14. Mercy

FOURTEEN

MERCY

I freeze, meeting the renewed dare in his gaze.

He nods. "Crawl, Cyn. If you want my forgiveness… if you want your husband's cock… you'll crawl for it."

Part of me wants to spit at him and refuse. I don't think he'll really kill me, but can I say the same thing about Tommy? For all I know, he'a already dead, but if there's a chance he isn't…

I crawl. My back arched, ass sticking out, I still hold my head high as I crawl on my hands and knees through the woods of Halo Island to reach Clay's thick, hard cock.

He's fisting it, eyes fixated on every move I make. As I rise up on my knees, staring up through my lashes at him, I see his chest is heaving.

He wants this so bad.

I can use that.

"You're the only pussy I've ever had," he says roughly. "But you can't say the same about my cock, can you?"

Uh-oh.

Maybe I can't.

He's unpredictable. Ruthless. A killer.

I rest on my heels. "Clay?—"

"Sh, Cyn. Not right now. If you're going to open your mouth, I don't want to hear excuses. I just want you to suck me off. Here." He grabs his cock, angling it so that I can bob my head down and take him between my lips. He waits until I do, then throws back his head and groans. "See? A mouth like this? It can make me forgive a lot.

"But can it make me forget you cheated?" He strokes my temple before lowering his hand, closing my jaw around him. "Suck me like you mean it and we'll see."

I've blown Clay thousands of times. I know what he likes and how he likes it. It's almost habit, and as though five years haven't passed at all, I do just that.

I can't be doing that great of a job, though, because even as I cup his sac and hollow my cheeks, using every trick I have to make my husband lose him mine, all he does is degrade me for moving on.

Does he remember how much it turns me on for him to do that? Or is this how he really feels? I'm not sure, but with that knife as close as it is, I don't rise to the bait. I let him say whatever he wants while I bob my head on his cock.

"How long was I gone before you were fucking my best friend? How long before you took his cock like a dirty little whore? Did he make you scream, Cyn? The same way I do?" He fingers the hilt of his knife before twining his fingers through my hair. "I can make you scream now."

Fucking hell. I'm not even getting any stimulation out of this and my panties are soaked . When we were married, we didn't get the chance to explore alternative lifestyles like BDSM —there wasn't enough time for us—but I never came harder than when Clay took me like I was his property. His blonde sex doll who existed to be fucked by him.

Like he owned me, and would die if he couldn't shoot his load inside of me.

I get that sensation at this very moment, and even though I agrees to this for Tommy's sake, I forget all about him—until Clay speaks up again.

"Did you let Tommy fuck your mouth like this?" he asks, pumping in and out of me as I relax my jaw, letting him do just that now. "Did you worship his cock like it's your god and the fucking floor is your altar?"

Mouth stuffed full of Clay, I can't answer him, and I also know better than to let his dick slip from my mouth while he's using me.

I can tell myself it's to save Tommy's life all I want, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss this. Didn't miss Clay .

"My pretty little whore." He runs his fingers through my hair. "I know how much you like to fuck. Tell me… while I was gone, did you give him all of your holes?"

I moan around his cock. I don't mean to, but when I remember exactly what Clay means when he says ‘all' of my holes…

"Well? Tell me, baby."

I shake my head.

His eyes are insane, but they're also bright at that realization. "Ah. So there are still some things you know belong to your husband."

He's happy to hear that, but he's also on the edge of coming. I can sense it in the way he's just about touching the back of my throat, enjoying the sensation as I gag on his length, but he keeps fucking me while I cling to his thighs.

I expect him to keep going until he shoots his load into my throat. Only, that's the old Clay. The new Clay?

He taps my shoulder, the universal sign to release a cock during a blowjob.

Confused, but not willing to push him right now, I let him slip out from between my lips.

His voice is husky and full of need as he commands:

"Take off your sweater."

Puzzled but still willing to do what I'm told at this moment, I shrug off the red sweater.

