He leans closer until the space between us isn’t space at all. ‘And you,’ he murmurs, ‘have a bigger problem than me lying.’
I hold his gaze. ‘Do I?’
He smirks. ‘Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea.’
The hay cradles my head, but needles at my scalp as I’m lowered – muted by the thunder of blood in my veins. Sal straddles me, his weight anchoring, his dominance unquestionable. The bottle shakes in his grip as he swigs deep, the scent of the liquor filling my nostrils. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His mouth finds mine with a purpose that makes my bones tremble. It’s not a kiss – no. It’s a brand. A claim. Heat spills from him to me, whiskey chasing fire down my throat but I breathe it in anyway. For a moment, all the chaos – the explosion, the faint smell of burning human flesh, the lies, the threats – they all fade into the background and all that’s left is us, the dark, the taste of whiskey, and an unspoken warning in the way his hands crawl up my thighs. His knee forces my legs to part, his forefinger tracing the entrance to my bare pussy.
‘Now…’ he murmurs, his breath ghosting my skin, lips still wet from the whiskey, ‘where were we? Oh, yes, your glorious wet pussy.’
My chest rises and falls rapidly as he curses under his breath the moment his finger touches me. With his left hand, he brings the whiskey bottle to my face, and I part my lips to take a sip, but the cap is still on.
‘Wider. I want you to suck this bottle like your life depends on it, ‘cause it does,’ he says, his tone deep with finality. I open my mouth wider, and allow him to push the neck of the bottle in and over my tongue. He groans, sighing heavily. Sitting upright, he pulls the bottle out, and I’m speechless. The sharp bite of the cold against my warm flesh between my thighs has me wincing. It presses against my skin like a whisper of winter, sending a shiver through my nerves. Slowly, he works the bottle neck inside me, the instant cold drawing both pleasure and ache at the lingering discomfort. I shudder, groaning as he works the bottle as far as it will go.
‘Good girl,’ he groans. I bite my lip, trying to hold onto the next moan, but it escapes me. He growls. ‘Shussh!’ and grabs a fistful of hay, stuffing it into my mouth.
‘Are you going to be quiet now, Stella?’ he demands, a feral grin spread across his face. I nod.
The bottle slurps and sucks as it’s thrust in and out, and I’m screaming through the clump of hay. My nails dig into the ground beside me, as it’s pushed harder. Faster.
Please don’t break.
I look up, the vast canvas of midnight sprawled above me, like a velvet sea sewn with diamonds. The constellations blur from the tremble in my bones, the surrender in my blood. As I’m unraveled, undone, I let it take me, over the edge. Into him. Sal’s fingers work mercilessly at my clit until I’m begging him to stop. I tense up, the orgasm ripping through my body, and I’m left legs spread like a wet mess. He stands over me, the cap of the bottle twisting free with a quick click, and the smooth liquid gold slides past his lips in a slow burn. There’s a brief pause as I spit out the hay still stuck on my tongue as his exhale comes in deep and steady, tendrils of heat mingling with the scent of whiskey and want. He watches me. Not a word, but I feel it. Then, ‘Grab your things. We’ve got to move.’
CHAPTER 8
THE CURATOR
The smell of tarmac grew stronger as we headed towards Sal’s car. For a moment I let myself imagine it’s just another night, just another conversation. Not that my house just blew up and I got fucked by a whiskey bottle in a hay field.
‘Why do you do it?’ he asks. ‘Kill bad people.’ I can’t answer right away, but then the memories come flooding back.
Before the makeup, before the armour, before I turned my body into something untouchable – I was just a girl in a house that never felt like home. Before all of it, before me, there was him. Andhisvoice.
‘You’ll never become anything, Stella. Don’t waste time crying, it won’t change anything. Your mother is dead, and that’s that. Now, do as I say. I can make you behave, one way or another.’
I remember the sharp smell of beer on his breath, the way his words filled the small rooms of our house like thick smoke. The way the floorboards creaked when his friends came into my room.
