Page 65 of Peak Cruelty

Perfect.

I suck in air and bite it down.One hand grips his arm, the other the tile.He moves like he’s proving something—to me, to himself, to the fucking coffee.Every thrust slams through me, steady, violent,needed.

His fingers dig into my jaw, tilting my face so he can watch.

He pulls back.

Slams in.

Again.

Harder.

There’s nothing gentle in it.Nothing sweet.Just the sound of skin, and breath, and my body giving way.

I sink my teeth into his shoulder.He shifts—one hand between us now, thumb ruthless over my clit, as though he wants me to die on this kitchen floor and make it easy for him.

I don’t.

But I do come.

Hard.

Loud.

Body locking, nails sinking, breath gone.He doesn't stop.Doesn't slow.Not until he’s there, too—one last, brutal thrust, jaw clenched, hands fisted tight in my hair.

Then nothing.

Stillness.

Silence thick with sweat and whatever the fuck this is.

He stands first.

Fixes his clothes.

I stay on the floor.Legs splayed.Body wrecked.

And I smile—just a little—because it wasn’t mercy.

Because I got what I wanted.

He pulls his shirt on and nods toward the hallway.“I’ve got work to do.”

“And I’m supposed to…what?Knit?”

“Stay inside,” he says.“So I don’t have to kill anyone else.”

33

Vance

The bleach smell still clings to the air.Not strong enough to be a warning, but sharp enough to crawl up the sinuses and linger behind the eyes.The garage is silent, save for the soft tick of the overhead light cooling.

I wipe my palms down my jeans and pull the laptop toward me.

Rachel’s face loads before I finish typing.That’s how often I check.

---