Chapter 34 34
(Warning: This chapter focuses on an unexpected nightmare and BDSM dream. Sensitive and strictly 18+)
FREYA POV
“He… kills…”
My head mumbled those words again and again as I stared toward Steve’s room. One minute I was paralyzed by Diana’s voice in my head, and the next minute, my legs had carried me right to his door. I hesitated before opening it, my hand trembling on the knob.
I pushed the door open.
His scent hit me instantly—and for a second, I just stood there. closed my eyes and inhaled his scent deep, pulling it into my lungs. It felt wrong… but so good. Until a stubborn snap inside my head forced my eyes open. This is weird, Freya. Stop.
I opened my eyes instantly and moved quickly. I looked around his room—it was neat—and for whatever reason, my eyes went straight to the drawer beside his bed. I moved closer and pulled the drawer open.
Inside were several papers, until my gaze caught a photograph. And… it wasn’t just any photo. It was Mark. Looking dead… no… he was fucking dead. His body lay twisted on the ground in a pool of blood. His eyes were wide open but completely empty. Blood covered his chest and face. The image was so brutal.
“It can’t be.”
“S-teve…”
“Steve had actually done it.”
Horror slammed into my stomach like a fist. I felt sick, my throat tightening as I stared at the man who used to be my life, now just a piece of mangled meat on a glossy 4x6. My shaking fingers reached to pick up the photo, but—
Click.
The door opened behind me. I spun around in pure shock, the photo fluttering from my hand and landing face-up on the floor.
Steve stood there.
Our eyes met face to face. He looked like he’d just walked out of a war zone, soaked from head to toe. Water streamed from his dark hair, ran in rivers down his sharp jawline, and dripped onto the floor. His black shirt clung tightly to his body, revealing every hard muscle of his chest, his abs, and the thick veins running along his arms. At that exact moment, lightning flashed bright outside the window. Thunder cracked so loudly the whole house shook. Rain suddenly pounded the roof heavily.
Even though the sudden change of weather was scary, nothing terrified me more than Steve himself.
His eyes were pitch black—wild, empty of mercy, like something inside him had finally broken free. My heart cracked open at the sight. My gaze fell to his right hand.
He held a gun.
“Did you kill him…?” The words came out of my mouth slowly, even though every part of me screamed that he looked dangerous enough to end me right there.
He didn’t answer immediately. He just stared.
“You promised,” I said, my voice cracking with fresh anger rising through the fear. “You promised me you wouldn’t kill him. You looked me in the eyes and swore you wouldn’t fucking touch Mark. You said you’d leave him alone.”
His jaw clenched. Water dripped from his chin. I stepped forward instead of back—anger burning hotter than the terror.
“Answer me, Steve. Did you kill him? Did you put a bullet in him after you promised me you wouldn’t?”
But it was only a silence that stretched on between us while the rain pounded harder.
I closed my eyes in pain as tears flowed, before his voice snapped me back. He spoke, voice low and rough like gravel.
“I killed him because it was necessary. He didn’t deserve to keep breathing after what he did to you—after the blood he drew from you.”
“What”
My chest heaved. Tears stung my eyes, but they were angry tears now. “Necessary? You call murder necessary? You’re a monster. A fucking liar. You lied to me. You looked me in the face and lied.”
I stared straight into Steve’s eyes, searching for guilt or regret. The last thing I expected to see was remorse, but what hit me instead was anger—pure, burning anger. His jaw was locked tight, fists clenched at his sides like he was fighting not to explode.
“Don’t cry for him,” he growled quietly.
“What?” I said, shock twisting into a bitter smirk. “You’re angry?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me like the words I’d just said had cut deeper than anything else that night.
“You psycho,” I whispered.
“I hate you,” I said.
In two powerful strides, he suddenly closed the distance between us. His hand wrapped around my throat—not violently at first, but firm enough to pin me back against the wall. My back hit the surface with a thud.
“I said stop crying for him,” he repeated, his voice growing darker now.
Fear still clawed at me, but the heat low in my belly flared brighter. Shamelessly, my nipples tightened under my shirt. My thighs pressed together instinctively as wetness gathered between my legs. I hated my body for reacting this way.
I forced my tear-streaked eyes to meet his black gaze. “What if I don’t stop? What if I keep crying for the man you murdered? Will you kill me too?”
