Page 46 of Little Spider

I keep my eyes open until the sun cuts across the wall in a crooked line.

And I don’t sleep.

Not even when my body begs for it.

He was here.

And I don’t think I’ll ever wake up the same again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

RAVEN

The door creaks open, and I can’t move. I’m frozen—back pressed against the wall, heart slamming so hard I swear it’s about to tear free from my chest.

He steps inside, tall and dark, shadows swallowing him like they belong to him. The door clicks shut behind him, the lock sliding back into place with a cold, deliberate sound. His presence fills the room, suffocating me, and I can’t do anything but stare.

I can’t see his face clearly—just the shape of him, the broad shoulders, the glint of his eyes in the dim light. A slow, predatory smile curves his lips, and I hate how my body reacts, heat pooling low, thighs clenching despite the fear.

He moves closer, slowly and unhurriedly, like a hunter savouring the moment before the kill. I press harder against the wall, pulse pounding in my ears.

His voice cuts through the silence—low, dark, almost gentle. “You’re shaking, Little Spider. Didn’t you miss me?”

I can’t find my voice. My throat is too tight, fear and something darker choking me. He stops just a foot away, his presence burning into me, making my skin prickle.

He tilts his head, eyes tracing the line of my body—starting at my bare feet, sliding up over my trembling thighs, the loose sweatshirt barely hiding how hard my nipples are from the tension and cold. His gaze lingers on my face, the smirk widening when he sees the tears streaked down my cheeks.

I hate him seeing me like this—broken, unravelling, desperate. I hate that a sick part of me wants him to see.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek, and I flinch, but I don’t pull away. His touch is surprisingly gentle—just the barest graze of his knuckles against my skin.

“You let me in,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Good girl.”

My stomach flips, and I force myself to speak, the words spilling out like shattered glass. “You’re sick. This isn’t… this isn’t right.”

He laughs, the sound low and dark, vibrating through my chest. “Right and wrong stopped mattering the moment you started craving it. Don’t pretend you didn’t want this.”

He leans in, his breath brushing my neck, and I shiver, hating how my body reacts—how my thighs clench and heat spreads under my skin. His hand slides up, cupping my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice like poison wrapped in velvet. “Tell me you don’t want it.”

I open my mouth, but the words don’t come. His thumb presses harder, sliding against my lip, and I feel his other hand trace the line of my throat, fingers wrapping around, just enough to remind me how easily he could crush me.

His grip tightens, and I gasp, nails scraping against the wall behind me. He leans in, his lips just brushing my ear. “You can’tsay it, can you? You’re soaked, aren’t you? I can smell how much you hate that you want me.”

I want to fight, to push him away, but when his hand slides down, fingers tracing the edge of my sweatshirt, my body betrays me—I arch into his touch, desperate for something I don’t understand.

He hums softly, pulling back just enough to look at me, eyes narrowed. “Such a pretty little liar. You keep saying you hate me, but look at you. You opened the door. You let me in. You wanted me to take this from you.”

His hand slips under the hem of my sweatshirt, fingers brushing against my stomach, and I can’t help the soft whimper that escapes. He smirks, sliding his hand lower, grazing the waistband of my sweatpants.

“You thought you could fight it,” he murmurs, his lips skimming over my throat, teeth grazing the skin. “Thought you could run. But here you are, trembling for me.”

My breathing hitches, and I grab his wrist, trying to push him back, but he just laughs, pinning my hand against the wall above my head. His fingers squeeze, just enough to remind me that he’s stronger, that resistance is useless.

He nudges my legs apart with his knee, pressing against me, the heat of his body overwhelming. His free hand slides into my sweatpants, fingers slipping under the fabric, and I choke on a sob, hating how my hips twitch towards him.

“So wet,” he whispers, lips brushing my jaw. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Touching yourself while thinking of me. I bet you came hard, didn’t you?”