He smiles when he sees my bra, but then his gaze dips, and his expression turns predatory. "You're still wearing my ring, Cyn."

Fuck. How did I forget? If I wanted to pretend I couldn't care less about Clay, taking his ring off might've been a good start… and then I early choke when I notice that Clay… he still has a wedding band on his fourth finger of his left hand.

Husband…

If he notices that I saw his ring, he doesn't react to it. "Maybe there's hope for you yet. And because you sucked my dick like a good girl, you get a present. I'm going to give you a pretty necklace to go along with it."

He punctuates his statement by grabbing his cock, twisting it, stroking it, tugging it until, before I know it, he's coming. Jets of semen shoot out of him, and he makes sure to get it all over my neck and chest.

When he's done, he crouches down, using the flat of his hand to rub in my brand new pearl necklace.

"You belong to me," he tells me in a tone that says he won't be dissuaded from this. "You always have. You always will."

That's what he thinks.

Coming down from his orgasm, Clay forgot for a moment who he was dealing with. Sure, I'll crawl to get what I want… but I'm no demure heroine.

I can fake it, though. Simpering, pulling an expression that tells me I'm dying for his forgiveness—and maybe his cock again—I whimper. "I was lonely. You were dead."

He stokes the edge of my jaw. "Does that give you permission to cheat? To fuck another man?"

"I didn't cheat. You left me, Clay. You were gone!"

"I know, baby. But I'm back. Fuck. My insecurities are my own problems. I'll get over them. I'll make ‘em up to you."

He can try. "You can't blame me for trying to move on," I tell him.

He leans closer to me, giving me the perfect angle I need. "You weren't supposed to. You're not allowed ."

And that does it.

Shooting my hand out, I grab Clay's knife by the hilt. I rear back, slashing wildly, kicking out at him when I make contact with his side. He grunts painfully, and I'm sure I got him, but I swipe again just in case to knock him back.

"You don't always get to tell me what to do," I tell him as he lands on his ass., clutching his side.

I drop the knife, grab my sweater, and run .

He laughs. Though I'm sure he'll be coming right after me, it's his voice that chases me through the woods first.

"There's the Cyn I went through hell to get back to," he calls out. "Keep running. Just know you're only making me want you more, baby."

I always thought gunshots rang out like fireworks: short bursts of loud noise that left an echo in its wake.

In a way, they are. But movies don't really sell how loud they are. When the two gunshots went off in quick succession, they noise scared me so badly, that I missed a step, fell on my knees, and had to push back up again to keep running.

I expected Clay to run me down. Sure, he was joking, laughing, teasing after I slashed at him—further proof that he's lost his mind—but after everything he said… he's coming for me. My only hope is to outlast him. Make it until morning. Get on the ferry and survive.

I'll be the final girl. Halo Island won't be the death of me.

That's what I'm thinking a split second before the shots exploded.

Bang.

Bang .

I'm thinking about how I am the final girl since Vee, Summer, and Madison are all murdered when the shots ring out, I go down, and all I can think now is that, in the horror movie, don't stumble. Don't fall. Don't look back.

Don't run off in search of the direction of gunshots.

But I have to. Tommy's out here in the woods somewhere. At least, I have to believe that because if Clay got to him before I could warn him… No. He's out here. He's safe.

Or he was.

Gunshots. I heard gunshots.

Chase had a gun. Unless he and Tommy got separated, they should be together.

I cling to that as I run. It's nowhere near where I left Clay, and right when I'm beginning to think my ears are off and I went in the totally wrong direction, I heard a strangled noise like an animal dying.

I immediately stop running. My heavy breathing makes it hard to hear, so I swallow it, forcing it down, going light-headed as I choose listening to my surroundings over trying to catch my breath.

There it is again. Right ahead of me?—

Oh. My. God.

I thought it was bad when I walked into Tyler's room and the rancid odor slapped me in the face. As I push past the trees, it's a hundred times worse—and we're outside. Why does it smell so bad?

