the face of the clay statue, his movements smooth and elegant. The discarded pieces fall on the floor, forgotten and without purpose, probably like everyone in Landon’s life.
“What about them?” he asks.
“What are they?”
“My, muse. I know you like me, but you might want to tone it down a bit. Here’s a tip, don’t be obvious.”