Carved (Ghosts of Halloween Book 2) by Layla Fae

Author:Layla Fae [Fae, Layla]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-10-16T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Jack

The wail that tears out of her throat sounds inhuman. I thought I saw her in anguish before, but I was wrong. I can see how Silas’s words destroy her from within, everything exploding, folding in on itself, until she’s on the floor, beating it with her fists.

And something strange happens. I thought I was over it. I thought I forgave her. But Silas’s little speech dug out the cold fury inside me, and I’m surprised at how strong it still is. Seeing her practically crawling out of her skin now that she knows what she did to us makes me eager for more. Fuck, I want to see her bleeding. I want to be the one delivering the blow now.

And yet, I don’t want to see her hurt. It’s such a bizarre combination, I don’t know what to feel or do. I just watch her.

At that eerie moment, where satisfaction and desperate worry for Harlow war inside me, I notice with a detached sort of curiosity how different her hands sound when they hit the wood. The thuds of her prosthetic are more hollow, louder, and I wonder if she will damage it if she hits hard enough.

That would be a shame.

Still, I do nothing. A hot kind of triumph surges in my chest, and Harlow’s pain gives me so much pleasure, my cock twitches eagerly. After all, what Silas said is true. It is her fault. And I spent two years hating and craving her on top of four pining after her, and I don’t think any man, dead or alive, can handle something like this.

Harlow is why we’re dead. Her promiscuity and need for attention got us killed.

So I don’t rush to her side just yet. I let myself see it, truly see how knowing that makes her suffer. Is it cruel? I don’t know. I know I’ll be on my knees for her soon, doing my best to comfort her, but the dead, cold, bitter part of me, the part that suffered the most while trapped in this house for two years, is glad.

It’s cleansing to see that she cares. Her pain is punishment, and I revel in it. As I listen to Harlow’s animalistic howls, my need for retribution settles, something dark and hollow inside me partly satisfied.

With that, I finally move. I go to her, trying to get her in my lap and comfort her, but Harlow lashes out. She kicks me hard, making my breath rush out of me, and hits me blindly, her eyes unfocused, her mouth open with those desperate wails of pain.

“Fuck,” I mutter, hands clamping down on her wrists, one warm, one cold. I don’t want her to hurt herself, so I hold her hands down, but it’s difficult. Her body is suddenly powerful with everything she feels, and Harlow writhes in my grasp until I pant, the mere effort of holding her almost too much.

Fuck, she’s strong.

Then she lands another kick and I let go with a curse.

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