DARK DEVOTION

Damien

Fucking Damien .

Every time her lips shape my name, it’s like a goddamn hymn written just for me—a siren’s call, soft and unassuming, dripping with a sweetness she doesn’t fucking realize she’s handing over on a silver platter. She has no idea what that sound does to me, how it tears me apart and stitches me back together into something darker. Something monstrous .

It’s almost laughable, really. She says it like she’s safe from the storm brewing inside me. That soft whisper, that innocent murmur, fuels every filthy thought in my head, pushing them deeper into places even I don’t want to tread. It ignites a fire, a raw, gnawing hunger , twisting and expanding until it’s all I can think about. I could fucking kneel before her, build an altar and lay her down as if she’s something holy—something I need to worship and desecrate all at once.

Because that’s what she does to me. That’s what her voice, her name, her existence fucking does. It drives me to want to claim her, break her, reshape her into something new. To take her again and again , until there’s no innocence left to cling to, until every single part of her is drenched in me. Body. Mind. Soul.

And now, as I watch her sprawled on that fucking couch, bathed in the blue flicker of her TV, I can see everything. Legs wide open, her hand between her thighs, her pussy slick with her own need. Fuck . The glow from the screen catches the sheen of her skin, illuminating her in a way that feels obscene , like a private goddamn performance made just for me.

“ Do it ,” I growl, my voice low and guttural, the words catching in my throat as my grip tightens around my cock. The screen mounted on my wall burns with her image—crystal clear, in fucking high definition. Because I made sure it would be. Bought the best there was. Set the perfect angles. I wanted to see her in every fucking detail. Every flick of her wrist. Every shudder of her body. Every goddamn moment she thought she was alone.

The screen isn’t just a window into her life—it’s my fucking throne . My domain. I’ve studied her long enough to know when she’s teetering on the edge of control, when her mind fights against the pull she doesn’t even realize I’ve wrapped around her. I can see it now, the way her breath hitches, the slight tremor in her hand as she dips her fingers lower, as she fights her own hesitation.

“Fucking do it, Millie,” I command again, louder this time, my voice like a whip cutting through the silence of my darkened room.

And that was the fucking thrill , wasn’t it? Knowing she was performing for me , stripping herself bare in ways she wouldn’t dare even in front of her own reflection. Every twitch of her lips, every hesitation, every fucking second she let herself unravel—it was mine. All mine . Her innocence and depravity, tangled together in a way that made me want to tear her apart just to put her back together again .

She had no idea, not really, how deeply I lived in her. Every flick of her wrist, every bite of her lip, every goddamn moan —it all fed this dark, insatiable beast clawing inside me. I sat there, eyes glued to the screen, cock in hand, stroking to the rhythm she set with her trembling fingers. My chest tightened as I watched her slide one inside her dripping cunt, her head falling back, her lips parting like a prayer on the verge of being spoken.

And fuck me , when she moaned—soft, breathy, just loud enough to send my pulse into a goddamn frenzy—it was like a fucking trigger . My vision tunneled, the world outside her image dissolving into static. There was only her , caught in this beautiful, obscene dance.

The way she bit down on her bottom lip, the subtle arch of her back as she slid a second finger inside— God . It made me want to break her. To mark her. To own every inch of her until she was nothing but a ruined masterpiece with my name etched into every trembling breath she took. My fist tightened around my cock, matching her rhythm as the thought consumed me, as the hunger ripped through me like a fucking wildfire .

And then her voice—breathless, hesitant, perfect . “A… are you touching yourself too?” she asked, her words shaky, lips trembling as she surrendered to the need consuming her.

I almost laughed, a low, guttural sound that sent chills through my own spine. My cock answered her before I could, throbbing in my grip, slick with the evidence of how fucking far gone I was. “ Yes ,” I murmured into the phone, my voice rough, dripping with a darkness she couldn’t begin to understand.

She didn’t fucking know, did she? How much power she had over me in that moment. She didn’t realize that every sound she made, every flicker of pleasure on her face, was dragging me deeper into this abyss where nothing else mattered but her . It wasn’t just lust; it was madness . A hunger so raw, so twisted, it left no room for anything else.

