Page 32

THIRTY-TWO

AMETHYST

In an instant, my mind goes from half asleep to blind panic. Flinching, I sway on the chair, only for it to groan beneath my feet. I tip forward, but get pulled back by the rope around my neck.

Not a rope.

A noose.

Cold panic rushes through my veins, turning my skin to ice. Every pulse point in my body pounds, leaving me feeling like a raw nerve. Sensation floods my clit, even though not a single part of me finds this situation erotic.

One false move and the chair beneath my feet will topple over, leaving me hanging. I could choke or worse, break my neck.

Cool air swirls around my skin, making my nipples tighten. The figure shifts in the shadows, seeming intrigued.

Shit.

Has he stripped me naked?

“Xero?” I whisper.

He inclines his head.

I blink over and over, trying to force my vision to adjust to the lack of light. My eyes are still sluggish, not yet caught up with my mind’s state of alarm. The chair beneath my feet creaks again, threatening to collapse with the barest movement. Tightening my leg muscles, I force my body to stay steady.

“Why are you doing this? Because of the wedding?”

Silence stretches out for several frantic heartbeats. Tension mounts until every fine hair on my body quivers, urging me to do something—anything—to break free. I reach behind my head and examine the contours of the knot. It consists of loops and coils woven too tightly for my fingers to unravel.

The rope extends to a sturdy-looking light fixture that glints in the moonlight. It looks like my only way out of this mess is to convince Xero to cut me loose or to pull down the ceiling.

“You were tempted,” he says in a voice so hoarse and deep that I barely recognize it as Xero’s.

My breath quickens. “Tempted by what?”

He doesn’t answer, and my mind scrambles to fill the gap. This can’t be about Gavin. I refused his advances point blank. The only man hot enough to tempt me is the priest staying with Mrs. Baker, but our conversation was brief.

“Disappointing,” he says.

My stomach flip flops. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then let me refresh your memory.”

Something rumbles between my legs, teasing my swollen clit. Jolts of pleasure shoot through my core, causing me to shiver. I jerk and teeter forward, nearly losing my footing. With a gasp, I splay out my arms for balance.

“What the hell?” I yell.

“Silence,” he snaps. “Unless you want me to punish Relaney and Ezekiel.”

My breath catches. Why didn’t he mention Chappy? Whatever’s lodged in my pussy continues to torment my aching clit and throw my mind off balance. How the hell did I sleep through its insertion? How didn’t I wake up while being hung from the ceiling?

None of that matters if I fail to counter his accusation. I try to clear my thoughts. Why would he think I was tempted by Chappy?

I force my mind back to the events of yesterday and last night. There was another seance, but the details are fuzzy. I asked about my manuscript, but I can’t recall what he said.

“Xero,” I whisper. “I don’t remember. The medication made me forget?—”

“I told you to stop taking those drugs,” he snaps.

“You don’t understand,” I sob. “I keep seeing things. I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

He tilts his head again.

I gulp. “One time, a dead body fell out of my closet. Then it reappeared in my car. I get strange texts, letters, and photos. Things keep appearing and disappearing. Like that envelope full of fingers. Then there’s you.”

“What about me?” he asks.

“You’re everywhere. In my thoughts, in my dreams. Sometimes, I look out of the window, and you’re staring back. Other times, I wake up at night and you’re torturing me to insanity.”

He drifts closer. “Tell me about this torture.”

“I don’t know if it’s real.”

“Talk.”

I gulp. This is insane. I shouldn’t negotiate with sexual terrorists, but I’m the one standing on a chair with a noose around my neck. Xero’s pale eyes shine through the dark, gleaming with an intensity that demands answers.

“There was this one time, you were standing between my legs and rubbing my clit, telling me I couldn’t come unless I begged. When I did what you asked, you knocked me unconscious.”

“Did you come?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” I cry, every molecule of pent-up sexual frustration twisting into anguish. “Every morning, I wake up feeling horny and desperate.”

He nods. “I see.”

“What?” My voice cracks.

“The reason why you were so tempted.”

My mind races faster than the high-speed train, trying to decipher what he’s left unsaid between the tracks, but the toy vibrating against my clit derails my thoughts. My knees tremble with a fresh burst of sensation, forcing me to bite down on my bottom lip to stifle a whimper .

This is beyond sexual torture. This is psychological warfare. My body convulses, rocking the chair beneath my feet.

“Xero, I don’t remember. What are you talking about?”

“Last night, that bearded bastard carried you to bed and offered to lick your pussy. You were about to say yes.”

My eyes widen. “That didn’t happen.”

