Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

CRUZ

I 'm finally at peace—happy even—but it doesn't last, like all good things we work hard for. Sooner or later, the tables turn against us. A part of me isn't even surprised when Marshall's crackling voice pulls me from my blissful dreams.

"What's this, Cruz?"

I'm lying on my front with my arms tucked under the pillow. The quilt shifts around my hips as I stir. Fuck, I could sleep all day. Marshall was out like a light after I sucked him off in the early hours, determined to wring a second orgasm out of him. A week has passed since he admitted that he's mine, and I've made him say it, again and again, every chance I get, oftentimes when my dick is buried deep in his ass and he's coming all over himself.

I rub my face against the soft fabric at the sound of Marshall's haunted voice before peering over my shoulder. He holds up the blood-splattered jigsaw mask in his trembling hand, and I shift onto my back.

My heart thuds as I take him in. This is really fucking bad. The way he looks at me now is different than when he saw me with a woman between my legs. Fear mixes with betrayal in his eyes, and I know I'm at risk of losing him if I don't silence the voices in his head. I should have burned the mask instead of hiding it in my closet, but a part of me—a sinister, self-indulgent part—enjoys revisiting that night and the lengths I'll go to protect what's mine.

"You promised me you didn't kill her, Cruz."

"Did I? Must have slipped my mind." Tossing the quilt to the side, I slide out of bed and unfold like a lazy cat as I rise to my full height. Marshall swallows and drops his eyes to my hardening dick. I've never been prouder of my physique than I am now as the mask shakes in his grip. I know what he sees: the mussed-up hair, the rippling muscles, the arousal.

When I eat up the space between us, his breath hitches and he darts to the left, but I intercept him. "Where are you going, Marshall?"

"You're sick, Cruz."

My head tilts a fraction. "You make me sick."

He tries to escape past me again, but I shove him back, causing him to stumble against the dresser and knock over the items on top. I grip his jaw and sink my teeth into his bottom lip, rolling my hips into his, and he whimpers into my mouth.

This is what I love the most—the push and the pull.

"Stop pretending you don't love it," I whisper, pressing my lips to his ear and feeling his heart pound. "You're sick too, Professor."

He doesn't fight me as I pull the bloodied jigsaw mask from his fingers, and a tremor runs through him when I slip it on. He tracks my every move, his eyes glassy with tears, but beneath the fear is something far more delicious.

My exhales waft against the inside of the mask as he gulps, taking me in—the dried blood, the truth that stares back at him, the obsession that clings to my fingers.

He's right. I am sick.

Very fucking sick.

Grabbing him in a chokehold, I dig my fingers into the sides of his neck. He grapples with my wrist, but there's no real struggle behind his fight. "I'll kill anyone who tries to steal what's mine," I say, palming his hard shaft and stroking the length through his underwear. "You can pretend I'm sick and that you want to escape, but we both know you won't call the cops because you're as sick as me."

"I'm not," he tries to argue, but I tighten my grip on his throat.

"No?" I let him go just as fast and step back. "Go ahead then. Run."

MARSHALL

His gaze drops to the wet patch on my boxers. I can barely stay upright when he hums, dripping sex behind the mask. "What are you waiting for?" he asks, fisting his cock and sliding his big hand over the length. I stay rooted. Seconds pass while my heart thrashes madly. I should leave. Cruz is a killer. Fuck… The crimson on his mask turns my blood to ice. But my dick throbs harder than ever, soaking the fabric. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I not running? Why is my head such a mess? I have a choice to make—run or stay? Go with logic or sink deeper into this madness?

Inhaling a steadying breath, I hook my thumbs into my waistband and push them down my thighs in an act of surrender. His bloodied mask tilts to the side as though he's observing every quivering exhale, every trembling muscle, and every flicker of fear.

He will never let me go, and I'm not sure I want him to.

"Why me, Cruz?" My boxers pool around my ankles, and I palm my cock, sucking in a breath as pleasure heats my core. "I'm no one special."

His hand pauses on his dick before he resumes stroking it in long pulls. "That's where you're wrong, Marshall." Stepping closer, he knocks my hand from my dick and lines his length up with mine. Sliding and rubbing, he wets his lips. "You're worth everything."

The next glide of his cock has me seeing stars. I reach out to touch him, but he grabs my wrists in one of his hands and guides them behind me. Then he thrusts against me until I tremble, fighting against his grip on me.

I stare at the blood splatter on his creepy mask—the horror and depravity. This is sick, sick, sick. He wore that mask when he killed someone because of his fixation with me, yet here I am with my weeping dick and choppy breaths. He fucks me up with his thrusting hips and rippling muscles?—

The door handle rattles, and I freeze.

"Cruz, are you awake?"

No…

My blood runs cold when the handle rattles again. Cruz spins me around and clamps his hand over my mouth. Sliding his fingers beneath his mask, he spits.