I remember learning silence before I learnt language, knowing when to hold my breath, when to forget his friends were touching me. And I remember the worst part, the part that made me doubt myself more than bruises ever did.
I remember the way his friends looked at me.
‘She’s got such an innocent face. Sweet girl. Lucky to have a father like you,’ they’d say to my dad. They saw what they paid my father to see; a quiet, polite daughter, never talking back, never making trouble. A girl who didn’t fight. A girl who didn’t run. That’s what they called me – docile, broken, and already defeated. And my father smiled when they said it. It wasn’t pride. It was satisfaction. Ownership.
That smile stayed with me. That smile was the first one I ever took. The first sin I wore like a trophy. From that day on, black clothes weren’t fashion, they became my funeral procession, which I wore day after day, each outfit stitched with the girl I buried. My black eyeliner wasn’t just makeup – it was my war paint; my declaration to myself that I would never be that girl again. And I never was. She died the moment I learnt what survival tasted like.
I blink at Sal who’s waiting on an answer. He’s watching me carefully, like he knows there’s nothing he can say to make things better. The silence stretches between us, and he pulls me against him. ‘You know, Stella, I don’t need to know.’ His grip is firm and grounding. For a second, I don’t breathe. My pulse stutters, and my body stiffens in his hold. I expected more questions, curiosity, judgement, maybe. But instead, he says it like an answer. I stare at him, searching for cracks, for hesitation, but there aren’t any. He doesn’t need to know because he already sees me. Not the bloodstain left behind or the ghosts still grinning in the glass cases. Just me. He’s the only one who ever looked at me and saw everything – and didn’t flinch. I look at him. Really look. Sal is here to kill me. That was and more than likely still is the plan. Yet, from the moment our paths crossed, from the first time I saw the flicker in his eyes, I knew. Maybe he’s just biding his time, waiting for the right moment to end me. He’s a bad man. Or at least, he’s meant to be. I could kill him. Ishouldkill him. But I won’t, because he sees me. So if his hands were meant to end me, then I’d meet the fall with open arms and a grin – because there are worse things than dying, and the cruelest fate is dying unseen.
CHAPTER 9
THE DIPLOMAT
I really don’t know what to do with this girl. Now I understand why Mr Lewis just fucks it or fights it. It makes life much simpler. With Stella, I’m doing neither, and that needs to change. This girl has my mind in pieces, every thought splintering under her spell. If it wasn’t for our urgent need to get the hell out of here, I’d be on my knees worshipping the ground she walks on. My dick hasn’t seen pussy in years, and it hurts, and if I let it out to play I don’t think there would be much of Stella left by the time I finish with her. Until that moment happens, I’m at her whim, praying for the both of us that one, it still works, which, by the constant raging hard-ons I’ve had since I’ve been here says it does, and secondly, that it will eventually subside and Stella survives.
Jesus. What am I doing? I’m hard for a murderer, a psychopath, and a woman who mutilates bodies to fulfill some need. Yet, I want her. That much is undeniable. But wanting doesn’t mean it’s right. Every fibre of my being screams this isn’t right. Whatever this is – shouldn’t be happening. She stands against everything I believe in, everything I’ve built myself to be, and yet here I am, caught in the pull of something that defies logic, wrapped in the contradiction of craving exactly what I shouldn’t. I know she’s the tide that pulls me under, a current I cannot fight. There’s no coming up for air when I’m around her.
No escape.Maybe I just don’t want to be saved?
The night is humming with a quiet tension as we weave through the hay field. I listen beyond the rustling underfoot, the field stretching empty in every direction, but I know better than to trust the quiet. Stella grips her crate of bats as I scan the field. No figures lurking, no unnatural movements. My car is parked just ahead. ‘We need to ditch the bats,’ I say, with little room for debate. She stops mid-stride, tightening her grip on the crate. ‘Absolutely not!’ She’s not angry – just unwilling to entertain the thought. I exhale, running a hand through my hair. ‘They’re going to be a problem,’ I insist. ‘It’s not like we’re taking a dog for a walk.’
