Page 88 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

When I asked Edgar, he didn’t deny a thing. Just tilted his head, wiped sugar dust from his collar, and said, “She had my name in her mouth one too many times. And the nerve to insult you. And Blake.”

Then he smiled. Said it was poetic. Said she poisoned herself with her own baking.

She left the bakery to me. Me. Which smells like Carson’s handiwork, all legal cleanup and inconvenient mercy. The man makes murder cover-up look like public service.

Blake, bless his beautiful soul, was with me all night. Whispering sweet things. Clutching the headboard. Moaning into my shoulder while I counted thrusts like clock ticks in my alibi. I don’t think he knows his orgasms were carefully scheduled between town gossip disposal and estate transfers.

It’s sweet, really. All three of them, doing what they do best to protect me. Carson covers the blood. Edgar feeds me pastries and poisons who needs it. Blake... well. Blake holds me like I’m soft and good, even when I’m shaking from rage and icing sugar.

I check the casserole one more time.

We’re going to be hungry tonight. They’ve planned an orgy. Our first.

I’ve marked the calendar with a tiny lemon and three heart emojis. Because let’s be honest, this is basically our wedding night. It deserves celebration. Themed gifts. Vinyl sex suits for year five. Leather restraints for year ten. A commemorative spatula that says “World’s Deadliest Girlfriend” etched in gold.

I set the table. I light a candle. I lube the hell out of everything.

It’s going to be a very long, very filthy night.

And they’re going to worship me like I’m the goddess of dessert and death.

There’s a knock at the door.

One short. One precise. One that sounds like someone just backed into the porch railing and whispered “fuck, sorry.”

That’s Blake.

I open it slowly. Like a woman ready to ruin lives with her thighs.

Carson walks in first, dark-eyed and dangerous, holding a bottle of something expensive and aged. He doesn’t say a word, just kisses my cheek like he’s checking if I’ve hidden a blade there.

I have. It’s in my bra. He hums approvingly.

Edgar follows, crisp and smug and wearing an apron that says “Kiss the Chef (or Else).” He’s holding a velvet box that I swear to God better not contain jewelry unless it vibrates.

“Is that?” I start.

“A lemon-scented cock ring,” he replies smoothly. “For ceremonial purposes.”

Blake stumbles in last, cheeks pink, hair all windswept like he sprinted through emotional turmoil to get here. He’s holding a six-pack of chocolate milk.

“Hi,” he breathes, handing me the milk like it’s a bouquet of roses. “I brought hydration.”

My pussy thinks it’s her birthday and blows out the candles early. “You sweet, perverted Boy Scout.”

Carson snorts. “He asked the clerk at the gas station if this was good for... electrolytes.”

“I panicked!” Blake cries. “We’re about to do an orgy. I’ve never even been to an orgy! What if I faint? What if my legs cramp? What if someone cries, what if I cry?”

Edgar pats his back. “You’ll be fine, darling. Just remember to stay inside the lines and don’t bite unless instructed.”

Carson opens the wine. “Unless you’re biting me, in which case, you better commit.”

I’m grinning now. Like a lunatic. Like a woman standing in the eye of a horny hurricane she conjured herself.

They circle me slowly. Like wolves. Like suitors. Like war criminals with a shared kink for obedience and oral fixation.

“You ready, sweetheart?” Carson says against my neck, one hand already ghosting under my skirt.

---