His face is carved from something lethal, quiet, controlled, but dark enough to make the air around him vibrate. His bright eyes fall to mine, and the fury behind them softens just barely, just enough to let me see him.
I feel Balor’s grip falter. His confidence drain.
I feel salvation settle on my skin like a second heartbeat.
His.
My dark menacing god.
Without even removing his coat, Billy moves. Dropping into a crouch, his hands on Balor’s shoulders, wrenching him half off me, and then he’s kneeling on Balor’s back.
And Billy is staring down at me, his face only mere inches above mine. My chin and cheek pressed into the damp earth, dirt in my flaring nostrils, between my teeth. His elbows are bent,almost flush with the cold earth, fingers splayed wide, rough palms holding down the back of Balor’s head.
His entire body weight is pressing into the crown of Balor’s skull. Billy’s knees wide, pressed to the ground, his thighs straight, hips lifted up where he rests down and forward, weight onto his shoulders, intense pressure on the struggling man’s cranium. Suffocating him with only the consecrated ground beneath us.
“Hello, Little Lamb,” Billy breathes, low, steady, a thundering rumble in his tone, a gentle curve to his pretty mouth.
I blink up at him, slow, drowsy. I am so very lost in my love for him.
Billy Blackwell.
An infection in my blood, a disease in my marrow, an ache in my chest cavity, lightning in my veins.
It is what the cause of demise shall read on my death certificate when he inevitably rips my soul from my bones.
Lovesick.
My heart thuds harder,for him,even though my entire being trembles, my half-clothed body sprawled out limply in the patchy wet grass. Breasts uncomfortably pressed into the hard packed dirt, my legs twisted at painful angles, but I don’t have the energy to move. I ache all over, after running through the labyrinths, being chased, and I did itfor himjust as everything else I have ever done throughout my life.
Billy consumes me in a way I can hardly understand.
There are no other words, no poems, no haunting tales.
There is only this.
His plump lips part, perfect white teeth pulling into a slow forming grin. It's only that which makes me really look at him. Shoving Balor's face into the earth, dirt filling his nose and mouth, lungs shrivelling with the lack of air and heavy inhalesof muck. But Billy only presses harder on the back of his skull, so hard I think he might break his neck before successfully suffocating him with consecrated ground, but if Billy wants someone to suffer, he will ensure he executes their death perfectly.
“I'm going to fuck you into our own grave, Little Lamb,” he says coldly, still smiling, those light blue eyes demonic in the quickening dark. “Our own tomb, Nellie. We are so very close to its entrance,” he bites his lip, dragging his gaze over my bloody face. “It’s got me so fucking hard, the memory of fucking you over the marble vault that will encase us together forever.”
His eyes seem to glow just that much brighter in the dark, with thoughts of our end, and I do not feel scared, I know he sees no life without death. Much in the way that I now do, too.
A whimper seems to cough its way up my throat, dirt on my tongue, earth in my nose, but there's wetness seeping between my thighs, despite the pain I feel, razor sharp and hot down my spine.
I love you, my beautiful Billy.
His smile only widens, as though he knows, hears my unspoken words, our bond giving him direct access to the inside of my skull, my thoughts.
“You want that, don't you, Little Lamb, my cum inside of you, my seed filling you up.”
It sends something ferocious through me, those words, what they mean, what he doesn’t yet know.
My fingers claw into the damp earth, dragging me closer to him, only inches between us, but it's too far, too much. An inhuman sound wrenches its way up my throat as I do, but I don't stop. It's the first physical sign Billy's shown of distress at finding me like this, a frown turning down his unevenly matched lips, the top thicker than the bottom, a pout most women would be envious of.
I want to suck on it.
I turn my head, the side of my face mashing into the dirt, and lift my gaze up, finding the moon.
It hangs above us in silent witness, pale light spilling over the world in soft silver. In the suddenly fallen darkness, its glow touches the bruised edges of the night turning them holy. Into something more, reminding me that even in the shade there is something that refuses to vanish.
