Chapter 79 - Erasing Elijah R18

Chapter 79 - Erasing Elijah R18

Edward’s POV

I saw Elijah’s seed painted across her thighs, dripping down her legs in a slow, obscene stream. And then he had the guts to tell me to make him get away from Erica. My Erica. My vision tunnels to red.

Elijah is still draped over her, knot-deep, chest heaving, too spent to do anything. Good. One less issue for me to deal with.

I cross the room in a blink. My hand closes around the back of his neck (cold, unyielding). He manages half a snarl before I rip him off her. The wet sound of separation is vulgar. Erica cries out, empty and aching, but I don’t look at her yet. I can’t.

Elijah stumbles, tries to square up, but his legs betray him. He’s drunk on endorphins and blood loss and the sheer stupidity of thinking he could mark what’s mine. I drive my fist into his temple (once, clean). He drops like a corpse.

I drag him by the collar, hurl him through the splintered doorway into the corridor. Nurses shriek and scatter. I slam what’s left of the door shut, wedge a steel cabinet against it for good measure. No one is interrupting this.

Only then do I turn to her.

Erica is curled on the ruined bed, knees drawn up, trembling so hard the metal frame rattles. Elijah’s cum is still leaking out of her, pooling beneath her hips. Bite marks bloom purple across her throat, her breasts, her shoulder (his teeth, his claim). My fangs ache so violently I taste blood where I’ve pierced my own lip.

She looks up at me, eyes glassy with tears and guilt. “Edward—”

I don’t speak. I can’t. If I open my mouth right now, I will either shatter or destroy her, and I’m not sure which would be worse.

I scoop her into my arms. She’s burning hot, feverish, shaking. The hospital gown is in tatters; I strip the remnants away and carry her naked through the side door into the private shower suite reserved for critical cases. The lights flicker on automatically (cold, clinical white).

I set her on her feet beneath the showerhead and crank the water scalding. She flinches as it hits her skin, then sags against the tile. I step in behind her fully clothed; I don’t trust myself to be skin-to-skin yet.

Dark rivers of blood and semen swirl down the drain. I take the removable showerhead, angle it between her thighs, and watch the evidence of him rinse away. She whimpers, legs buckling. I caught her by the waist with one arm, and I kept cleaning her with the other.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Edward, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t stop…I tried…he just…”

I still say nothing. I drop the showerhead, letting it dangle and spray wildly. My hands move to her hair, working shampoo through the tangled strands, washing the battle and the wolf out of her. My fingers are gentle only because if I let them tighten I’ll bruise her worse than he did.

She keeps apologizing, words tumbling over themselves. “The mark was gone and I thought…I thought maybe it would be easier to choose, but then he came in and I just…I needed—”

I finally speak, low and cold. “I was hoping when the mark burned out, what you felt for him would burn with it.” I tip her head back under the spray, watch water stream over the bite marks he left. “Clearly I was wrong.”

She tries to turn, to face me, but I pin her shoulders to the tile. My voice drops to something rawer. “Three centuries of watching you die and the second you have some relief from that curse’s leash, you spread your legs for that mutt.”

Tears mix with the water on her cheeks. “I don’t know what I feel anymore. I’m scared and I’m tired and I—”

I cut her off with my mouth.

The kiss is not gentle. It’s punishment and apology and three hundred years of starvation colliding. She sobs into it, clutching at my soaked shirt. I bite her lower lip until I taste blood (mine this time), then lick it away.

My hands slide down her slick body, cup her ass, lift her against the wall. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively. I’m hard as a rock and the thin barrier of my trousers is torture.

“I’m going to erase him,” I growl against her throat. “Every place he touched you, every place he came inside you, I’m going to overwrite it until you forget his fucking name.”

She moans, hips rolling, seeking friction. I rip my belt open, shove my trousers down just far enough. My cock springs free, flushed dark, aching. I don’t ease in. I drive into her in one brutal stroke, burying myself to the root.

Erica screams, nails raking my back through wet fabric. She’s swollen, oversensitive from Elijah, and still so tight it borders on pain. I don’t care. I pull back and slam in again, setting a ruthless pace, water pounding over us both.

“Look at me,” I snarl.

Her eyes fly open, blue, blown wide with lust and guilt and surrender. I hold her gaze while I fuck her, letting her see every filthy thing I’ve wanted.

“I wanted to bend Enid over the altar the night she chose me,” I rasp, thrusting so deep her breath hitches. “Wanted to fuck her until the candles guttered out.”

I shift my grip, spread her wider, change the angle until she sobs.

“I wanted to tie her down and drink from her cunt while she begged. I wanted to watch her come apart on my tongue and then my cock and then my fingers in her ass until she couldn’t remember her own name.”

She’s shaking her head, pleading, but her body betrays her, her hips grinding down to meet every punishing thrust.

I slide one hand between us, gather her slick and my own pre-cum, then lower, pressing a finger against that untouched ring of muscle. She jolts, eyes rolling back.

She comes with a shattered cry, walls clamping around my cock, milking me. I follow her over, sinking my fangs into her throat as I spill deep, pulse after pulse, branding her from the inside.

I keep moving through both our orgasms, finger crooking inside her ass, cock dragging against every sensitive spot until she’s sobbing from overstimulation. Only when she goes limp in my arms do I still.

We stay there, pinned to the tile, water cooling around us. My finger slips free; I soothe the sting with gentle circles. She’s trembling again, but this time it’s not fear.

I press my forehead to hers, voice barely audible over the dying spray.

“You are not Enid,” I say, and it hurts to admit. “You are a whole lot better, my love.”