Page 36 of Shadowface

“Summer…”

I stare into his eyes through the mask. His pupils are black, the whites of them glowing.

“You might want to run…”

Jesus.

With a sharp jerk, I wildly look for a way out. Before I can react, his hands clamp down on my hair, forcing my head up. My face is an inch from his, and in one second, something flips within him. His grip is so tight as his breath tickles my cheek. The pressure is so intense, it feels as though my neck might snap. I whimper, helpless and still so fucking high. The tension between us is so brittle.

My precious life is so meaningless to him as I hang in his deathly balance. He went from wanting to protect me to hurting me in a matter of seconds.

He lowers his hand and squeezes my hip, dipping dangerously close to my waistline, and I buck my hips so he has no choice but to feel me. My breath lengthens, and I can’t stop the pulsing of desire building from within.

My eyes blaze into his. “What will he do to me?”

“I’ll cut out your eyes, pretty girl,” he whispers.

My teeth find my bottom lip and the pressure inside me mounts.

He’s different…his voice has audibly shifted.

I’m completely mesmerized as I stare at someone completely different from who I was just with. My nameless monster.

My body melts when I finally touch him again. His warmth melts my skin as my body starts to unravel.

He slowly presses me harder against the wall, his dark energy radiating off him—unlike a few seconds earlier, when he was much more controlled.

Whoever this is, he’s seething. His body is tight, rigid, and about to explode.

Trapped between him and the concrete, I wrap my hands around his waist, my head hitting the wall. My leg rises and I wrap my knee around his midsection. The pressure inside me is now excruciating.

“Are you real?” I whisper as the song shifts. The relentless music pounds, the rave storming around us in blinking lights and bodies everywhere.

He doesn’t respond, no more dirty threats, so I decide to see for myself. I run my hands along his sides, and he lets me caress him in my drugged-up state. I lift the back of his shirt, and my hands find his smooth muscles. I scrape my fingernails along his flesh and his body flinches as if he’s ticklish.

His fingers, which have not left my middle, squeeze my hips as I catch my breath and finally lay my forehead against his chest. For unexplainable reasons, being in his arms gives me a sense of safety.

For the first time since my father died, I feel like I’m home. We stay like this, locked with each other, for a few seconds, and I keep moving my hands along his back.

He likes it, I realize. He likes me touching him, which is why he isn’t moving.

My heart is doing backflips, but I can sense he’s not giving me full control, only a moment, so I seize it.

I stare up at his black pupils through the mask. I bite the inside of my cheek as I dig my nails into his flesh. He doesn’t react so I keep doing it, and I enjoy hurting him.

I’m not okay with what he did to me. I’m not okay that he left me like that for as long as he did. I’m not okay with him making me doubt my sanity by making me think he wasn’t real. Maybe if I can make him bleed, then I can prove he exists.

His hard body, every hard edge, molds into mine. His erection presses up against my belly as I keep digging.

He gently removes my hand after a few seconds, freeing my nails from his flesh. Our gaze connects, filled with anger on both ends, and he wipes the small stream of blood from his back, smudging it across my face with his thumb. As he rubs the blood onto my lips, my mouth slightly opens, allowing the metallic taste to enter. His pupils flare and I hold my breath, knowing he’ll likely kill me now.

At least I got the last word in.

He retreats a step and admires me. He looks at me in a way I can only describe as disgust blended with equal parts desire. I’m not sure how it’s possible for me to hate him, fear him, and want him in the same breath.

“You’re so fucking pretty with blood on your face,” he finally says, and I melt at those words. His teeth grind, his voice laced with acid. “I hate how pretty you are.”

This version of him sounds younger. Like he doesn’t have a good sense of his words, and all he can do is tell me how pretty I am.