Page 8 of His to Ruin

Looking down at his sleeping form, I do what any other sane boyfriend would do, and I reach into his dream. He can’t escape me here. I can manipulate just about every part of his mind when I am inside of him. It’s fascinating how the human mind works. So pliable. So fragile.

When I call him a little nightmare, I mean it. His presence is the literal bane of my soul—or the lack thereof. He moved into this apartment six months ago and I willingly followed him here, hiding under his bed night after night. For whateverdamned reason, I can’t seem to exercise him out of my life. He’s devastatingly beautiful, smart, and kind. All the things I am not. I am a demon, a monster of the night. The one who will revel in your misery for the rest of your days.

So I call him my Little Nightmare to show him and myself that sometimes we long for our worst fears, even if we know they will eventually swallow us whole.

Slinking further into his unconscious, I find myself back in the woods we just left. Well that’s interesting. Clearly my Little Nightmare enjoyed what happened back there if he’s already dreaming about it. Carefully picking my way over rocks and uneven terrain, I flick my forked tongue from my mouth, scenting the air for the stench of my prey.

A noise off to my left pricks my ear and I silently saunter that direction, my shadows slithering along the ground around me. Movement catches my eye up ahead between two trees. Blonde hair and pale flesh dart through the woods.

My Little Nightmare.

On nimble demon feet I chase after him. He can run from me all he wants, but I will always find him. He is mine. He comes to a jerked halt next to a scraggly looking pine. The muscles of his shoulders ride up as he senses me.

“Hello again, my Little Nightmare,” I coo as I approach his frozen form.

He spins, his body turning to face me. His eyes widen in horror as he takes in my true demon form. I didn’t bother to glamour myself here, no need to hide my true monster when in a nightmare. His breathing becomes erratic as he takes me in. The scent of his fear permeates the air, making my cock throb with need.

“You’re not real.” Christian panics, stumbling back until his back hits a large tree. His nails scrape at the bark. He knows this is a dream. But he needs to know that I am very much real.I step closer, watching him cower as I brace one of my hands beside his head. Leaning in, I drink in his scent, awakening every part of me.

I cup his chin, forcing him to meet my gaze. My forked tongue reaches out and licks my bottom lip. His Adam's apple bobs in delight. Does he wonder what this tongue can do for him? Wait till he finds out how long I can make it. The delicious thought makes my dick hardened even further.

“Not real?” I chuckle, a growl low in my gut. “Tell me, Little Nightmare. Was my cock not real when you swallowed me down like you were starving?”

“What are you?” he whispers, completely ignoring my question but I see the way his cheeks flush in the most delectable way.

“Think about it, you’re a smart cookie.” I trace a clawed finger along his jaw, watching as his skin turns a pretty shade of pink with the line I dug in.

Christian’s breath is erratic, a shallow stutter that betrays him.

I could name every emotion flickering through those pretty, terrified blue eyes—disbelief, fear, need. Oh, there it is. That shameful little ember of want he tries so hard to ignore.

Pathetic. Beautiful. Mine.

“You can’t be real,” he says again, a little more forcefully, though the tremor in his voice betrays him. “Monsters don’t exist.”

I smile, slow and indulgent. “And yet, here we are, Little Nightmare.”

He flinches when I drag my knuckles along his cheek, a featherlight touch as if savoring something fragile.

The spice of his scent lingers on his breath. It’s soothing in a way it shouldn’t be—I don’t want him soothed. I want him wrecked. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

I hum, pressing closer. “But I am.”

Christian’s fingers flex against the bark, the last desperate act of a trapped creature, but we both know the truth. He’s not running. He doesn’t want to. He can feel it now, can’t he? That undeniable force pulling us together, the inevitability of me pressing into every part of his life and every hidden place in his mind. He’s already mine in ways he refuses to name.

He shudders when I trail my lips along the edge of his jaw, just below his ear.

I smile against his skin. “You figure out what I am?”

He swallows, voice barely above a whisper. “Demon.”

I nip at his earlobe, just enough for him to feel it, to remind him that this body—this temple of flesh and devotion—is something I will take my time ruining.

“Good boy. I’myourdemon. The monster underyourbed, to be precise.”

Christian jolts, a choked sound slipping past his lips before he bites it down. He hates how his body betrays him. I love it.

“You’re mine, Christian.”