Page 62 of Grave Intentions

Talon takes over, slicing with precision and delight. Soon, Mr. Wilson is painted with his own blood, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He’s aware and suffering, but he’s not yet done. We’re just getting started.

My inhibitions melt away as I watch Talon’s back flex with each cut, his muscles taut with concentration. I’ve wanted this for so long. To see this bastard broken, begging for mercy.

The knife slips from Talon’s hand, landing on the tarp with a soft thud. I reach for it, but Talon shakes his head. He grabs my hand, pulling me to meet his lips for a hungry kiss.

We fall onto the bed together, our feverish need for each other overcoming us. Mr. Wilson’s eyes bulge as he watches, his mouth working silently around the gag. He wanted a show, and he’s going to get one.

Talon enters me, filling me with his hardness. I cry out, biting my lip to stifle the sound. Talon whispers, his breath hot against my ear.

“Let him hear you,” he urges me. “Let him know what he’s missing.”

I moan, my head falling back as Talon thrusts into me. “Is this the show you wanted?” I call out, addressing Mr. Wilson. “How does it feel to be on the other side?”

He tries to speak, but the gag silences him. His eyes burn with hatred, but he’s powerless to stop us. I lean forward, pressing my lips to Talon’s ear.

“Make me yours,” I whisper. “Right here, in front of him.”

Talon’s hips move faster, his breath coming in sharp gasps. “This is what you get for hurting her,” he growls at Mr. Wilson. “A front-row seat to your worst nightmare.”

Our movements become frantic, driven by the darkness within us and our shared desire. Mr. Wilson’s eyes glaze over as his life slips away, his body bloody and broken. But Talon and I are lost in each other, our climax washing over us like a tidal wave.

As we come back to earth, we realize Mr. Wilson’s lifeless gaze is fixed on us, his eyes wide and unblinking. Talon’s hand trails down my back, resting on my hip.

“Fuck, that was hot,” he groans.

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip because it is shockingly arousing. What that says about me and my mental state, I don’t know. All I know is that I love Talon so fucking much. “I love you.”

The words hang heavy in the air between us. “Fuck, do you know how long I wanted you to tell me that? I fucking love you too, princess. Always have and always will.”

We kiss then, but it’s slower and more heartfelt than before. When we break apart, Talon rests his forehead against mine. “We need to start the cleanup. Shower first.”

I nod in reply and get off the bed, heading into the bathroom. The shower’s hot spray washes away blood and sweat, turning pink as it swirls down the drain. Talon’s hands move methodically over my skin, ensuring no trace remains. His touch is clinical now, focused on the task at hand.

“Turn,” he instructs, and I comply as he scrubs my back.

We dry off quickly and seal our clothes and the towels we dried off with in black garbage bags.

Back in the bedroom, I help Talon wrap Mr. Wilson’s flaccid, naked body in heavy black plastic. The tarp beneath him made cleanup easier, catching most of the blood. We secure the wrapping with duct tape, working in silence.

“Hold the light,” Talon says, handing me a UV flashlight.

I sweep the blue beam across the floor and walls. At the same time, he follows with a cleaning solution, methodically removing any traces we might have missed. The metallic smell of blood mingles with harsh chemicals.

“Clear,” I whisper after triple-checking every surface.

We carry the wrapped bundle down the stairs, careful not to bump the walls. My arms strain under the weight. Outside, we check there’s no one about. The night air is cool against my damp skin as we load Mr. Wilson into Talon’s trunk.

I slide into the passenger seat, exhausted but alert. Talon starts the engine and pulls away from the curb. As we begin the long drive back to Boston, the house disappears in the rearview mirror.

The highway stretches empty before us, streetlights casting intermittent shadows across the dashboard. In the trunk, our cargo lies silent. My foster father’s final resting place awaits; in a fresh grave beside David.

39

TALON

It’s midnight, and we stand over the open grave—the fresh earth mocking us. Lena’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, haunted by the ghosts of our past. I pull her close, and she leans into me, seeking comfort in my embrace. Tonight, we lay our demons to rest.

We lower Mr. Wilson’s body into the grave, the moonlight casting an eerie glow on the black plastic shroud. I pour the acid in next, ensuring that his body will decompose quickly. The weight of his sins presses down on us as we begin to fill the hole with shovelfuls of dirt and lime layers. Each clump of soil echoes our determination to bury the pain and suffering he inflicted. We work in silence, lost in our own thoughts.

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