His damp touch against my ass crack makes me tense up, but I breathe deeply through my nose and force my body to relax as he primes my ass.

"Saliva will have to do this time," he says, his fingers digging into my cheeks. "This will hurt."

"Cruz?" I ask, and the door rattles again. I squeeze my eyes shut, aroused, scared, and riddled with guilt for letting a cold-blooded killer with a twisted obsession have his way with me. But fuck me, the guilt hurts so damn good.

He feels so good.

"Fuck," he breathes, filling me up with his dick while his fingers twitch on my mouth and bruise my hip.

I breathe through the burning pain as my cock throbs.

I've never felt a desire like this before. Never felt so needy, ruined, and horny. I want him to take and take and take.

The footsteps outside the door retreat and relief floods through me, but it's short-lived. Letting go of my hip and fisting my sweaty hair, Cruz pulls out to the tip, then slams back inside me. The dresser knocks against the wall, and I shiver when I glance at the oval mirror mounted before us, seeing him behind me—the jigsaw mask, the thundering pulse in his throat, the beading sweat on his shoulders, and his flexing muscles. He's a nightmare.

I never want to wake up.

"Fuck, you take me so well, Marshall." His voice is breathy beneath the mask. Breathy and husky. "I always knew you were made for me."

I groan as my scalp prickles with a delicious sting from his tight grip.

"I like seeing you come apart for me, Professor."

The dresser knocks harder against the wall, and the thought of being discovered by his father—my best friend—hardens my dick to the point of pain. Fisting my aching length with a quivering hand, my breaths gust against Cruz's hand.

I've never known pleasure like this.

My thighs shake, my eyes roll, and my scalp burns.

I need more.

"Cruz," I moan, his name muffled.

"That's it," he praises, burying himself to the hilt and grinding deep, before pulling out and rubbing the crown over my gaping exit. "You want me to fill this hole with cum?"

I nod, watching him in the mirror.

Staring back at me from beneath the mask, his eyes burn with a fire I feel in my core. Easing his grip on my damp hair, he slides his hand down to grip my nape and then slams my cheek against the dresser. I gasp, trembling at the act of violence.

Fuck, I want more.

"Be good for me, Marshall, and paint this dull dresser in cum, will you?" He enters me again in a slow tease, a deep slide of his thick cock that has me trembling like a leaf.

Groaning, I feel my dick twitch in my hand right before cum erupts over the mahogany wood. Cruz isn't far behind. He slams into me harder and faster, and the dresser crashes against the wall until he finally stills. His dick pulses inside me, my cheek still pressed against the hard surface, but I don't dare lift my head and face the reality of my actions. I let a monster devour me and feast on my essence until there's nothing left but insanity.

"Fuck," he breathes as the mask falls to the floor. His warm lips descend on my back, his tongue swirling over each vertebra, higher and higher. He pauses between my shoulder blades, and I hold my breath, sensing the shift in the air as he whispers, "I love?—"

The door crashes open in a cloud of broken wood and shouts. It all happens so fast. One moment, I'm coming down from my high, and the next, armed officers storm the room and handcuff Cruz while he stares at me, his bed hair falling over his eyes. He's still naked, and sweat glistens on his broad chest. They lead him outside while reading him his rights, but all I can see is his broken father in the doorway.

Karl watches them leave before his shuttered gaze slowly skates back in my direction, and he fists his hands at his sides. He stares right through me as though he never knew me, and my heart splinters when he asks, "Who are you?"

I've never felt so naked or ashamed. We've been best friends since we were kids, yet here I am, covering my softening dick with my hands, with the proof of his son's bruising touch on my skin. I open my mouth to reply, but he beats me to it.

"You fucked my son."

I want to offer excuses, to erase the pain in his eyes, but all I can do is drop my gaze to the floor. The mask taunts me with its sinister smile that turns the fading desire to ice.

That's the problem with the darkness—sooner or later, dawn arrives to chase the shadows away.

Who are we when faced with the truth of ourselves?

"You fucked my son!"

Flinching, I take the blow like a punch to my heart.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, kicking the mask under the dresser.

"You're sorry?"

I deserve the anger lacing his voice. I even welcome it.

He stares at the empty hallway, the seconds extending into minutes. The distance between us widens. Officers enter and exit the room. I'm handed clothes and told to come to the station for a witness statement. I'm numb as I collect the mask off the floor and hide it in a piece of clothing. Some confused part of me wants to protect Cruz, even now, as I wait for my childhood friend to talk. If anyone finds it, it's game over.

When Karl slams the full weight of his pained eyes on me, I allow his devastation to cut me wide open. "Stay away from my family." Then he's gone, and I'm left in the ruins of my bad decisions. I was right all along.

I would lose everything.