I’m racing across Chastain Castle before I can think better of it, dressed in nothing but a pair of navy-blue basketball shorts. The wood flooring mutes my bare feet, and as I approach the door to the west tower, the air begins to rise to the excessive temperature of my bedroom.
I’m starting to realize that anywhere this monster goes, the world around it tends to react. It tends to heat.
I stare at the dark, wooden door.
I know what must be going on up the stairs on the other side of this door, and I know that there’s no use attempting to get help. Just as he did before, Atticus would send me away. And Abraham? Theodora? There is every possibility they will fire me on the spot for invading private business.
I should go upstairs. I should break down this door, run up the steps, and shove that thing off of Atlas right this second.
But I’m fuckingterrified. And he likes it, doesn’t he?
I sink to my knees, my forehead resting against the heated wood. Is it possible that he could be brainwashed by this monster? Possessed, even?
And if so, does that change the result of my decision? Am I willing to go up these stairs if the outcome includes dying? My hands shake where they rest in my lap, and I believe I know the answer.
No. I don’t want to die.
A bang resonates throughout the hallway, and I once again know for certain what is happening up those stairs.
“Ugh.”
It comes quickly this time, the sound of Atlas’s voice. Not that I have much of a reference point. But I close my eyes and listen, feeling the guilt and shame as it claws at my throat.
But the fear of being ripped apart by that thing outweighs my jealousy, and Atlas told me himself he likes what it is doing to him.
So, I listen. For a long while, I listen as he moans and whimpers—the headboard slamming against the wall above me as that thing takes him over and over again.
Atlas
15
THE WOODEN FRAME THATholds my mattress squeaks loudly, and I can feel nothing but the drool that’s leaking from my open mouth and each harsh punch of the incubus’s hips.
The scent of sweat and something close to burning wood lingers in the air, and I choke on it—on a drawn-out moan that is ripped from my throat as it slams into my prostate again andagain.
Such a sick, lovely pleasure. This is the first time it has come to me since I thought I was cured, and the relief and shame that are mingling beneath the intense zaps of heat coursing through me are a stark reminder that I’m just as bad as this demon.
Just as condemned.
Yet I want it—I want to come, to feel that release. If I could feel it this powerfully from anything else, if my own hand would offer me any relief, maybe then I wouldn’t crave the skin of a monster. But everything else pales in comparison, and I’m far too self-aware to ask a real man to touch me.
I’ve already seen how areal manreacts to my desires. Disgust, resentment, regretful rejection—as if it hurts him just as much as it hurts me to send me away.
Julian… fuck. I like him—unreasonably and desperately, I want his affection and his sweetness, not just his body.
I will never have either.
A startled sob leaves me, and the demon hovering over me growls, low and possessive. I wish I could open my eyes; I wish I could truly see it.
Atticus explained it as a demon sent from hell and would not describe it any further. Julian said it had black eyes and sharp teeth. I can feel the cool, clammy skin and sharp nails. But that is all I have to go off of—if I saw it in its entirety, would that make me less desperate to feel it claiming me so violently?
My dick pulses as sharp teeth nip at my pebbled nipples, my lips trembling as I take what I’m given. Will I feel less guilty if I imagine it’s Julian over me, rather than this demon? Or will I feel worse?
I have no time to contemplate the semantics, as a second later, large hands are engulfing my hips and lifting my lower body from the mattress, causing the ridged, thick length of the incubus to plunge into me deeper, at a better angle.
It pulls me to meet its every thrust, shoving into my hole with zero remorse. I’m stretching and reforming to the size, the girth, the sheer weight of it inside of me.
I choke out another groan, my limp hands twitching with the urge to grabanything, to ground myself.