The buzzing between my legs intensifies, making them buckle. I drop a few inches, only for the noose around my neck to tighten. I’m going to die. Die with a toy in my pussy. Die with rigor mortis of the clit. Die in a perpetual state of arousal and become a horny ghost.

I can’t think of anything more humiliating.

“What did I tell you about lying?” he growls.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just don’t remember?—”

“Because that medication screws with your memory.” He punctuates that sentence with a press of the toy’s remote, cranking its intensity to eleven.

My eyes roll to the back of my head, and I moan. I’m so close. Just a few more seconds. My hips jerk, chasing an orgasm that feels tantalizingly within reach. Just as the first wave of ecstasy draws close, Xero lowers the toy’s intensity.

“No!” I cry. “I mean yes.”

“Next time you allow a man to touch you, not only will he die, but you will be punished.”

“But I didn’t?—”

“Do. Not. Lie. To. Me,” he snarls.

I flinch, and my weight shifts onto my heels, only for the chair I’m standing on to rock backward, threatening to leave me hanging. Terror grips my throat, and my stomach plummets to my feet. This insane, sadistic specter would probably enjoy watching me hang.

“Will you be a good girl for me, or will I have to drill that message into you with pain?”

“I-I’ll be good.”

He nods, seeming convinced of my sincerity. That or the confidence that he has my life dangling by a noose.

“Stop talking to the police.”

“Why?” I clap a hand over my mouth. A woman at the mercy of a spectral psychopath is in no position to demand answers. “A-Alright, I won’t talk to them.”

“No more séances.”

“Fine.”

“No more overnight stays.”

“Okay.”

He steps back, seeming to meld into the shadows. His eyes are pale but not glowing, as though stringing me up has dimmed his power. I make a mental note that ghosts are capable of exhaustion. If I’m going to exorcize him, then I’ll need him to exert himself and become weak.

“I’ve agreed to everything you asked,” I say. “Now, will you release the noose?”

“Free yourself.”

“How?”

“Jump.”

My stomach plummets to the creaky floorboards. “You want me to die?”

He doesn’t answer. Relaney once told me that spirits are cryptic. This one doesn’t just want me frustrated, isolated, and defeated, but deceased. He’s determined to torture me until my mind shatters, or I do something to put an end to my torment.

Another realization hits me like a slap. Xero doesn’t want me taking my medication because he wants me to hallucinate. I now understand why his eyes no longer glow. The drugs might not work one hundred percent, but they make it easier for me to distinguish what’s real and what’s in my head… And what belongs to another realm.

Maybe Relaney and the others are right and I really am clairvoyant, and Xero doesn’t want medication to suppress my abilities. He needs me to be able to see him because he draws power from my fear.

Well, fuck this vengeful ghost.

I’ll agree to everything he wants, play along with his sick game, and do whatever I can to escape this mess. After he’s cut me down, I’ll continue taking my meds until he’s nothing but a figment .

“Xero, is there something else I can do besides jumping?” I ask.

“Come for me,” he rasps.

I reach down, my fingers skimming the lace of my panties.

“No hands. Touch your tits,” he says.

My jaw clenches. If this perverted poltergeist wants a show, I’ll give him something to make him wish he was still alive. I cup my breasts, making sure to rub slow circles over them, exactly the way Xero used to instruct me during phone sex.

“Good girl,” he croons.

The praise goes straight to my traitorous clit, which aches and swells. I roll my hips, trying to get a little more friction against whatever he’s shoved into my panties, and finally start feeling good.

My eyes flutter closed, and I breathe through parted lips, trying to shut out the voyeuristic vestige and focus on the sensations.

“Eyes on me,” he rasps.

Ignoring his demand, I roll my nipples between my fingers.

“Look at me when I’m haunting you,” he snarls.

Death has brought out an unpleasant aspect of Xero’s personality. He never used to be this much of an asshole when he was alive. At least not to me. Forget what I said about playing along. He can get fucked. I won’t let him ruin another of my orgasms.

The buzzing between my legs stops, and I crack open an eye.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Obey me or the pleasure will stop.”

“Fine,” I snap, opening both eyes.

Outside, clouds drift over the moon, encasing the room in complete darkness. Xero’s eyes are no longer visible, and all I can see is a vague outline of his cloak.

“I have a question.” When he doesn’t answer, I continue. “Why do you come to me as the Grim Reaper?”

“You know the answer.”

“Because you’re a killer?”

“Precisely.”

The buzzing restarts, making me groan. Shockwaves of pleasure course through my core. My clit swells and throbs, feeling like it’s doubled in size. Rolling my hips, I let out a throaty moan and lose myself in the sensations.

