Page 145 of Little Spider

Two mouths whispering filth like lullabies and cutting me open like worship but it was always one. He fractured himself to fuck me. He split to own me completely.

He moves slowly, crawling up over me, his face soft with something that could be love or madness or both. He brushes my hair back from my forehead, fingers gentle over skin he just carved open hours ago. “Hi, baby.” My lip trembles.

“Where… where is he?” His eyes never leave mine.

“There is no him.” He kisses me. Sweet. Soft. Like I didn’t scream for mercy beneath him. Like he didn’t brand me twice and fill me while I bled. “There’s only me.”

In the deepest, darkest part of myself where fear and lust meet—I know it’s true because the moment I screamed for N…

The moment I begged him to own me…

The moment I came on his cock like a prayer?—

I gave it to Damien.

All of it because he didn’t split to hurt me. He split to make me need every part of him. Even the part that doesn’t stop. Even the part that still wants more.

Even now, he doesn’t rush me.

He just stays there—half-kneeling, half-hovering above me like a god come down to rest after the flood, watching his creation tremble under its own ruin.

I want to speak.

To ask him what was real, which voice belonged to the monster and which one I moaned for but my throat is too dry, my jaw too sore, my cunt still fluttering around the echo of him.

I shift and the blood between my thighs slides warm again.

Fresh.

He sees it.

His eyes drop, and his tongue runs across his bottom lip like he’s tasting it again. “You were beautiful last night.” His voice is lower now. Not gentle. Like I’m the altar and the sacrifice and the sermon all in one. “Do you remember what you said to him?” A pause. “To me?” My mouth parts, but I can’t answer.

I remember crying out his name, unsure which version of him lay hidden between my thighs. I remember saying yours—to a man wearing Damien’s face, voice, soul. I remember loving it.

“You let me break you in half,” he says, trailing his fingers down the centre of my chest, between my breasts, over the new brand—the second one. Still blistered. Still raw.

He presses his thumb into it.

I flinch. Gasp.

He smiles.

“You told me you’d burn for me.” He leans down, tongue brushing the corner of my mouth. “Now you have.”

I shake my head. Tears sting. “You made me choose. You made me think?—”

“I made you see who you belong to.” His hand slides lower, palm flat against my belly, pressing down with enough weight to remind me there’s still something inside me.

Still, him inside me.

“And you begged.”

His fingers slip lower.

Between my legs.

I jerk.