Page 50 of The Invite (The Massacre Ball #1)

Augustus

Nobody except my parents—not even Scarlett—knows I was born with a defective heart. A hole that affected my growth during the first two years of my life until the doctors found it.

Did they fix it?

In the physical sense—yes.

But not without invisible irreparable damage. In the place I was supposed to recognize and express emotions, I got a hole. The hollowness could never be filled.

I never reacted the way I was supposed to.

I know this because I observed Scarlett.

She behaved and whined like every other kid.

In school, I’d watch her trying to make friends, getting butthurt if they would rebuff her, while I never felt the urge to mingle with the other students.

I didn’t understand why Scarlett would even want to hang out with the kids who weren’t interested in being her friend.

It was when my parents got called into the school and were told I didn’t interact with anyone from the class that had me wondering if there was something vital missing inside me.

A constant blankness wrapped itself around me.

I didn’t mind it but obviously, it was an issue for the rest of the world.

My mother insisted on therapy and all that jazz while my dad was vehemently against it.

The reason is still unknown to me. In a way, I’m grateful he didn’t side with my mother because the thought of a stranger poking and trying to pick apart my brain to understand why I didn’t fit in the mold of a ‘normal’ kid drives me berserk.

Rather than going with my mother’s route, my dad sat me down and said, “You don’t need fixing, son. We just need to find the thing that makes your heart go boom.”

I can still hear his voice whispering in my ear, his kind eyes staring down at seven-year-old me with all the adoration in the world.

He accepted I was different and wanted me to embrace it.

Every weekend, he decided we’d pick and do one activity together despite his busy schedule.

He not only wanted me to choose a hobby that ignited a spark but also to teach me how to bond.

I didn’t know if it was going to work or not, because spending time with him was all that mattered to me.

His utmost belief never wavered, and his patience never ran thin as I explored.

One day we were strolling in the park with the discreet bodyguards nearby when we came across a sketch artist painting people’s portraits.

I remember tugging on my father’s hand in that direction because I wanted to watch closely.

As soon as we neared, I felt it for the first time.

The tiny burst of explosion inside my chest.

Rather than the void.

I stared raptly at the stroke of the man’s hand on the canvas, shaping the couple’s features as they stood in front of him. When I briefly glanced over at my father’s face, his expression was one of pure joy with a sheen in his eyes. Again, his onslaught of emotions perplexed me.

The same night, he’d bought all the tools for me to give painting a shot.

Not those stupid and silly ones that are provided in schools.

I was so eager to use them right away that my fingers were twitching.

As soon as I was alone, I went to the balcony and set about to draw.

It came as naturally as breathing, and I was lost in my own bubble.

When I finished, it was my dad’s face staring back at me from the canvas, wearing the same expression as earlier in the day.

The proud expression he wore the next morning when I showed it to him is forever etched into my brain. I can also remember the tight expression my mother had worn in the background.

Painting was an outlet for me, not the cure.

When I wasn’t sketching, the same void would make itself home.

I may have been just a kid, but I knew I couldn’t have a repeat of my parents being called into the school.

Or risk going to therapy. The only solution to avoid it was to pretend and blend in, so I did by studying everyone around me.

That’s how Maverick entered my life.

He was a hurricane, ill-tempered, picking a fight with every kid in the playground.

Becoming his friend would kill two birds with one stone.

My parents would stop worrying I was dead inside while the rest of my class would give me a wide berth.

It was pure coincidence that Maverick and I formed a tight-knit bond.

I’m not one to reminisce over the past but a foreign urge has risen once more. To share this part of my life with Nessa. It’ll give her all the answers she’s secretly searching for but doesn’t think I know.

She’ll understand why I can’t let her go, why I chased her so ruthlessly, why she’s so dangerous to me.

In the forest when she collided with my chest, the explosion I had only felt once roared to life. It was more powerful than the first. Deeper. Ever-lasting.

It happens every time our eyes lock.

Every time she’s in my vicinity.

Its flames sizzle every time we touch.

Nessa runs in my veins. Letting her go will mean I’ll bleed out. There are only two ways out for her. Either I find a cure or I die. Until then, she’s stuck by my side.

As if she can hear my thoughts, she stirs.

The sheet is tangled around her slim waist, dark with my bruises and leaving her bare from above. Her pale nipples are red and still swollen, jolting my cock to life. I’m in a perpetual state of arousal around her. She needs to be in the room and I’m hard as a rock.

The bedroom is bathed in semi-darkness, illuminated only by the fading sun streaming through the half-open window with the curtains fluttering lightly from the wind. It’s bright enough for me to sketch her easily, which I’ve been doing for the last hour.