I get my answer when I see another body.

Fuck.

The white polo tells me it's Chase unless, for some reason, he and Tommy changed. I look for his head, but it's hard to tell from where I am. He's curled up in the fetal position, head tucked, so if he has curls, I don't know.

I have to know.

What made that noise, I wonder. Did an animal come upon this scene, thinking it was getting a free meal from one of my friends, then catch the scent of death and absolute putrid shit on the air?

I'm breathing through my mouth until I get used to it. Can I get used to it? It doesn't matter. I just need to see who this is?—

A death rattle. A groan. A wordless please.

"Holy shit!"

That noise came from the body!

I run. Common sense says I should run back the way I came, not toward the body, but if there's any chance it's Tommy…

It's not. It's Chase.

His face is white, drawn into a mask of agony. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth. From the front, I notice what I missed in the back: two bullet holes in his white polo shirt, each one in a different shoulder. He got shot with his own gun considering that's the only weapon I see by his expensive loafer shoe.

But that's not the worst part.

He's curled up in the fetal position, not because of the gunshots that got him, but because he's cradling his…

His…

I heave. The smell was bad, but it's even worse when I look down and see parts of Chase Whitmore on the outside that should always be on the inside.

And he's still fucking alive? How?

I recoil. "Chase, oh my God… Chase? What happened to you?"

"Disembowelment," comes an answering voice. "Evisceration. Whatever you want to call it, someone cut him open like a fish, but it's not enough to die. Not right away, that is."

Torture. This is torture.

Aaron was drowned. Vee, pushed. Tyler probably died with the first stab to his heart. Summer had her throat cut—and her tongue cut out. Madison was slashed to ribbons. All quicker deaths, some more efficient than others.

But Chase…

"You did this to Chase? How?" The gunshots rang out from a different direction than where I left Clay. I know he didn't catch up to me right away, but how did he get over here, gut Chase, shoot chase, torture Chase… it's not possible, but I don't want to hear it when Clay shrugs and says, "I didn't."

I snap. Dropping to the grass, I grab the gun where the killer must've left it. Rising back up, I lift it, aiming dead at Clay. "Stop fucking lying to me!"

He steps closer, making himself a better target.

"You wouldn't dare."

My arms waver. The gun feels so heavy in my hands. So wrong . He's right, too. If I wanted to kill him, I could've. But when I see that smug face of his…

I'm shit with a gun. Why wouldn't I be? I'm a stay-at-home girlfriend who used to be a stay-at-home wife. I don't know how to use a gun.

Does Clay know that I've gone to the range to kill some time? If he stalked me like he claimed, he'd know that?

He waits.

I pull the trigger, careful to aim just over his head so I can have plausible deniability when it doesn't hit him, and?—

Shit.

Nothing happens.

I pull the trigger again, not even caring where I am now. It clicks, but no bullet leaves the round.

It's empty .

"It had six chambers! That's what you said," I say accusingly to the whimpering lump at my feet. Then I feel awful, like the worst person in the whole goddamn world, and fold in on myself.

Meanwhile, Clay twists his knife, making the moonlight dance off the pristine metal.

Pristine? If he gutted Chase, wouldn't it be covered in blood? Did he have time to clean that up, too?

"See?" he says. "That's why I went with a knife. Sure, you can get the job done for further away with the gun, but you run out of bullets or forget to reload when you're showing off to the girl of the week youre fucking, what then? The knife, on the other hand… it requires skill. Nerve. You gotta get close. You gotta not mind getting your hands dirty. Right, baby?"

"Shut up," I hiss. "You're sick. I can't… leave me alone, Clay. Leave me alone!"

"I can't. Don't you see that I can't? I thought I could. Since I knew I'd find my way back to you one day, I thought… a couple of years to make our marriage stronger? To make it so Cyn could never leave me? I thought I could do it." He gestures at his chest with his knife. "See this? This is what happens when I leave you alone."

