Page 63 of Satan's Spawn
Like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, and all I can think about is how I want more of it.
“Are you gonna do bad things to me?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the feeling, but it only makes it worse.
Because I’m hoping he’ll say yes.
My breath catches when Crayton’s sapphire eyes look up at me through thick lashes. He seems…caught off guard by my question.
“Do you want me to do bad things to you?” He removes the knife from my arm, making the tingles slowly taper off.
I miss them already.
Pretty sure our definitions of bad are very different, but that damn intrigue, man. It won’t let up.
“No, of course not.” I scoff, but it’s not convincing. “Nobody wants to get hurt.”
Crayton hauls me closer, pressing the knife to my neck this time. Tingles return as full blown sparks, and I’m sure I’ve become the crazy one because the smallest moan escapes my lips right before he says, “Then I suggest you stay the fuck away from Felix Crimson.”
“Why?” I swallow. “He’s the only one in this school who is nice to me besides my friends.”
“Yeah? And what the hell does that tell you?”
A hell of a lot more than your anger does.
“That you’re a self serving tyrant he refuses to bow down to? Or he’s reallythatinterested in me?”
“Oh, he’s interested in something.” I feel a sharp sting on my neck, and when Crayton withdraws the knife there’s drops of red on the tip of it.
“You cut me!” I gasp, pressing my hand to the sore spot.
Crayton brings the blade to his lips, and my mouth drops as his tongue darts out to taste my blood. “Fuck, you taste as sweet as you look.”
I’m stunned into absolute silence.
What he’s doing is vile, and what makes it even worse is the way he’s looking at me.
With both hatred and, maybe even desire?
Yeah, the desire to Hannibal Lecter your ass.
Flipping the blade closed, Crayton shoves it back in his pocket, then lifts my chin. “That’s much better.” He says, running his thumb over my neck like an artist examining his work.
“How the heck is it better if you cut me?”
“Because that’s what I wanted,” he states plainly. “To see what’s beneath all the perfection.”
Crayton thinks I’m perfect?
I should be flattered, but I know that, too, was likely not a compliment. I press anyway, like a typical glutton for punishment.
“What did you find?”
As if snapping out of some internal struggle, cruelty is back to twisting his features when he says, “Everything I detest.”
I don’t even get the chance to respond, because Crayton is pushing past me, storming out of the bathroom leaving me alone with my confusion once again.
It takes me around five minutes to clean the cut on my neck and gather my composure enough to leave the bathroom. I don’t know what the hell just transpired between Crayton and I, but it has me so flustered I’m not even focusing as I head back to my classroom.
“Watch out!” a male voice bellows out, right before I collide into a janitor cart.
