Page 135 of He Sees You
I'm still in Patricia's wedding dress, now more red than white.
We stand in his doorway, married for eight hours, killers for less than that.
"I love you," I tell him.
"I love you too."
We go inside to wash the blood away, but we both know it will never really be gone.
It's part of us now, sealed into our marriage like vows.
Our wedding night is over, but our life together has just begun.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cain
The cabin door slams shut behind us, the sound echoing through the narrow hallway like a gunshot.
My blood pounds in my ears, hotter than the fire we left smoldering back at the cottage.
Celeste clings to me, her body pressed tight against mine, the blood-stained wedding dress smeared across her pale skin.
Those crimson streaks aren't all from the mess we made tonight—some are fresh from the fight, others older, marking her as mine in ways no vow ever could.
Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her fingers digging into my shirt as I kick the door's bolt into place.
I don't waste time.
My hands grip her waist, rough and demanding, lifting her off her feet.
She gasps, her legs wrapping around my hips instinctively, the lace of her dress tearing under my fingers.
“Cain,” she whispers, but it isn't a plea—it's fuel.
I crush my mouth against hers, tasting salt and iron, my tongue forcing its way past her lips to claim every inch.
She moans into the kiss, her nails raking down my back, urging me on.
The hallway is dim, lit only by the faint glow from the living room fire we'll stoke later.
A narrow console table lines the wall, cluttered with forgotten junk—keys, a lantern, some old maps from hunts gone by.
It will do.
I carry her there in three strides, my cock already straining against my pants, hard and aching from the adrenaline of the night.
Her weight is nothing; she is all soft curves and sharp edges, the dress's bodice hugging her tits like a second skin, stained red where blood has soaked through.
I shove her back against the table, my body pinning hers.
She arches up, grinding against me, her pussy hot even through the layers of fabric. “Fuck, Celeste,” I growl, my voice low and gravelly.
My hands yank at the skirt of her dress, hiking it up over her thighs.
The material rips easily, exposing her bare skin—no panties, just like I ordered her to wear under that virgin-white gown turned slaughterhouse chic.
Her pussy is slick, shaved smooth, lips swollen and ready.
