Page 4 of Ghouls and Girth (The Knottiverse: Halloween Monsters #4)

Daisy

I’ve lost my fucking mind. I should rip the decadent smelling clothes off my body, shove my feet into my boots, and hightail it to the car as fast as possible now that I know the haven isn’t as safe as I imagined.

I don’t know what kind of monsters these two brothers—because there’s no way they aren’t blood related—are, but I do know neither of them have good intentions toward me.

The first scowls at me with his bare chest gleaming in the evening sun while the second studies me with brutal desires lurking in both sets of his eyes as he touches me under the guise of correcting my posture.

I don’t know either of their names. The first spoke with smooth elegance while the brute manhandling me grunts and gestures like a caveman.

What if they are cavemen? By the broad range of colors in their auras and the depths of ancient knowledge in their dual eyes, they’ve seen innumerable treasures and countless horrors in their lives.

They don’t look like cavemen, though. No big, flat foreheads or fat lower jaws, and the massive skeletal creatures hidden within their human forms are unlike anything I’ve seen before.

Mr. Grunty Hunk wraps his hand around my forearm and shifts my palm closer to the edge of the mat. White talons and gnarled digits trail up my arm.

Maybe they’re undead giants. His knuckles cover over three-quarters of my forearm. He’s enormous.

He’s enormous everywhere.

Nervous sweat gathers on my nape as his massive cock brushes against my side as he leans over to adjust my other arm.

That thing needs its own zip code.

A low, silent vibration rumbles deep into my marrow as hair whiter than paper curtains around my head and shoulders.

His scent breaks through the maddeningly delicious aroma wafting from Mr. Swanky Grouchypants’s clothes. In a weird twist of fate, the monster sneaking a feel of my hip and skimming his hand up my arm smells of old books and leather while his brother smells of citrus and mint.

The scents shouldn’t mix well, but I yearn to bury my face in the makers of both and drown in olfactory delight.

I clear my throat only to squeak in alarm when he snakes his thick hand between my legs, grabs my thigh, and lifts my knee off the mat, straightening my leg and extending my heel higher than my head.

With breathtaking ease, he does the same to my opposite arm, cupping my elbow and pulling my hand off the mat.

My core clenches and abs strain as I struggle to balance in his relentless grip.

His low rumble and demeaning tsk arrow straight to my womb and heart. I cease breathing when he skims his callused hand down my forearm and uncurls my fist. He caresses my fingers as though he has every right. Wickedly sharp talons skim over my delicate flesh.

I don’t stop him. I can’t. His gigantic pinky finger presses against my sex. Even with so many layers of fabric between us, he burns me alive, each stroke of my hand sending streaks of fire through my clit.

Any more of this and he’ll get a handful of my cream. I’ve never been so close to coming with another person before, and the few times I’ve masturbated were pleasant but nowhere near as intense as this.

This is wrong, but it feels oh so right.

The white hair draped over me shifts. Robes glide over my back. A cool, coarse tongue flicks over my nape. Warm fingers flex against my pussy, thigh, and hand.

The instructor leads the class to a new position. Mr. Grunty Hunk guides my body, rarely lifting his hands from me. I sink into a thick, white mental haze, keeping my orgasm at bay by sheer force of will as the sun dips toward the horizon.

When everyone stands and bows, the curious silence emanating from my friends knocks into my side, wiping away the fog.

Embarrassment sweeps through me. I scramble to my socked feet, give a hasty bow, and reach for the top button on the borrowed suit coat.

My hard nipples chafe against my bra and mortifying wetness makes my panties cling to my sex.

Massive hands brush my shaking fingers aside and undo the buttons with annoying ease.

The displeasure in Trista’s eyes as she glances away from me curdles my stomach.

She told us at the start of the semester that her goal for the year was to bang as many hot dudes as possible. The monsters disguised as men are definitely attractive, but neither of us should bang them.

I have one rule: avoid all paranormal creatures. It’s the only thing that’s kept me alive since my accident. Even in bribing the boggarts under my bed, I avoided direct interaction with them.

What the hell am I doing? This is too dangerous, and my roommates are my first friends in a decade. I can’t let something like this break us apart.

Urgency pulses through me. I need to retreat. Now.

All of us need to leave before we’re caught in the mausoleum owners’ trap.

I reach under the coat and pick at the knotted sleeves of the undershirt, but whatever voodoo magic he used to secure them won’t let go.

He parts the lapels of the coat. Chilly air washes over my chest. Hot hands span around my ribs, cupping the undersides of my breasts within the hidden confines of the fabric.

My lungs seize at the enormity of his palms. He could crush me without batting an eye.

He trails his hands down my torso and squeezes my hips before untying his brother’s undershirt sleeves.

With sensual threats shining from his eyes, he unthreads the fabric from my waist and reaches around me to pull the suit coat off my shoulders by the nape.

Too overwhelmed to handle more, I drop to my ass, tug my boots onto my feet, untie my hair, and fluff it around my shoulders before standing and rolling my mat.

Mr. Grunty Hunk doesn’t take the hint and leave. He stays standing a few steps away with his arms crossed over his chest and both sets of eyes glued to my every move.

I clear my throat, tuck my mat under my arm, and glance around, still not ready to face the behemoth after his very public display of affection, although I’m not sure affection is the right word. I feel marked. Like he drew a big target on my back while staking his claim.

If I didn’t want him so much, I might stay and try to figure out who he is and what he wants, but it’s too dangerous. I can’t let him steal the independence I fought so hard to earn.

Most of the class forms a group and saunters down the sidewalk toward the front gates to catch the bus together. Several others head to their cars in the parking lot. Only two meander into the cemetery.

Was Mr. Swanky Grouchypants telling the truth? Are they closing now that yoga is over?

