Chapter 50: Chapter fifty

“Oh, I do,” Grey murmured, voice low and velvet-soft. “Just not the kind you’re imagining.”

Oliver’s lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smirk. He leaned in until their bodies brushed, intimate and taunting.

“Then tell me, Grey… what kind of vengeance do you think I deserve?” His voice dropped to a velvet purr. “I did kill your mate, didn’t I?”

In a heartbeat, Grey had him pinned hard against the edge of the table. Oliver’s right leg was caught, hooked high around Grey’s waist by a grip that felt more possessive than punishing. He bent close, his breath hot against Oliver’s ear.

“You were drunk.” The words came out quiet, almost tender. “You drank too much. Things got out of hand. Accidents happen when someone’s that far gone. It’s not exactly a new story.”

Oliver tilted his head to the side.

Why did it sound like Grey was trying to make him rehearse excuses—like he was trying to bury Oliver's own crime under cheap, convenient lies?

“And what if I…” Oliver let the sentence drift, dangerous and playful. His index finger traced a lazy line down to his own pocket. Then, in one smooth motion, the knife flashed out—edge kissing the skin just above Grey’s heart. “What if I stabbed you right now?” he whispered. “Still just… an unfortunate drunken incident?”

Grey didn’t flinch. His fist closed around Oliver’s hand, tightening, guiding the blade inward. The knife sank deeper into his chest, warm blood blooming across the white singlet, seeping through to stain his black jacket.

Oliver flinched.

Just slightly.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He’d meant to tease him, push him, see how far Grey would bend. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected Grey to accept it.

For a heartbeat, real worry flickered in Oliver’s eyes. Then it vanished, the playful, careless gleam slid back into place as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just watched his own knife sink into flesh.

On any other night, Grey might have missed that fleeting fracture.

Tonight he didn’t.

He held Oliver’s gaze, blood warm against both their hands, and spoke so softly it was almost cruel: “See?” Grey said quietly. “Still an accident.”

Grey’s grip tightened—not around the knife this time, but around Oliver’s waist. Steady. Grounding. As if the pain in his chest was nothing more than an inconvenience. Blood dripped to the floor between them, slow and obscene. Grey’s breath hitched once—just once—before he leaned in closer, forehead brushing Oliver’s temple.

Grey’s fingers slid up, closing around Oliver’s wrist with a grip that was firm but strangely careful. He eased the knife back out in one slow, deliberate pull. The wet, sucking sound of metal leaving flesh made Oliver’s stomach twist in a way he refused to name.

The blade clattered against the floorboards, spinning once before coming to rest somewhere unimportant. Blood welled fresh from the wound, dark and steady, but Grey didn’t even glance down at it.

“Why did you stop?” Grey asked, voice low, almost gentle. “If you really wanted me dead… you wouldn’t have hesitated.”

Oliver stared at the spreading crimson on Grey’s chest, at the way it soaked through fabric like it belonged there. His mouth felt dry. The adrenaline was crashing now, leaving something raw and unsteady behind his ribs.

“Maybe I should’ve buried it deeper,” Oliver said, the words coming out quieter than he meant. “That was a mistake on my part.”

A beat of silence stretched between them—thick, electric, dangerous.

Grey’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. More like the shadow of one. “You’re a terrible liar when you’re bleeding on someone else’s behalf.”

He stepped closer again, crowding Oliver back deeper against the table until there was nowhere left to retreat. One blood-slick hand rose to cup the side of Oliver’s face—thumb dragging slowly across his cheekbone, leaving a faint red smear like war paint.

Oliver’s breath hitched. He hated how easily his body responded, how the anger and guilt and want all knotted together until he couldn’t tell them apart. Was the alcohol he had overdrunk finally affecting him too late?

Grey’s thumb continued tracing the smear of blood on Oliver’s cheek again—slower this time, almost meditative. His gaze dropped to Oliver’s mouth, then lower, lingering on the way Oliver’s chest rose and fell too fast, too unsteady.

“You got so fucking drunk,” Grey said, voice dropping into something rough and velvet-black, “that you accidentally killed Diana.”

He leaned in until their lips were a breath apart.

