Filthy Little Games

Ch. 10: The Grim Reaper

EMERY

La petite mort. I've never really understood that phrase until tonight. But I feel it, with every lick, every kiss, every calculated touch, I die a little death. I see white lights. I hear white noise. Women know how a woman wants to be pleased, needs to be pleased. And they keep killing me, so raw and tender, and entirely debilitating, completely consuming. My mind swirls with pleasure and release and it's so peaceful, so serene, so fucking—

"May I join you?"

Suddenly, the soft, white clouds on which I lay turn grey, conjuring thunder, the loud rumbles of imminent destruction. Death no longer tastes sweet. No. It's bitter, riddled with poison and lies, and, despite my efforts to remain adamant in my decisions, a dangerous sort of longing.

My eyes snap open, and for a second I pray it's an illusion, a post-death hallucination. But like all my prayers, this one isn't answered. With charcoal eyes colder than sin, Damon hovers above me, like the grim reaper, like a king of the afterlife. My heart races, breathing rapid as he stares down at me.

"Do not look so surprised, mami," he rasps. "Did you really think I wouldn't find you?" His jaw tightens as his livid gaze floats across my exposed and glistening body. "I would ask if you've missed me, but it appears you've been keeping yourself rather busy these past few days."

With as much dignity as I can muster, I prop myself to my feet, my three new friends scattering away as Damon shoots them a hard, commanding look. "Why are you here?" My voice comes out so fucking weak, so pathetic. I attempt to straighten my posture, but my bones fear the confrontation, the impending fight. I fake the confidence nonetheless. "Why are you here?" Better.

His lip twitches. "Why? Are you honestly asking me that question?" He takes a purposeful step toward me, and my calves bump against the edge of the ottoman. With a glint of pained frustration in his eyes, he whispers, "Are you afraid of me, Miss Jones?" His gaze flicks across my paling features. "Is that why you ran?"

I'm unsure how to answer his question. Am I afraid of him? It's so vague. So convoluted. There are many parts of him. Parts that scare me, parts that rejuvenate me, parts that make my heart ache. I'm not afraid of him in the way that he thinks I am. I don't fear for my safety, for my wellbeing. I'm afraid of him like a child fears the dark. Irrational.

Before I can respond, a familiar warmth rolls in, creating a chaotic climate of battling pressure systems, and suddenly the air becomes too heavy to breathe.

"Cavanaugh," Quin's tone shudders my bones. He glances down at me, surveying for damage. "Are you okay?" I give him a meek nod, and then he snaps his cold gaze at Damon. "How can we help you?"

I inwardly wince. Quin's not helping the situation. His tone, his body language; it screams superiority. Victory.

"We?" Damon's upper lip curls in a derisive sneer as he falls right into Quinton's trap. Fucking men. "There's a 'we' now?"

A shiver runs down my spine. I can't allow this confrontation to turn violent. Not here. Not now. Stepping forward, I address Damon with as much authority as I conjure, "Maybe we should talk." I briefly glance at Quin, signaling for him to stand down. "Alone."

"I'll be here," Quin says, refusing to unlock from Damon's stoney eyes. "In case you need help."

I cast Quin a weak smile as Damon clenches his fist, but he doesn't utter another word as I drag him to a scarcely lit empty corridor. As soon as we're out of sight, my back slams against the cold wall, Damon arching over me, one hand planted above my head, his face mere inches away from mine. My pulse quickens as his signature scent infiltrates my senses, and his power drains my own.