Page 54 of The Hellkeeper

She nods, but I don’t linger. She won’t be remembering the building, anyway. She’ll remember what I do to her inside it.

We step in. The elevator is empty, and the moment the doors slide shut, I pin her to the wall. My hands cage her in. My mouth crashes over hers. She gasps against my lips.

We’re in our own little bubble. Just us.

A chime cuts through the haze, and the doors slide open. She’s dazed, and I fucking love it. Love that I can steal her breath. That I can make her forget everything but me.

I lead her inside. The second she crosses the threshold, her breath catches.

The space is dim, candles flicker in nearly every corner, and petals are scattered across the floor. I wanted her first time to be special. So, when I finished up with Linda, I came straight here and set this up.

I hold out my hand. She takes it.

She follows the trail to the bedroom, where more petals blanket the bed. The candlelight casts shadows along the walls, turning the space into something sacred.

I kiss her trembling fingers. Then, I step back.

I unbuckle my belt, letting it fall to the floor. My fingers move to the buttons of my shirt. The fabric slips from my shoulders. She stares, her eyes roaming over every ugly mark.

I catch her tear before it falls.

“Don’t cry for me, little flower.”

Her small hands trail over my skin, mapping each scar. That man spared nothing to teach me to be “perfect.” Cigarettes, knives, belts—he marked me every time I said no or missed a hit. I want to hide.

But it’s her.

My Amelia.

And she doesn’t look away.

She whispers, “I’m glad you killed him.”

Something dark coils in my gut. The words shouldn’t affect me like this. But they do. They make my cock throb, sending heat pulsing through me.

Because she understands. Because she could crook her finger and I’d fall to my fucking knees. Because this woman, pure as snow, is glad I killed a man. Just because he hurt me.

She’s innocence. I’m rot. And somehow, we fit.

I reach for the side zipper of her dress. She hesitates, arms wrapping around herself as if I haven’t already claimed every part of her.

“No more hiding,” I rasp. “You were made for me to see. For me to worship. Let me see all of you.”

Always obedient when it matters, her arms drop. The dress pools at her feet. And for a moment, I forget how to fucking breathe.

She is absolute perfection.

My eyes drag over her perfect skin, the curve of her hips, her long legs. She’s something celestial, and I’m the ravenous sinner lucky enough to touch her.

“You’re so perfect,” I sigh. “You unravel me.” A kiss to her nose. “You make me weak.” A kiss to her lips.

Then I trace a path down her throat. My teeth graze her collarbone. I nip at her flesh, soothe it with my tongue, kiss lower. I reach the valley between her breasts, and my hands slide behind her to unhook her bra. She stiffens, but I hush her with another kiss.

“You’re mine to adore,” I say. “Mine to cherish.”

I claim her breasts—mouth, tongue, hands. She arches into me, breathless.

I press kisses along her ribs, then lower, down to her stomach. My teeth scrape lightly against her soft flesh. Her fingers tangle in my hair.

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