Her lips parted again, her moans filling my ears, wrapping around me like a noose. Watching her fuck herself with trembling fingers, knowing she was getting off at the thought of me , knowing she could feel my eyes in her—it was almost too much.

My innocent whore .

“Add a third one, sweetheart,” I growled into the phone, my voice thick, hoarse with desire. “Fuck yourself the way you’d want me to fuck you. Hard . Deep . Like I’m tearing you apart.”

She gasped, her body arching slightly, her fingers hesitating for just a moment before slipping back inside her. And fuck , when she obeyed—when she moaned my name like it was a plea, a confession, a goddamn surrender —I almost lost it. My cock throbbed painfully in my hand, every nerve in my body alight with the knowledge that she was mine, that she was breaking herself open for me , just as I’d fucking commanded.

This wasn’t just obsession anymore. This was possession. And I’d carve that truth into her flesh , into her soul , until the whole goddamn world knew she belonged to me.

I watched, every nerve snapping like live wires, as her trembling fingers plunged into herself. She was shaking, raw, fucking beautiful—her face contorted with a pleasure so pure it was obscene. It wasn’t just pleasure; it was a goddamn reckoning , something feral, something that clawed at the edges of sanity and left me gasping for air .

The sound of her slick fingers pounding into that dripping cunt? Fuck , it was like gasoline dumped straight into the fire burning in my veins. I felt like I might fucking explode , right there, like some pathetic, desperate bastard who couldn’t even keep it together long enough to watch her finish.

“Shit, Millie. You’re fucking drenched. Do you hear it? That sound? That’s mine. All fucking mine ,” I growled, my voice a raw snarl that barely scraped past my teeth. Her moans—loud, wild, uncontrolled—drove me insane . I wanted to ruin her, to bury myself in every inch of her, to fuck her until the only thing she knew was me. To mark her, scar her soul with the kind of pleasure that leaves her shattered and begging for more .

I watched the way her hips bucked, her thighs trembling as she came, her lip caught between her teeth, already bruised from trying to muffle herself. “Don’t you fucking dare hold back,” I spat, voice shaking with the effort to keep from breaking. “I want to hear it. Scream for me, Amelia. Let me fucking drown in it.”

The way her body arched, her fingers trembling as they slipped out of her, was enough to snap whatever flimsy leash I had left. And then— fuck me —she slid those wet fingers into her mouth, her tongue swirling over them like they were candy made just for her.

“ Fuck ,” I hissed, my breath ragged and broken. My cock jerked in my hand, my grip so tight I thought I might fucking crush it. She moaned, eyes half-lidded and devilish, and I was done— ruined , obliterated, ripped apart by her madness.

“ Damien ,” she whimpered, my name spilling from her lips like a prayer wrapped in sin . It wasn’t just a sound; it was a fucking bullet to the chest, a brand seared into my fucking soul .

And when I came—fuck, when I came —it wasn’t just release; it was destruction . Every twisted thought, every sick hunger she awoke in me surged through my veins like poison, sweet and fatal. She wasn’t just a girl; she was a fucking plague , a ruinous force that I’d let devour me whole.

I’ll let her ruin me. I’ll fucking thank her for it.

???????? ?

The hunt wasn’t just a distraction tonight—it was a goddamn lifeline , a blood-rushing, teeth-grinding release from the chaos clawing inside me. The anticipation wasn’t just pulsing—it was screaming , dragging me forward like a tether around my neck. Claire was already waiting outside, leaning against the wall like she didn’t give a shit, but I knew better. That calm? That readiness? It was the same cold-blooded edge I saw every time I looked in the mirror.

“You ready?” she asked, her tone all business, but those sharp eyes of hers glinted with something darker.

I smirked, shaking off the electric buzz crawling under my skin. “Let’s fucking do this.”

We slipped into the night, the quiet wrapping around us. It should’ve been comforting—the calm that always settled before the chaos—but my head was already splitting apart, thoughts tearing at me like razor wire. Amelia . Her name wasn’t a whisper; it was a scream that ripped through me, brutal and unrelenting. That face. That goddamn fire in her eyes. I’d spent years perfecting control—every kill clean, every hit smooth—but her ? She wasn’t clean. She wasn’t smooth. She was a goddamn wildfire ripping through the walls I’d spent my whole life building.

