What was now a sloping hill with fallen trees and hollow logs blanketing it had once been a far steeper ravine, leading down to a fast-moving stream.
In the moonlight, the stream still ran, a silver ribbon instead of a bubbling current.
The horse reared—right here.
The peace that Grace had bestowed upon him earlier evaporated, and hatred and horror returned.
Cynthia was here. On the horse.
Then there, down on the ground at the bottom of the ravine, bucked off from a full gallop as she was rushing to the Miller’s.
He’d loved Cynthia once.
And in a flash, it had turned to sickening rage. Murderous rage.
That’s why he’d killed her.
He looked at his hands, gray and almost solid. They looked quite eerily ashen in the moonlight.
I wanted clean hands. Clean heart.
Because I’m a killer. Just like The Stranger.
Cynthia’s was the first pile of bloody rags left in these woods.
Chapter Fourteen
Grace felt him moving in the shadows, like a cat that comes to your lap on its own terms. She didn’t mind. His presence was enough, and knowing he would appear when called gave her independent heart satisfaction—and space.
There is something big happening here.
Yeah. We’re fucking the undead.
We’re getting turned into a puddle by a dozen slithering shadow cocks, and we’re bound up like someone in a kink club, and every single part of us has been invaded.
Penetrated.
She clutched her stomach as she hobbled to the kitchen, stopping short as her thighs squeezed shut. Even as her stomach rumbled, she couldn’t block out the memory of the teasing, tonguing sensation of shadowy little tentacle cocks licking at her ass before slipping into it, or the absolutely stuffed-full feeling she’d adored despite being trussed up like an x-rated turkey.
Or maybe because of it.
Nyx wasn’t tying her up or tying her down. He was wrapping himself around her as much as he could.
Swallowing her whole.
