“Yours.”
His cock slams deep, his grip snapping the chain so tight it burns into my skin. “You’ll always be mine.” His release hits sharp, his body pulsing inside me, his breath breaking across my throat. His arms cage me, his lips dragging over my pulse.
“You’ll never leave me.”
“I’ll never leave you.”
His laugh cracks, soft and sharp. “Good girl.” His breath shudders, his ribs still trembling. “Let them watch you cum for me.”
His hand slides over my jaw, his thumb dragging slow under my lip. “Let them see how you look when you’re fucking owned.”
And I want them to see. I want them to see I’m his. I want them to see I’ll always be his. Even if they come back. Even if they never left.
Chapter 10
RAVEN
The hallway monitor hasn’t come back online.
It flickers once—just enough to tease a shape, a shadow—but Damien doesn’t react. He’s crouched by the server tower, knuckles white around a bundle of exposed cables, jaw clenched like his teeth are the only thing keeping him together. There’s blood on his hand. Just a smear. Dried. From before. He hasn’t cleaned it.
“I reset the feeds,” he says, voice taut. “They’re still blind.”
I watch him rise slowly, like gravity weighs more in this room. He’s quieter now. Not the terrifying kind of quiet. Not the kind that shouts through silence. This is something worse—the kind that’s calculating.
“Someone knew the blind spot,” he murmurs. “They chose that camera for a reason.”
I step closer, arms wrapped around myself, feeling like I’m ten seconds from unraveling but pretending I’m not. “You said they weren’t watching anymore.”
His eyes meet mine. Sharp. Foggy. Unreadable. “They’re not.” He exhales. “They’re playing.”
The room tilts.
He gestures to the screen. “He left something else. It wasn’t on the footage—but it was here.” He reaches behind the desk, retrieves a small object wrapped in more white cloth. This one’s not tied with a ribbon. Just folded. Plain. Carefully placed.
He unwraps it. It’s a photo. Not of me. Not of him. A chapel. Empty. The pews rotted. The candles burnt down to their stubs. The carpet frayed with ash. I don’t know how I know it’s the same one. The same chapel from the memory I keep buried under layers of breath and denial—but I do.
Damien doesn’t look at me. He looks at the photo like it’s whispering in a voice only he can hear. “He was there,” he mutters. “Long before I was.”
My mouth dries.
He flips the photo over. There’s something scrawled on the back. Not words. A sketch. Crude. Childlike. A figure with Xs for eyes and something that might be a collar around its neck. A girl drawn smaller beside it. No features. Just long hair. And a single drop of red ink where the mouth should be.
Damien drops the photo like it burned him. I bend to pick it up, but he stops me. “Don’t touch it.”
“Why?”
“Because I think that’s the same ink he used in the photo from before.”
“The one above the bed?”
He nods.
“And?”
He hesitates. “It’s blood.”
My skin goes cold.