My voice shook, but I pushed the words out anyway. “Go ahead. Kill me, motherfucker. Do it.”
I watched as a slow, chilling smirk curled his lips—a cold, psycho smile. He released my throat and stepped back one pace. My heart raced, wondering what he was about to do. I trembled, but I refused to back down.
“Come on. Kill me. Do it.”
He reached behind his back and drew the gun from his waistband. He raised it and pointed it directly at my forehead. My breath froze in my lungs. He will really kill me. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the worst and waiting for the sound that would end everything.
But after about twenty seconds passed, a loud sound hit—not a gunshot, but the heavy thud of him clearing the table in one aggressive sweep. I opened my eyes slowly.
The table was bare now. In the center lay: thick coils of black rope, leather wrist and ankle cuffs, a short leather whip with multiple thin tails, shining metal nipple clamps, a silk blindfold, a powerful vibrating wand, and several other dark BDSM implements arranged like instruments of torment and pleasure.
I stared at them. Then I looked back at Steve.
His smirk widened—dangerous, possessive. “You’re dying tonight. But. You’re dying in a different way.”
Before I could speak or think, he shoved me toward the table. My hips hit the edge. I gasped.
His hands seized the front of my shirt and ripped it apart in one brutal yank. Buttons scattered across the floor. My bra was torn away next—
“No—” I protested but it came out weak and breathless.
He ignored it. While His fingers hooked into my pants and dragged them down roughly, tearing the seams in his haste. My panties followed—ripped clean off. I stood naked, skin flushed and prickling in the cool air.
He forced me down onto the table. The wood pressed cold against my back. He grabbed the rope and bound my wrists tightly above my head, securing them to the far legs of the table so my arms stretched taut. Then he spread my legs wide and cuffed my ankles, locking them open. I was completely exposed, helpless under his gaze.
Tears continued to fall, but my pussy throbbed, slick and aching. I hated how desperately I wanted this even as I hated him.
He tied the silk blindfold over my eyes. Darkness swallowed everything. Every sound, every touch became sharper.
His rough fingers trailed over my skin—slow at first, teasing. Then he pinched my nipples hard. I arched and cried out. The sharp sting arrowed straight to my core, flooding me with fresh wetness.
“You dare cry for a dead man,” he growled low against my ear, “but your cunt is dripping for the beast who ended him.”
The metal clamps snapped onto my nipples—biting pain that made me whimper and buck. Pleasure twisted violently with the hurt.
His palm cracked against my inner thigh—hard, stinging. Then the whip came, it was a light lashes at first across my breasts, my belly, my thighs. The strikes grew sharper. Each snap of leather against skin forced a gasp from me. My body jerked with every hit. Tears soaked the blindfold, but my hips lifted, chasing more.
“You love it,” he said. “Even when you hate me.”
I shook my head in denial. But the truth burned between my legs—yes. God help me, yes. I love it
Three thick fingers plunged into me without warning. He stretched me roughly, fucking me hard with his hand. His thumb circled my swollen clit in firm, relentless strokes.
I moaned brokenly. “Steve… please…”
The sound of vibrator hummed to life and he pressed it straight to my clit—. I screamed. The intensity overwhelmed me. My body shook as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter.
He kept whipping my ass while the vibrator tortured my clit—pain and ecstasy crashing together. Tears streamed harder. “Why… why does it feel so good?”
“Because you’re mine..,” he snarled.
He withdrew his fingers. Then his thick cock slammed into me in one deep, punishing thrust—filling me completely, stretching me to the edge of pain. He fucked me hard, relentless, the table creaking under the force of his hips.
He ripped the blindfold away. His eyes burned into mine—wild, possessive, consumed.
His hand wrapped lightly around my throat—enough to make my vision sparkle. He drove deeper, harder.
“Come for the beast who keeps you,” he commanded.
I was shattered.
I screamed his name as my pussy clenched around him in violent spasms, milking him tight. Wave after wave of release crashed through me. Wetness flooded between us, soaking the table.
He pulled out at the last moment. Hot cum spilled across my stomach…
“Oh fuck”
Then—
I JERKED AWAKE
My breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, like I had been drowning
I pressed my thighs together hard.
I was still dripping wet, folds slick and swollen from the dream that had felt so fucking real.
It was a dream.
Just a dream.
Again.