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I massaged shampoo into her hair, nails scritching gently at her scalp until she sighed, tension melting from her body. As I rinsed the suds away, she swayed against me, soft and pliant. I continued, determined to soothe every ache, erase every hurt I had inflicted.
When at last she was cleansed, body and soul, I swathed her in a plush towel and carried her to bed. Laying her down, I dried every inch of her – the graceful arch of her feet, the fragile skin behind her knees, the secret places that brought her such dark pleasure. My lips followed in the path of the towel, bestowing absolution. I retrieved a soft nightgown and slipped it over her head, before gathering every coil of her hair into a matching satin bonnet. She gazed up at me, vulnerability shining in her eyes. I tucked the blankets around her and then slid in beside her, pulling her close against my chest.
"Shh, I've got you now," I soothed as she nestled into me. Her body relaxed, trusting me to provide comfort after our intense scene.
We stayed that way for some time, my arms encircling her in a protective embrace. I relished these quiet moments together, my raging hunger calmed to a low simmer. With her, I could almost forget the monster that lurked within. Almost believe I was just a man falling for a girl.
But the sinister truth coiled in the pit of my stomach, never fully fading.
I was not a man. And she was not safe with me.
Chapter 32
Celeste
Ijolted awake, the bed sheets twisted around me like a goddamn straight jacket. My pulse hammered against my temples as I tried to blink away the cobwebs of sleep that clung to my consciousness. The room was blanketed in darkness, save for the moonlight sneaking through the gaps in the curtains, casting long, ominous shadows across the ornate walls of Nash's Italian mansion—a prison dressed in velvet and gold.
"Shit," I muttered, my breath hitching as I realized what had woken me from my restless slumber. There, in the corner of the luxurious bedroom-turned-studio stood an easel, mocking me with its silent presence. My hands were stained with colors, evidence of a nighttime escapade my conscious mind had no memory of. It was like being a freaking somnambulist artist, except this wasn't some cute quirk—it was a haunting echo of the past I'd tried so damn hard to bury.
Sleep-painting? Seriously? I scolded myself, feeling a bitter laugh bubble up my throat, only to die before it could escape. This little nocturnal hobby hadn’t made an unwanted appearance since the night before my parents' car became their metal coffin. A shiver coursed through me at the memory. I had painted their fate in stark reds and blacks—the premonition nobody took seriously until the headlights and screams became reality.
"Get a grip," I whispered, shaking my head in a vain attempt to dislodge the memories. But even as I tried to shove them back into the darkest corners of my mind, I couldn't help but edge closer to the canvas, dread coiling tightly within me.
My gaze found the painting, and my heart plummeted into my stomach. It was me—or rather, a grotesque mockery of me—pale and lifeless, with Nash looming over my figure. His teeth—sharp, unforgiving fangs—were buried deep in my neck, drawing rivulets of crimson that spilled down the canvas like a waterfall of blood.
I cursed under my breath, my entire body going cold. The artwork was more than just disturbing; it was a chilling omen, a mirror reflecting the dark soul of the man who haunted both my waking hours and my dreams. Nash—with his brooding eyes and sick sense of justice—had become my captor, my stalker, a beautiful nightmare that I couldn't wake from.
The tremor in my hands wasn't just from fear, it was from the sick realization that this painting was more than a subconscious spew of paint. It was a connection, a twisted bond between prey and predator—between me and Nash. And if history was doomed to repeat itself, then this image was more than art; it was a goddamn prophecy.
My thoughts spun wild as I stared at the scene I'd unwittingly created, trapped in the lair of a monster who claimed to be a protector. There was nowhere to run—not when every instinct screamed that the true threat was far closer than I could ever have imagined.
The ghostly hum slithered into my ears, a siren's call that beckoned me away from the grotesque canvas. It was the same eerie melody that had fluttered through the halls before, wrapping its spectral fingers around my spine. I couldn't shake the feeling it was significant—like a breadcrumb trail left by a phantom with a twisted sense of humor.
"Because following creepy-ass music always ends well in horror movies," I muttered to myself, my voice laced with sarcasm. But curiosity was a persistent bitch, and I found myself tiptoeing through the corridor, half-expecting a jump scare at every shadow that danced along the ancient walls.
My heart hammered as I trailed the haunting tune, each step a silent plea for my brain to wake the fuck up and book it back to bed. But no, Celeste Holloway had never been one to make the smart choices. I pressed on, drawn like a moth to some otherworldly flame.
Then I saw her—the apparition, all floaty and ethereal, like she'd stepped out of a goddamn Renaissance painting. She drifted with purpose, and I followed, because apparently, I'd signed up for the guided ghost tour of Nash's freaky mansion.
"Lead the way, Casperina," I whispered, my snark a flimsy shield against the chill that crept up my neck.
I made my way back down the secret passageway to the forbidden room, praying to any God that would listen that Nash wasn’t waiting there for me.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the weight of untold stories. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with objects that reeked of dark magic and darker pasts. And among them, there it was—the dagger. Its hilt was a twisted masterpiece, wrought iron contorted into a dance with danger.
"Hello, gorgeous. What kind of fucked-up history are you hiding?" I reached out, compelled by a force beyond reason, and the moment my skin made contact with the metal once again, power surged through me. It was primal, raw—terrifying and fucking exhilarating all at once.
"Shit." The word escaped in a reverent whisper. The blade felt alive, vibrating with an energy that whispered of blood and moonlight, secrets and sins. "What the hell are you?"
I clutched the dagger to my chest, feeling its power seep into me like ink on parchment, writing a story I wasn't sure I wanted to read. Fear clawed at my gut, but there was something else too—a fierce, burning curiosity that refused to be extinguished.
The dagger's chill seeped through my skin, a cold whisper promising a deluge of unwanted truths. My fingers clenched around it, the metal almost pulsing with a heartbeat that wasn't mine. Then it hit—a vision slamming into me like a freight train. Nash, his face a mask of predatory grace, plunging the very dagger in my grasp into a woman's chest.
"Fuck," I hissed as the phantom pain lanced through me, my hand gripping the blade so hard my knuckles turned white.
The scene shifted, morphed into something even more fucked up. There he was, Nash, lips pressed to the wound in her neck, drinking deeply. The blood—scarlet and damning—was a stark contrast to his pale skin. This was no metaphorical monster; this was literal. The motherfucker was a vampire.
"Of course he is," I muttered, a hysterical laugh bubbling up from the pit of my stomach. "Because why the hell not?"