“Damien,” Claire hissed, her voice snapping like a whip. “ Focus .”

I shot her a glare, biting back the growl rising in my throat. She knew . Of course she knew. She always fucking knew. But she kept her mouth shut, that irritating little smirk playing on her lips as we moved in sync, two shadows bleeding into the dark.

The target was just a job, another nameless, faceless asshole with a price on their head. But Amelia… she was in my fucking bloodstream , and I couldn’t bleed her out no matter how deep I cut. She was the complication, the itch I couldn’t scratch, the addiction I didn’t want to kick. Once this was done, I’d go back to her. Back to that chaos, to that fucked-up thrill of owning her, breaking her, pulling her strings while she set me on fire.

Claire and I reached the house—quiet, isolated, and practically begging to be torn apart. The wind howled through the trees, the kind of sound that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. Perfect .

“Stay back,” I muttered, my voice low, guttural. “I’ll handle this. If it goes sideways… don’t fucking hesitate.”

Her expression hardened, but she gave a tight nod. “Got it.”

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to. She knew I wasn’t in the mood for bullshit. The storm inside me was already raging, and the only thing keeping me grounded was the promise of blood and the shadow of her waiting in the aftermath.

I moved through the darkness like a predator, every nerve on fire, every sense tuned to the hunt . The air was thick—cloying with that sick, electric tension that prickled my skin and made my teeth itch. I could feel it, the storm building in my chest, ready to rip this whole night apart. The target was inside, oblivious, living his last quiet moments. I could already see it in my head—his face, the panic, the blood. Clean, efficient, beautiful .

But then she hit me. Like a fist to the gut, Amelia’s face burned into my mind, uninvited, unwanted, yet fucking irresistible . Those eyes—too soft, too knowing—cut through me like a blade, and it pissed me off. My fists clenched at the thought of her, the way she got under my skin, twisted me up inside. I didn’t want to need her, but fuck if I didn’t. I wanted to break her. Own her. Make her mine in ways that would ruin us both.

I bit down hard, forcing her out of my head. Not now. Not fucking now . This wasn’t the time for weakness. This was the time for focus—for blood . Claire was depending on me, and I didn’t have the luxury of distraction.

Claire . Necessary, dangerous Claire. She’d pulled me out of the wreckage I’d been spiraling into, but not for any noble reason. She saw the monster in me, the chaos and rage, and instead of trying to fix me, she sharpened it into something lethal. A weapon . I owed her for that. Not trust—not that shit—but loyalty . We shared an understanding, a bond built on darkness and survival. That was enough.

The house loomed ahead, quiet and still, its windows shut tight like it could keep us out. As if . Under the pale, anemic light of the half-moon, it looked fragile, like a secret waiting to be ripped open .

Claire’s eyes gleamed, a manic excitement flickering there that mirrored my own. She lived for this, just like me—the raw, unholy thrill of the hunt. I gave her a sharp nod, and we moved as one, slipping through the gate and around to the back, silent and lethal. Her hands worked the lock with cold precision, and the faint click of the door releasing felt like the trigger on a loaded gun.

Inside, the air was stale, suffocating. The silence pressed in, daring us to shatter it. Claire moved left, her knife glinting like a fang in the dark, while I stayed to the shadows, my ears straining for the faintest sound.

There it was. A creak from upstairs.

The anticipation burned through me, dark and twisted , as I climbed the stairs, each step a countdown to chaos. At the top of the landing, he was there—halfway down the hall, confusion blooming into fear as he saw me. That look? Fucking priceless .

He moved, wild and clumsy, a man running on panic instead of sense. I closed the distance before he could think, catching his wrist mid-swing and twisting until I felt the pop. He screamed, the sound smothered by the weight of my palm over his mouth. His other hand flailed, weak and desperate, clawing at me like a trapped animal.

“Not tonight,” I hissed through clenched teeth, my grin stretching wide as I drove him to the floor. The terror in his eyes? Pure goddamn fuel . He squirmed, scratched, fought like it mattered. It didn’t.

