Ghosts of Halloween: A Dark Why Choose Romance

Take care of you.

I don’t understand him. Why does he say all the right things? The things that I longed to hear ever since I lost Noah. Things that make me feel fragile, like I’m bleeding open. It’s like all the layers of armor I locked myself in are torn away.

Like he has the key to my soul.

His every word is right. His every touch is beyond perfection.

And as his fingers skim my temples, soft and tender, I suddenly still, a new thought making me buzz.

Am I dead?

I swallowed the pills. The world went black. And now, I am here, and someone I can’t see is giving me all the things I’ve ever needed. It’s impossible. It’s never happened, and I have long stopped hoping it ever would.

And yet…

My train of thought runs off track when two people enter the room. The man behind me exhales a sharp breath and brings his hands up, fingers skimming over my skin, leaving a trail of liquid heat in their wake, bright sparks exploding in my chest.

They stop on my throat, and he envelops it in his grip, long fingers squeezing lightly. I gulp against them, my pulse ratcheting up as I watch the newcomers.

They are men, and they wear masks. I shiver, my body responding automatically. All that… foreplay… priming me for something, and now I burn, wanting it viscerally. I crave more touch, more intimacy, for my clothes to be gone.

I shouldn’t, but I do.

The men stop and look at me. I pant in short, terrified breaths, my eyes fixed on their masks.

One is a skull, its skeletal mouth stretched in a grin. A pair of eyes flash in the eye sockets, seeming black in the shadow.

The man wearing the skull mask is shorter than the other one but taller than me. He’s sturdily built, with muscular arms and forearms, but the look of him isn’t gym-polished. He looks like a man who works with his hands, his skin tattooed and swarthy. His clothes are practical, faded jeans and a black T-shirt that stretches across his broad chest.

The other one is leaner and taller. His skin is fairer, and his mask is a strange thing. A white oval marked with uneven red lines, it has narrow slits for the eyes and a gaping hole for his mouth. It looks creepy and uncanny, even worse than the skull.

This one wears black pants and a black button-up that molds to his upper body. There is a flash of color at his throat, a silk peacock-blue scarf. He crosses his arms and moves his head slowly, studying me from feet to head. I can’t see his expression, but his posture seems scornful.

The one with the skull mask stands tall but relaxed, his hands at his sides, head cocked to the side. He watches me, too.

I squirm under their gazes, my body hot and tingly. The warm breath on my nape makes me shiver, and I shift from foot to foot, wincing when that puts pressure on my harness. It’s so hot, so uncomfortable, I’d love to just crawl out of my clothes and skin.

I feel too much.

“Meet your demons,” the voice in my ear whispers, intimate and soft. “The Skullboy over there is Strangler. And the one with red marks is Butcher.”

I shiver, cold dread flowing down my limbs. The pain in my right hand comes back in full force, a freezing pressure squeezing my phantom fingertips, and I whimper, clenching the prosthetic palm until the pain grows. Then I release the hold.

The pain doesn’t let go.

“And who are you?” I ask, my voice shaky.

I need something to focus on, to take my mind off the agony. The names are threats, and they terrify me. Yet, I wonder what kind of crime he identifies with. The man who has the key to my body.

“I’m Groomer, princess,” he says, laughing quietly in my ear. “I promise you’ll see the irony later tonight.”

I frown. Groomer? That doesn’t sound like…

And then my eyes widen, and my cheeks heat. I think back, trying to figure out who he is. Was there a man who approached me when I was younger? A man who tried to groom me?

A face flashes in my mind, and I shake my head. I was nineteen. Not a kid.

And that man is gone.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers, tilting my chin gently so I look at the masked guys again. “Eyes on them. If you don’t look, I’ll make you.”

His hands are on my throat, a tight, commanding collar, and he squeezes until I wheeze.

“Get it, princess?” he asks, his voice no longer tender, a new menacing edge creeping in.

I nod as he loosens his hold, tears in my eyes.

Yes, I get it. Eyes open.

Strangler gets down on his knees, and Butcher unbuckles his belt. A breath hitches in my throat, and truth is, Groomer didn’t have to threaten me.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

I can’t resist looking.