“And now you almost stabbed me to death.”

A dark, crooked smile ghosted across his face.

“Seems like I need to fuck the alcohol out of you, love. Properly. Until you can’t even remember how to hold a knife anymore—until the only thing shaking in your hands is me.”

Oliver’s eyes gleamed, dark and fever-bright, the playful cruelty curling back into place like a blade sliding home. “Quite the nice idea,” he murmured, voice low and syrup-sweet, the words dripping with something viciously intimate. “How about we address Diana with quite the performance tonight?”

He leaned in until his lips brushed Grey’s ear, breath hot and deliberate.

“Fucking me next to her corpse, huh? Let her watch. Let her see exactly what kind of monster she left behind… and what kind I made.”

The air between them turned molten, thick with the weight of sacrilege and shared sickness.

Grey went still for a heartbeat—only a heartbeat—then a slow, dangerous smile split his face. Something feral and reverent flickered in his eyes at once.

Now he was certain—the man standing in front of him wasn’t truly Oliver. The body was the same. The bond still burned, squeezing Grey’s heart and setting it ablaze in that way only Oliver ever could. No one else had that power over him. But something was missing. This Oliver was sharper, colder, his confidence too deliberate, his cruelty too controlled—as if another personality had taken over. His Oliver had lost his memories, and there was no telling when, or if, he would return.

Grey’s chest tightened.

He didn’t know whether he was facing the man he loved… or a stranger wearing his skin.

Either way, they were both his.

“You’re fucking depraved,” Grey rasped.

Oliver’s laugh was soft, jagged, delighted.

“Takes one to know one.”

Grey’s hand slid from Oliver’s throat to fist in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to expose the long line of his throat. He dragged his mouth down the column of it—teeth grazing, tasting salt and faint copper from earlier—before biting down hard enough to bruise.

Oliver hissed, hips jerking forward instinctively.

“Bedroom’s too tame for that,” Grey growled against his skin. “We do this right. Deeper into the courtyard. Moonlight on her. Moonlight on you while I ruin you over the spot where she bled out.”

Oliver’s breath came out in a shuddering exhale.

His fingers dug into Grey’s shoulders, nails biting through fabric and into skin.

“Promise you’ll make me scream loud enough she hears it in whatever hell she’s rotting in.”

Grey pulled back just far enough to meet his gaze—eyes black with hunger, promise, and something that looked dangerously close to worship. “I’ll make you scream my name,” he said softly, voice wrecked and velvet-dark. “While you’re coming apart on my cock—until it’s the only word left in your throat. And when you can’t even remember anything else… that’s when we’ll call it punishment.”

Grey's grip tightened around Oliver's wrist, pulling him closer to the corpse with a force that made Oliver stumble forward, their bodies colliding in a heated rush. The air hung heavy, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the sharp scent of arousal. Moonlight spilled through the courtyard, casting a pale, ethereal glow over Diana's corpse sprawled on the floor—her skin waxy and still, eyes vacant, a dark stain pooling beneath her where Oliver's drunken blade had ended her.

Grey shoved Oliver down onto the cold hardwood beside her, the impact jarring a gasp from Oliver's lips. He didn't give him time to recover. Kneeling over him, Grey pinned Oliver's wrists above his head with one massive hand, the other ripping at Oliver's shirt. Buttons scattered like fleeing insects, fabric tearing with a satisfying rip to expose Oliver's chest—pale skin marked with faint scars from past fights, nipples hardening in the chill air.

"Strip the rest," Grey said, his voice a low rumble, eyes locked on Oliver's face, searching for any flicker of the man he knew beneath this sharp-edged stranger. Oliver's lips curved into that vicious smile, but his hands obeyed, fumbling with his belt, shoving pants and underwear down in one frantic motion. His cock sprang free, already hard and leaking pre-cum at the tip, curving up against his stomach.

Grey's own arousal throbbed painfully in his jeans. He released Oliver's wrists long enough to yank off his shirt, muscles flexing under scarred skin, then kicked off his boots and shed his pants. His cock hung heavy between his legs, thick and veined, the head flushed dark with need. He grabbed Oliver's thighs, spreading them wide, knees pressing into the floor on either side of Diana's lifeless form. The moonlight painted Oliver's body in silver, highlighting the curve of his hip, the shadow between his legs where his ass clenched in anticipation.