Acute disappointment spears through me, even though I just told myself we need to leave.

I study the darkening cemetery but find no sign of a bare-chested giant of a man with a skeletal being towering above him.

The unhappiness in Trista’s eyes makes sense. She must have turned her attention from one brother to the next when Mr. Swanky Grouchypants left.

Awareness pulses through me as Mr. Grunty Hunk devours me with his eyes.

This must be a warning, right? He wants me to leave, so he singled me out and embarrassed me in front of my friends.

Deciding to rip off the bandage, I lift my face toward his but avoid his eyes. After a quick and final thanks, I turn and hook my arm through Gabby’s.

“Class is over. Let’s go,” I say.

Bianca scoffs, shakes her head, and nudges me with her elbow.

“Are you really going to leave him high and dry? Bitch, his blue balls are visible from space,” she murmurs next to my ear.

I roll my eyes, ignoring the heat rising in my face, and thread my arm in hers.

“Yes. Time to go,” I insist.

Gabby digs her heels into the grass.

“Wait, you said we’d be safe here,” she balks.

Trista bites her lip, pulls her hair over her shoulder, and skirts around us with her eyes fastened on the door of the mausoleum.

My heart sinks into my toes. I don’t need to look. I know what’s in the doorway. The heat of Mr. Swanky Grouchypants’s glare prickles against my skin.

“I lied,” I say as chills run down my spine.

My heart races like a rabbit caught in a snare.

“We need to leave. Now,” I hiss.

“But—”

“Now,” I demand as I pull them toward the vehicle. Mr. Grunty Hunk cocks his head and lifts a derisive brow as I haul my friends around him as far as the reflection pool and benches will allow.

“You’re scaring me,” Gabby whimpers.

“Sorry, but something’s off. We need to get Trista and—”

“Where are you going, little sis?”

My stepbrother, Bryce, steps into my path. I huff and shift course, but he sidesteps and crosses his arms over his chest. Compared to the goliath still watching from the lawn, his attempt to intimidate me is totally unimpressive.

“We’re going back to the dorms for a girls’ night in. Go away,” I snap.

“Wait, I really need to pee,” Bianca says.

I shake my head and tug my ladies forward.

“We’ll find a place nearby. Let’s—”

“Daisy! Get in the truck,” my stepfather calls from the corner of the parking lot.

The sight of his hairy forearm resting on his opened window curdles my stomach as fear tightens my chest.

The furious line of his mouth and the barely leashed violence in his voice promises pain. Ice infects my veins when I realize he’s glaring at Mr. Grunty Hunk.

He saw. My mother, stepfather, and stepbrother sat in the truck and watched as I melted in the hands of a stranger.

Fuck.

I cannot get in the vehicle with them, no matter what.

“Ow, Daisy, that hurts,” Gabby says.

She pats the back of my hand. I loosen my grip on her forearm.

“Sorry,” I manage before using the first excuse I can. “I need to pee, too, so let’s go find a bathroom before we leave.”

Gabby and Bianca happily turn toward the gift shop with me between them.

Bryce grabs my shoulder and yanks me backward so hard I almost lose my footing. I release my friends and turn swinging.

My palm cracks against his cheek so hard his head whips to the side. Pain lances up my arm, but it’s totally worth it to see the shock and humiliation on his face.

“I told you not to touch me. Fuck off, perv,” I snarl before spinning on my heel, grabbing my friends, and hightailing it across the road.

With the gift shop lights off and the door shut, I veer toward the mausoleum instead.

Trista sidles closer to a newly shirted Mr. Swanky Grumpypants, and a fissure of jealousy works its way through my heart as I imagine her savoring his mint and citrus scent.

I shove the ridiculous emotion away and force my legs to continue a steady pace.

Just as we step onto the curb on the far side of the road, Bianca breaks my friends’ stunned silence.

“Bitch, that was amazing,” she exclaims.

My steps falter.

“What?” I ask, certain I misheard her.

“Your aim was beautiful. Can I hire you to slap my cheating ex like that? Holy fuck, it was a thing of beauty,” she gushes.

I plant my boots on the pavers and study her expression.

She means every word.

“You’re not going to ask what happened?” I ask.

Gabby squeezes my elbow as she answers, “A slap like that doesn’t need words, hun. You explained everything with how hard you hit him. Obviously you don’t need our help, but we’ll make sure you ride with us back to the dorm.”

Tears clog my throat.

I don’t deserve these ladies, but there’s no way in hell I’ll push them away.

Trista’s flirtatious giggle is like nails on a chalkboard in my ears, but she’s part of the crew, too.

Assuming the sound of my slap didn’t carry far enough for her to hear, I swing my gaze toward her and nearly melt into the sidewalk from the intensity of Mr. Swank Grouchypant’s double stare.

His brother’s ghastly white frame lurks in the shadows of the gift shop, but even without the massive skeletal form announcing his presence, I’d know he was there. The warm scent of leather and old books teases my nostrils as his stare burrows under my defenses.

The logical side of me demands I flee, but my boots start forward. Part of me wants to learn the hard way this time.

It may end in my death, but I bet the experience will be hella fun.

I peel my attention off Mr. Grunty Hunk and fix my stare on Trista.

My curiosity can drown in the reflection pool. Saving my friends and escaping back to our dorm before the witching hour begins is my only priority.

But as we near the mausoleum doors, citrus and mint join the scent of leather and books to create a thrilling, heady perfume. My nerve endings spark to life and fresh wetness soaks my panties.

Whatever these monsters are, they’ve already snuck past my defenses and made me yearn for them. Even if I leave, I won’t be rid of them. They’ll plague my thoughts and haunt my nightmares until I return.

I should hate it, but I don’t. I fear them, but I can’t force my feet to turn around.

They’re too big. Too strong. Too potent.

I’m so fucked.