Claire appeared behind him, her blade gleaming under the faint moonlight spilling through the window. She pressed it to his throat, her expression detached, ice-cold. She didn’t say a word—just nodded, giving me the green light.

I leaned down, close enough to feel his rapid, shuddering breaths on my face. “Got something to say?” I growled, my voice low and sharp. “Come on. Let’s hear it.”

He choked on his own fear, stammering something incoherent, pathetic . I laughed, low and cruel, before driving my knee harder into his chest. His breath hitched, his struggles weakening.

This was it. The high. The rush. The beast inside me clawing its way free .

And in the back of my mind, just beneath the chaos, Amelia’s face lingered. Her voice, her fucking pull , wrapping around my throat. Even here , even now , she wouldn’t let me go.

Without hesitation, I swung my fist, driving it into his jaw with a sickening crack. Once. Twice. Three times. Each blow came harder than the last, bones crunching beneath my knuckles, his face collapsing into a swollen, bloody ruin. The bastard didn’t even scream by the end—he just sagged, limp and useless, like a broken marionette. And fuck, the rush hit me like a freight train. That deep, snarling satisfaction tore through me, hot and raw, lighting up every nerve in my body.

Claire stood back, silent, her face unreadable but her eyes sharp. She didn’t flinch when I delivered the final blow—a wet, hollow thud that echoed in the stillness. When it was done, I wiped my hands on his shirt, leaving him sprawled on the floor, lifeless and pitiful. The silence wrapped around us again, thick and suffocating, but I didn’t mind. I liked it. It felt… right .

Maybe he was innocent. Hell, maybe he had a family or some shitty sob story. I don’t fucking know. I don’t fucking care . Remorse ? Regret ? People always talk about that weight, that crushing guilt that keeps them up at night. Me? I sleep like a fucking baby. There’s no burden, no invisible chain dragging me down. Just the high—the sharp, electric thrill of watching life slip out of someone’s eyes, of knowing they’re mine in that final moment.

When I was thirteen, they tried to pin labels on me. ‘Antisocial personality disorder,’ ‘sociopathy,’ all those clinical buzzwords that made them feel smart. Like I was a goddamn puzzle they could solve. But it wasn’t complicated. It wasn’t some deep mystery. I did what felt right. Natural .

The first time was a classmate. Some smug little shit with a slurp that grated on my nerves like sandpaper. Every obnoxious scrape of his spoon across his teeth was a countdown. By the time he started sucking air through his soup, my patience snapped like a frayed wire. I didn’t think. I just moved.

I was behind him before I knew it, grabbing a fistful of his hair, slamming his face into the table with a force that sent a shiver down my spine. The first hit was loud—wood meeting bone. The second sent a spray of blood from his nose. The third? That was the one that made him stop squirming, left him slumped and glassy-eyed in a pool of his own mess.

It took three teachers to drag me off him, screaming like they’d seen the fucking devil . Maybe they had. They looked at me like I wasn’t human, and maybe they were right. That’s when the therapy started. Weeks of bullshit questions from tight-lipped shrinks who thought they could fix me. They prodded at my past, my parents, my life, like they were searching for some buried trauma that could explain why I was so… wrong .

But there was nothing to find. Just me. This . I tried to explain it once, but they didn’t want to hear it. I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t sick. I was free . I didn’t have the chains that weighed everyone else down. No guilt, no hesitation. Just clarity . People weren’t people to me. They were pieces on a board, things to be manipulated, removed, destroyed.

That first time, with the slurping idiot? That was when I felt it—the high . That rush of power, pure and unfiltered, like a drug burning through my veins. Every time after that, it got easier, smoother, better . Like sharpening a blade with each cut.

Tonight was no different. As Claire and I stepped out into the cool night, the blood still drying on my knuckles, I caught her glance. She knew . She always knew. She didn’t need to say anything; the thrill was mutual, a language we both understood. But even as the buzz coursed through me, I knew where I was headed next.

Millie. Sweet, fucked-up Millie. The real thrill, the ultimate obsession . No matter how many faces I broke or lives I took, she was the fire I couldn’t put out. My chaos, my weakness, my addiction. And fuck if I didn’t love it.