Unlike on previous occasions, I’m not in a rush. Something pivotal happened between us tonight that I can’t put a name to yet. I felt it as if the earth itself shifted beneath us, altering the course of our future.

I can draw her in my sleep with my eyes closed, she’s burned that deep in my mind.

Pausing the strokes of my fingers, I lock my gaze on hers, not wanting to miss the second she senses my presence. The first trickle of awareness erasing the fogginess. Will she panic? Regret? Try to escape? Deny the twisted connection we share?

I had carried her upstairs after she passed out, but not before I stole another orgasm from her pliant body. After rummaging around in her purse, I found a sheet of paper and a pen instead of settling in beside her.

I caught a glimpse of the Dictaphone with the damning recording of us. I didn’t take it. Despite knowing it’s the only leverage she has over me.

Perhaps I am losing my touch.

Leaning back against the chair, I don’t make a sound to spook her as I sit near the foot of the bed.

Her brow furrowing, she sighs and stretches her legs before slowly blinking her eyelids open. The confused frown doesn’t disappear as her vision adjusts to the darkness.

I watch the exact moment she realizes I’m here when every bone in her body locks in place and her nipples pebble.

After an unsteady inhale that stretches into a century, she dips her chin in my direction and those light orbs collide with mine. They betray every single emotion currently running through her veins. None are remotely close to panic or regret.

A cosmic rush flows through my chest.

The goddamn explosion.

Maybe it’s relief that she’s not pushing me away or lurching back in fear.

Nessa studies me as I do her. She’s a sight I’ll never get tired of. The kind a dying man yearns for during his last breaths before being condemned to hell.

Her gaze roams down my bare chest, briefly pausing at the fresh scars she left. A blush blossoms on her cheeks the instant it lands on the sheet of paper in my lap. I’m only halfway done.

Her curiosity is stark on her face. In the way she inadvertently licks her lips. Yet she doesn’t ask.

Why would she? She knows it’s for her.

“Drop the sheets,” I command, picking up the pen again.

A tremble rocks her and she discards the only barrier between us, baring herself for my hungry eyes. My cum leaks out from her cunt, expanding my chest with pride and possession.

How will she look if I impregnate her with my child?

Fuck. A thought like that shouldn’t even cross my mind.

“Bend your knees and spread them.” A swallow works its way down her throat as she obeys. “Play with your pussy.”

Eager fingers touch the wet and swollen folds.

“Do not come.”

As she circles, rubs, and gives me an erotic show, I resume drawing. I fill and sharpen her features. The little noises she makes rise in the background. I sneak a glance and almost falter at the glazed expression she’s wearing.

Both hands frantically touch her pussy. One finger moves inside her while another strokes her clit. As though watching me draw lit a fire in her.

My fingers move faster on the paper, matching the crescendo of hers.

I can’t decide which version of Nessa is prettier. The one sketched by my hands or the one before me. Both have the power to bring me to my knees.

“August,” she moans.

“I’m here, honey,” I rasp.

“I’m going to come.”

“Then stop.”

“ Please .”

I finish the picture of her standing in the shower in the morning. Instead of admiring it, I throw the pen away, shed my jeans, and crawl between her legs.

Flipping her onto all fours, I slap the sketch right below her face so she can stare at it. She gasps as I fill her pussy in one stroke. That’s all it takes for her to shatter. Twisting her hair in my fist, I keep her upright and fuck her hard and fast.

“Do you like being my muse, little prey?”

“Yes,” she squeals in between moans.

“I haven’t touched a canvas in years.” Since my father’s untimely death. “Then you come into my life and it’s all I can think about.” She made me break my vow to never touch one again. “All I paint is you . It’s your face staring back at me from every corner. Goddamn you for making me deranged.”

“I’m-mm sorryyy.”

I spank her ass. She screams. “I haven’t even begun to make you sorry.”

Sitting up, I wrench her flush against my chest. Cupping her tits from behind, I pinch her nipples and slam into her spasming cunt over and over. Raw, guttural sounds spill from my mouth, mixing with her cries, as I spiral out of control.

Loving the unhinged way I’m fucking her, her small hand snakes down to flick her clit. I shove it aside and take over.

“Your show is over, teach,” I growl, nipping her earlobe. “It’s mine now. All your orgasms belong to me.”

She takes every thrust, throwing her head back as I bury my face against her neck. Licking her skin, I bite down without care. My orgasm tears through my limbs at the sound of her pleasured pain.

If possible, my addiction deepens.

Nobody can save her now.

She’s mine.