Another terrible noise escapes Chase. His body jolted when I said Clay's name, almost as if—even in his agony, he's shocked to learn that my supposedly dead husband is here—and that noise is the death throes that wracked him as his body shook.

But then it dies, though Chase doesn't, no yet, and I swear I hear him whisper a name.

It's the last thing I want to do, but I throw Clay a quelling look, warning him not today another fucking word, then crouch down by the things that used to be Chase Whitmore.

His eyes are wide and staring, but he can still make out a name. "Tommy…"

"Sh," I say, trying to soothe him. "I'll find Tommy. It's going to be okay."

Clay snorts, the sick bastard enjoying this way too much. "Oh? So you're a liar, too, Cyn. Okay? Let's make this clear. He's not okay. He's not going to be okay. It can take hours for him to die like this. Bullets to the shoulders. Guts on the grass. He's dead, and he knows it."

" Tommy …"

"He can still talk?—"

"Of course. Because he's trying to tell you who did this to him." Ignoring my warning, Clay stomps closer, then kicks Chase in the knee. He whispered Tommy's name, but he howls in agony as the kick. Clay laughs. "Looks like Tommy finally got his revenge."

I goggle up at him. "What?"

Clay shrugs. "Fair enough. I did get the pleasure of breaking this prick's legs in high school. I wouldn't let Tommy help. He was too squeamish at the time, and I needed the outlet for my rage even then. Touching my girl, Chase? You had to know I couldn't let that stand." He scoffs. "You're just lucky I wasn't murdering then. That's a recent development." He glances at me. "For Tommy, too, it seems."

"But Chase isn't dead," I blurt out again.

"No," Clay agrees, offering me the hilt of his knife. "So why don't you finish the job?"

I step back. "Why would I do that?"

"Some might say it's mercy for an old friend. But we now better. It's for the same reason Tommy left him like this, then probably fired the gunshots for you to find him." He bares his teeth at me. " Revenge. "

I shake my head.

"Come on. You know you want to."

"I don't?—"

"Yes. You do. Remember what it was like to have your face in his lap."

My stomach rebels, and not only because of what Tommy—not Tommy, why Tommy—did to Chase. "Clay, please?—"

"He held you down, baby. Tried to fuck your mouth just like I did."

He's not listening to me and that makes me angry. I have the sudden urge to do the same. He's right. Chase is a goner, but Clay…

At the reminder of what we just did, I wipe my lips with the back of my hand. His semen is sticky on my chest, but until I can get away from Clay and wash it off, there's nothing I can do about that.

His eyes flash.

I rise up from my crouch, glaring at him. "What?"

"Don't," Clay says, his voice a warning. "Don't wipe me off of you unless you want me to mark you all over again. Let him suffer if you want. Fuck it. Let him watch as I make you mind again."

I gasp. "You wouldn't."

"I would. Oh, baby. I will ."

Chase whimpers again, but that's the only noise he makes..

But Clay's right about this, too. He is suffering. This is cruel. My Clay is fucking deranged, but he's never been cruel .

I stomp over to him.

He offers me the knife.

I take it, then shudder.

"If you want to make it quick, go for the throat. That's what I do."

Yeah. I know.

Fuck. Can I do this? I have nightmares about seeing my mother's body bobbing on the surface of the lake. The smell of Chase's guts will haunt me for the rest of my life. I don't need to add the sensation of drawing a blade across his throat, but the gun is empty because the dying idiot didn't reload his gun.

Who knows. Maybe Tommy would've unloaded the entire chamber in his to get my attention and I would've been left in the same situation.

Of course, that's assuming this isn't more fiction on Clay's part.

God, do I wish this was all fake…

Taking a shaky breath, I lower myself next to Clay again.

He has one more word for me: "Please…"

"You won't hurt anymore," I promise him.

"Or hurt anyone else, either," adds Clay in a sing-song voice.