I growl, deep in my chest, as the orgasm crashes over me. I spill across my hand, across the wood. Her body arches on the other side of the screen, climax tearing through her.
But then—something shifts.
It’s not immediate. It creeps in, slow and unsettling, like the quiet before a storm, like the stillness in a church just before the heavens open wide and something divine—and terrible—descends. The scent of her deepens. It changes. No longer just arousal or fear, no longer the trembling ache of a mortal girl chasing forbidden pleasure.
It becomes ancient. It becomes wrong.
Richer, darker, threaded with something that hums beneath my skin.
Not human.
The truth settles into the space between us. She is not just untouched. Not just ripe and trembling. She is power wrapped in flesh. She is hunger wearing innocence like a veil. She is a succubus.
And she doesn’t even know it.
Her essence sings it now, no longer hidden behind the fragile mask of faith and fear. It pours through the lattice, thick and sweet, pulsing like a second heartbeat. A call. A curse. A challenge.
My own blood heats in response—every nerve sharpened, every instinct on fire. My cock, still half-spent and twitching, stirs again. Not from lust. Not entirely.
Fromrecognition.
I rise too fast, vision flickering as if the world itself struggles to contain what just happened. Cum is cooling on my hand, forgotten, irrelevant. She’s already backing away, dazed and mumbling some apology she doesn’t even understand. Her skirt flutters. Her eyes don’t meet mine.
And then—she’s gone.
Fled into the night, vanishing like smoke through cracks in the stone. No lingering goodbye. No backward glance.
But I’m already moving. Already hunting.
She doesn’t understand what she is. Doesn’t know the way her soul sings to every predator in the dark. Doesn’t know the kind of power that blooms inside her chest like a rose with thorns made of blood and fire.
ButIknow.
And gods help the fool who finds her first.
Because I will find her. I will peel back the layers of innocence she clings to, I will show her what it means to be desired, worshipped,owned. She is mine—not because she wants to be. Not because she said yes.
Because fate already wrote my name on her skin.
And next time?
She won’t run.
I’ll make sure of it—even if I have to break her to keep her.
SIX
Islam the door shut behind me so hard the frame rattles. My breath hitches, lungs burning as though I’ve sprinted across campus instead of simply walking. My hands are shaking. My skin feels too warm, too tight, as if the heat is under my flesh instead of on it. I need space. I need time to think. I need…
“Hey.”
The voice snaps me back.
Penny.
She’s perched on her bed with her earbuds in, legs tucked beneath her. Faint pop music leaks from her phone speaker—something upbeat and plastic, completely at odds with the storm inside me. When her eyes flick up, there’s no surprise, no concern, only mild irritation at my presence.
I move stiffly to my bed and collapse into it, dragging the covers over me. I turn my back, hoping the gesture alone will tell her to leave me alone. It works, mostly. No small talk. No questions. Just a sigh and the flick of her screen as she queues up another song. Her silence presses against me, a quiet accusation that makes my chest feel tighter.
