“It’s something like that . . .”
“This isn’t going to end well for you.” His voice is foreboding.
It’s a tale as old as time, isn’t it? Instead of speaking, I offer him silence as Calum breaks away from me, only watching from behind.
“You’re making a mistake.” My father’s tone is harsh.
“I’m making a choice. I want more than this life.” I don’t know exactly what lies ahead, but it’s something more. It’s something I never knew how badly I wanted.
“This life?” my father questions with distaste, and then ignores me and what I’ve just said. They all do. They always have, and I’m tired of being ignored. “Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Does this have to do with the debt?”
“No.” Lie. Lie after lie. But I want the beast. I want to live in his dark castle and let him do whatever he wants to me.
“I’m with Calum now. I only called to tell you. I love you.”
“Belle, please.” Stress lingers over the line from my father’s plea. It doesn’t matter what he says though, I want this. I want to be captive to Calum. I want him to leave me deliciously used. It’s not quite a fairytale, but it’s certainly my fantasy.
“I’ll call again soon.” The old phone clicks as I set it down on Calum’s desk, staring at the antique wood and wondering what I’ve just done. What fate I’ve chosen.
“Does he believe you?” Harrison’s darkly murmured question catches me off guard. I swear this place holds a spell over me. With both of my hands gripping the desk behind me, I face him, the beast I’ve chosen.
“Does he believe what?” What were my lies? I can’t even remember. The chill that runs down my spine when Calum peers down at me with his sharp hazel gaze is warmed by the simple touch. At first, it’s only the rough pad of his thumb trailing down my jaw. Then it’s his hand on my throat, wrapped around it, but not too tight as he plants a single kiss against my lips. The warmth flows just as the desire does, lower and lower to the pit of my belly. When my eyes close, his masculine scent wraps around me, and I can barely breathe.
“It doesn’t matter, Belle,” he whispers against my lips, and his warm breath travels down the crook of my neck as he plants a kiss there.
The unbuckling of his belt forces my eyes open only to be staring straight ahead at the faint scar along his jaw. Goosebumps travel down my heated skin as he plants one more kiss at the sensitive bit of my neck, just below my ear. My whimper of need is accompanied by his hard chest brushing against my breasts. He whispers, his lips at the shell of my ear, “Get on your knees.”
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Jack & the Beanstalk
Marley Valentine
1
On all fours, my body hovers over his, my gloved hand circling around his throat, squeezing tight. Wide eyes stare up at me in horror, confusion, and fear, wondering how after a quiet night out in the city he ended up here.
My hold on him increases, squeezing enough to block his airways, but not enough to kill him. When I drag the sharp, stainless steel carving knife out of my back pocket, his body begins to buck deliciously underneath me. Frantic hands try to claw at mine, desperate to pry my fingers off him. If these were any other circumstances, his attempts would be comical, but since he’s clearly trying to save his own life, I keep my face impassive and indifferent.
“Sorry,” I say, knowing quite well remorse isn’t something I’ve felt in a very long time. “You’re just one of many. Collateral damage,” I explain. “But I promise you’ll look beautiful when I’m done with you.”
The fight in him eventually weakens, his body heaving with every breath, his eyes now pleading for mercy. Lowering my face down to his, I press my lips to his, tasting his resignation. His submission. “I can see what he liked about you. I probably should’ve played with my meal first and got the real experience.”
“P-p-p-please,” he stutters. “I’ll d-d-d-o anything.”
“How about we compromise?” I say, feeling a little playful. “I’ll let you pick which way you want to go.”
Offering him a soft smile, I point the tip of the knife to his chest, adding enough pressure to pierce his skin. “I can carve you up first.”
He hisses as I drag the knife through the first layer of his skin, watching how his blood begins to beautifully trickle out of the cut.
“Or we can wait till you stop breathing.” My hand tightens against his neck, leather and pressure pushing his windpipe in full force, giving him an exact taste of what’s to come. He tries to fight me, his eyes filling with unshed tears of confusion and fear.
When he gasps for air, I raise an eyebrow up at him impatiently. “Which one is it?”
He places his hand over mine, and I nod at his answer. “Close your eyes,” I encourage. “It’s less painful that way.”
It’s another lie, but he’s like putty underneath me right now and listens to my advice anyway. They all do, hoping for a sliver of relief right before they take their very last breath, but that doesn’t come. There’s no comfort when it comes to death, especially when you know it’s the only option you have.
Eventually the choking sounds dwindle, and his body stills. I have to admit there’s a little bit of grace in the way he succumbed to the inevitable. The majority aren’t like that, always trying to fight it. Always hoping for a miracle, or even worse—that I’ll feel bad and change my mind.
Getting comfortable, I position myself over the not-yet-cold body, and slice through the multiple layers of skin. Marking him, branding him, sending a message that this is only the beginning.
Climbing off the bed, I look back at my work of art, both impressed and eager to do it again. The beautiful part of the kill is over, his body all in one piece, his skin smeared in red; lines, letters, and shapes scattered all over his limbs.
It should be my favorite part, but it’s the ugly side that I long for the most. Opening up the bodies, leaving them not only dead, but hollow.
Empty.
Exactly how I feel.
It’s my motivating factor for all this carnage. It’s what he’ll notice me for.
He’ll finally see me, and then I’ll finally be able to have him.
The way I’ve always wanted him.
To be mine, and only mine for all eternity.
They say the most memorable love stories are the ones that end in tragedy. That end in death.
And who am I to prove them wrong?
2
Grayson
“Another one?” I don’t bother waiting for an answer or an explanation. Instead, I throw my cell clear across the room till it punctures the plaster wall and smashes loudly to the floor. I raise my leg and aggressively slam it into my glass coffee table, shattering the expensive piece of furniture, dispersing sharp shards everywhere.