Tears prick my eyes from the sheer, overwhelming intensity of being so utterly taken, so completely filled by the dark.
His cock pulses violently inside me, a deep, possessive throb that echoes in every corner of my being while he comes.His satisfied growl shakes through my teeth and into the floor.
The tendril around my throat loosens, and I drag in a huge, ragged breath.
Shadow Daddy slides out of me slowly, dragging a whimper from me as the cold emptiness replaces it.I feel stretched, used, deliciously hollow.My legs shake violently.
The mass of shadows behind me withdraws, taking all of its many tendrils with it, flowing back into the corners of the bathroom, leaving behind only the chill.The candle flame steadies, shrinking back to a normal size.
I slump against the counter, my reflection in the mirror flushed and wrecked.My eyes are dark pools, my pupils blown wide, and leaking…something.Something dark, like mascara…but not.Like the blackest of ink, thick, oily, and so dark that it makes me look monstrous.A thin trickle of the same fluid on my cheeks seeps down the insides of my thighs.
I touch some on my face and bring it to my lips.It tastes like salt and earth and rot.I moan and suck my finger harder, then trace my finger over the trickle down my thighs and lick every last drop.
Pushing myself upright, I meet my own gaze in the mirror.A slow, satisfied smile curves my lips.
Whatever I’m leaking, I taste fucking delicious.
Chapter 10
Eddie
Thesummonscomesviaemail.
Detective Crowe, please report to Sheriff Harrow’s office at 14:00.
—Admin
I read it twice, then delete the email and check my watch.
13:44.
Plenty of time to get there.Not enough time to prepare for whatever Vincent has planned.
The walk down the hallway to his office feels longer than it should.My boots sound too loud on the linoleum, and every step echoes.Officers glance up from their desks as I pass, their eyes following me with a curiosity that feels like insects crawling over my skin.
No one walks this stretch of hallway because they feel like it; they do it because they’ve been summoned.
When I reach Vincent’s door, it’s already open.
He sits behind his desk, his hands folded.“Detective.Sit.”
I sit.My spine stays straight, my hands resting loosely on my thighs.Every instinct I have screams trouble, but I keep my face neutral.I’ve interrogated enough suspects to know the value of silence, of waiting for the other person to fill the void.
Vincent sighs.“I wish this conversation wasn’t necessary.”
He slides a thin manila folder across his polished desk, and it whispers against wood like a serpent through grass.
“What is this?”I ask without touching it.
“Open it.”
I reach out for the folder.Inside, the pages are neatly arranged, each one a nail hammered into a coffin I didn’t build but am apparently expected to climb into.
The first page is a lab report that details the chemical adhesive analysis on Farley’s severed hand from Michael Devlin’s toolbox.Polymer No.412-L, with a match probability of 99.7%.It’s cross-referenced to previous case usage with my name highlighted in yellow across the three cases listed, the dates and file numbers all correct.
My stomach sinks.
The second page—
