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Actually, it was mostly Abigail.
I believe her now.
All those times she told me she wasn’t looking for me to change, to be a good man for her. With every day that passes, I feel asthough she bends more toward my morality than I do toward hers.
She might be the most innocent of us, but she has no issues walking hand in hand with the devil. A side of her the others are quickly becoming more familiar with as she continues to embrace the depraved things the world has to offer.
A side of her I’m fucking feral for.
“You’ve been glued to that phone all morning, kitten.”
“The gallery in The Village wants more paintings,” she excitedly responds. “They can’t seem to keep them on the walls.”
“Speaking of which. If you ever get off that phone, I have something in the other room for you.”
She follows eagerly behind me and gasps at the painting hanging on the wall in her conservatory.
“You didn’t!” she squeals. “How? When?”
“I did,” I mock her. “I’ve been fighting with Nikolai over the price since the night I realized how much you loved it, how badly you wanted it. Based on how steadfast he was, I’m quite certain he knew as well. We finally agreed the other night, and I had it picked up this morning.”
“Are you getting all romantic and sentimental on me?” She turns to face me, and I’m met with a sheepish smirk.
“Not in the slightest, kitten.” I bend down to grip her thighs and pull them around my waist. Her short skirt rides over herass as I drive her into the wall beside the painting. Two fucking masterpieces side by side.
Fumbling beneath her to free my cock, I drive it into her. I fuck her hard, sliding her back against the wall with each thrust. The opportunity to savor her can happen later. Now, I want to hear her scream as she comes around my cock.
The best fucking thank you she can give me.
Both of us spent, we crumple to a heap together on the floor with my cock still buried inside her.
The doorbell rings interrupting our moment of bliss.
“I’ll get it.” Abigail climbs from my lap and shimmies her skirt back down her thighs.
It rings again. Someone is incessantly pressing the button outside.
“I’m coming,” Abigail shouts from the foyer as I finish tucking myself into my pants to follow after her.
“Grant!” Abigail’s voice sounds frightened.
Stepping into the foyer, I see Samuel. His clothes are soaked in blood—too much to be his own—and splatters speckle his skin. Except for his hands, which are stained as red as his clothes.
His eyes meet mine and he says, “I fucked up…”