“Pinch your nipples,” he says.

“Like this?” I close my fingers around my tem and pull.

“Harder,” he growls.

I pinch so hard that pain shoots down to my clit, and tears gather in the corners of my eyes. The muscles of my pussy tighten around an object the girth of my finger, making me realize there isn’t just a toy in my panties but within my walls.

The vibrations press against a spot inside my core that sets off an explosion of sensations. I release my nipples with a gasp. This is even hotter than our morning phone calls.

“That’s my girl,” he rumbles. “Now, slap them.”

“Slap what?”

“Your tits.”

“Why?” I screech.

“Obey me,” he roars, making all the fine hairs on the back of my neck want to uproot themselves and fly out of the window.

What the fuck am I doing? Xero isn’t just a dead killer. He’s the ghost who murdered Kayla and then cut off Gavin’s fingers. Why the hell would I antagonize him when he has me one broken chair leg away from death?

“Sorry. Sorry.” I slap my breast, making it jiggle.

“Harder,” he rasps, his voice breathy.

I slap the other.

“More.”

Burning heat spreads across my skin, igniting every nerve with humiliation. My face heats at with embarrassment, and tears stream down my cheeks as I’m forced to attack my breasts.

He never made me hurt myself during our morning phone sex, yet I’m compelled to obey. My fingers tremble with a cocktail of unwanted emotions: fear, excitement, arousal, and shame. I should plead for mercy, yet I can’t stop. I deliver another stinging slap, with a burst of pain that my brain morphs into pleasure.

The toy in my pussy buzzes and thrums, delivering pulses of ecstasy. I grind my hips, desperate for more friction, chasing that elusive climax.

“You like that, little ghost?” he asks .

“It’s not me who’s dead,” I reply from between clenched teeth.

“How do you know for sure?”

“Because—” I hesitate, my hands falling to my sides. “Stop messing with my head!”

Xero chuckles. “Because you feel pain?”

“Maybe?”

“Nothing hurts more than spending months opening up to a woman, making her the focus of my entire existence, only to discover the relationship was a sham.”

“It wasn’t?—”

“Your rival fangirl, Lizzie Bath, estimates that the creator fund paid you over two-hundred thousand dollars.”

My stomach lurches. “No?—”

“And the book deal you’re negotiating could earn you millions. You monetized our relationship.”

The noose tightens around my throat, cutting off my air. If anyone is monetizing anything, it’s Lizzie Bath. All that stupid bitch does is cosplay me, replaying my videos and adding her own bland commentary.

Now, she’s picking numbers out of her ass about how much I supposedly earned. Her videos are still online, while mine are banned. She’s the one making the fortune, not me.

I want to say all this, but the noose cuts off my air. My lungs spasm, desperate for oxygen. Transparent spots dance before my eyes, and I see the beginnings of a constellation of stars.

“Oh, God,” I moan.

“That’s right,” he growls. “I am your vengeful god, and I will feast on your agony.”

“Please!”

“You’re not slapping those tits.”

My arms flail, trying to obey this spiteful psychopath, but also fighting to keep myself upright. I slap my breast, imagining it’s his face.

The buzzing between my legs gets stronger, setting every nerve alight. I lose my balance all over again and sob.

“Come for your god, little ghost,” he rumbles.

“I can’t. ”

“Now!”

My entire world condenses into the sensations building up between my thighs. The toy throbs mercilessly at my clit, while the projection inside my pussy grazes my G-spot over and over until the edges of my vision darken.

I slap my breast again, wincing at the sharp pain, only to gasp when it morphs into a pleasure that pushes me toward the precipice.

For a few tense heartbeats, my muscles seize and my entire body teeters over the edge, then the rope tugs at my neck and something inside me snaps. I come so hard that my body convulses and knocks down the chair. I hang from the ceiling, the orgasm tearing through my nervous system like a lightning storm.

Is this why the French call orgasms la pétite mort? Because I’m on the brink of death.

My eyes bulge. My vision fades to black, but my orgasm still rages. I spasm and convulse on the end of the rope until the ceiling rumbles like thunder.

Chunks of plaster rain down on my head before tumbling down in an avalanche. I hit the floorboards with a thud. The pressure of the noose eases from around my neck, and I gasp for air. Dusty particles burn my throat, and I erupt into hacking coughs.

Somewhere on the edge of my consciousness, I hear a scream.

I scramble to my feet in the dark, stumble over the rubble, and fling open the bedroom door.

Chappy hangs from the ceiling by a noose identical to the one around my neck.