Grey spat into his palm, slicking his fingers before pressing two against Oliver's entrance. He pushed in without warning, the tight ring of muscle resisting then yielding with a burn that made Oliver arch off the floor, a moan escaping his throat. Grey twisted his fingers, scissoring them roughly, stretching Oliver open while his thumb brushed over the sensitive skin behind his balls. Oliver's hips bucked, pushing back onto the intrusion, his nails scraping down Grey's arms, leaving red trails.

"That's it," Grey growled, adding a third finger, thrusting them deep and curling to hit that spot inside that made Oliver's vision blur. Oliver's breath hitched, body trembling, but his eyes stayed on Diana, the sacrilege fueling the heat coiling in his gut. "Feel how wet you're getting for this? For me ruining you right here."

Oliver's response was a ragged laugh, broken by a gasp as Grey's fingers withdrew. "Do it, then. Fuck me like you mean it."

Grey positioned himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging Oliver's hole. He thrust in hard, burying half his length in one brutal push. Oliver cried out, the sound raw and echoing off the walls, his ass clenching around the invasion. Grey paused, panting, savoring the vise-like grip, the way Oliver's body fought and then surrendered. Then he snapped his hips forward, slamming home until his balls slapped against Oliver's skin.

He set a rough rhythm immediately. Each thrust drove Oliver into the floor, the wood creaking under them, inches from where Diana lay. Grey's hands braced on either side of Oliver's head, caging him in, his body a wall of muscle and heat. Sweat slicked their skin, moonlight turning it to liquid silver as Grey pounded into him, cock dragging against Oliver's walls, hitting that prostate with every inward stroke.

Oliver's legs wrapped around Grey's waist, heels digging into his back, urging him deeper. His cock trapped between their bodies, it slid against Grey's abs with each thrust, smearing pre-cum in sticky trails. "Harder," Oliver demanded, voice cracking, his playful cruelty fracturing under the onslaught. "Make it hurt."

Grey's hand shot to Oliver's throat, squeezing just enough to make stars burst behind Oliver's eyes. He leaned down, capturing Oliver's mouth in a bruising kiss—teeth clashing, tongues battling as Grey fucked him relentlessly. The bond between them pulsed, a live wire of possession and pain, Grey's heart aching with the uncertainty. Was this the Oliver he knew? It didn't matter. This body, this soul—twisted as it was—belonged to him.

Oliver's free hand clawed at Grey's back, drawing blood, the sharp sting only spurring Grey on. He released Oliver's throat to grab his hips, angling him higher, driving even deeper. The wet sounds of skin slapping skin filled the yard, mingling with Oliver's moans—growing louder, more desperate. "Grey—fuck, Grey—" The name tore from him like a prayer, his cock pulsing, on the edge.

Oliver's stomach churned, not from the sight, but from the relentless pounding of Grey's thick cock slamming into his ass. Each drive stretched him wide, the burn turning to a raw ache that radiated through his core. Grey didn't hold back, his hips snapping with savage rhythm, balls slapping against Oliver's skin. The alcohol Oliver had chugged two hours ago—cheap whiskey to numb the dread of this night—sloshed inside him, threatening to rise. He gagged, trying to swallow it down, but Grey's next thrust hit deeper, harder, grinding against that spot that made stars explode behind his eyelids.

Oliver turned his head to the side and retched, the burn in his throat matching the one in his hole. Vomit surged up, the bitter taste of booze and bile spilling from his lips onto the floor in a messy puddle. And when Grey paused his thrusts in worry, Oliver glared at him, making Grey resume his rough thrusts and soon after,

Oliver shattered with a guttural yell, body convulsing as cum shot from his cock in thick ropes, splattering Grey's chest and stomach. His ass spasmed, milking Grey's length, pulling him over the edge. Grey thrust deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came, flooding Oliver with hot spurts, groaning low and broken. He collapsed forward, their bodies slick and spent, pressed together in the moonlight's glow.