Page 138 of Dance With A Devil

I don’t even care. Rip every stitch off my body and leave me for the wolves, as long as it’s one ofthemdoing the devouring.

My feet slap the forest floor, mud cooling the fire that churns low in my belly. It’s not just sex I want anymore. It’s not even dominance. It’s the obsession. The feeling of beingclaimed. Held. Tamed and unraveled all at once.

I’ve been used. Fucked. Bitten. Owned.

And I still want more.

I’ve never needed anything the way I need them,all of them. My body’s become something unrecognizable, something addicted. Every nerve ending pulses with the echo of their hands. Their teeth. Their masked fucking stares.

I slow when I reach the base of an enormous oak. Its roots twist like skeletal fingers rising from the underworld. It looks like something ancient. Powerful. Like it’s seen sinners crawl through these woods and never return.

Good.

I move toward it, drawn in by some force that doesn’t feel entirely human. I perch on one of its fallen limbs, legs spread and chest heaving. Naked. Wet. Bleeding from places that should be hidden.

But I don’t hide anymore.

I belong to the night.

I don’t know how long I sit there, long enough to breathe, to plot my next escape. Long enough for the voice inside to start again.

You don’t want to leave. You want the next Devil to find you. To ruin you.

“I’m not a slut,” I whisper to no one.

A voice cuts through the night like a knife.

“You’re not?”

My spine snaps straight. “Who’s there?”

A soft chuckle slithers through the trees.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared now. We haven’t even started playing.”

I jump to my feet, heart thundering. The air thickens, wraps around my throat like a hand.

“Come out,” I say, braver than I feel. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“Cocky little slut,” the voice drawls. It’s dark. Filthy. Delighted. “Alright then. Lettuce play.”

“…Did you just saylettuce?”

I break into laughter, clutching my ribs.

“I say dumb shit like that all the time,” he purrs.

Movement.

A figure emerges, dressed in black, a Guy Fawkes mask catching the moonlight. In his hand, a gleaming knife.

“I love the chase,” he growls. “Run, so I can claim my prize.”

That’s all I need to hear.

I bolt.

The forest is alive with breath and shadows. Branches claw at my skin, thorns scratch my thighs, and the sound of heavy boots follows me, closer, closer.