Page 11 of Little Author

S he didn’t dress for the weather.

That coat was thin. Her legs were bare, and she walked like she didn’t care if anyone followed her.

She didn’t know I already was.

Three blocks…

She never looked back. Her fingers twitched in the pocket of her coat like she was touching something soft or dangerous.

She turned the corner into the alley, back to the scene.

Back to me.

I moved like a shadow, leaving no footsteps or breath sounds.

I’d been watching her for days, listening to her moans at night, watching her sad little dates, and the lies.

The ones she told herself in the mirror when she said she didn’t want to be touched.

The ones she read in her books, before letting her naughty hands slip below her sheets, pretending she was reading about monsters instead of summoning them.

She belonged to me.

She just didn’t know it yet.

I stopped just behind the dumpster. Ten feet. Maybe twelve. Just enough to see her silhouette under the flickering streetlight.

She didn’t hesitate when she sat on the fountain. Her fingers were trailing the line of the rough texture. Her expression was the same dazed look, as if she were inside her own mind instead of reality. She was creating the scene in her head. My scene. My kill. She had done this for three days.

Her body replicated my treasure from that night. She copied the woman’s legs as they spread wide for me while I ate her cunt on the jagged texture. She didn’t look scared as she followed her trance-like spell. Instead, she sighed.

Her hand disappeared between her legs, no hesitation, like she was unbothered with her current setting. Her coat fell open, her pouty lips parted, and her breath hitched.

She moaned.

My name.

“Roux,” she whispered, thrusting inside her pussy so rough she whimpered. Her body fell into the waterless fountain, my ritual followed like scripture of my kill. She moaned my name again, wiping blood off her thigh and lifting her hand to the air like some sweet offering to me.

Like a sacrifice.

Like she wanted me to hear.

So I gave her what she begged for.

I stepped forward. Close enough for the air to change. For the hairs on her neck to rise. “Mmm. That’s right. Sing for me.” I said, in a voice no louder than her pulse.

She froze.

Her hand stopped. Her head whipped around. Her eyes were wide, too wide, like she felt the insanity drip into her veins. The fear was instant, pure, and perfect. Absolutely tangible.

But I was already gone.

Back into the dark. Behind her. Beside her. Everywhere .

She spun, chest heaving, lips parting.

Looking.

Wanting.

And I watched.

From the rooftop, on the other side of the building by the fountain. One hand curled around the edge of the railing, the other pressed to my chest, feeling the beat of her arousal like it was mine.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t run.

She slid down the wall of the fountain like her knees were made of melted wax, gasping, clutching her own skin like it wasn’t hers anymore.

She thought she was losing her mind.

Good.

She wanted to pick apart my rituals, soak the ground of my kill in her come?

I will give you a reenactment.