Dead Daze – Pitch-Black Second Chance – Story Fodder Read Online J.A. Huss

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Dark, Insta-Love Tags Authors: J.A. Huss Advertisement

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A bench press bar to the throat. Quick. Efficient. Tragic gym accident, nobody's fault, terrible loss for the fitness community.

But that's not satisfying.

That doesn't account for him touching what's mine. Loading her luggage like some helpful fucking Boy Scout. Making her laugh—genuine laughter I haven't heard in months, maybe ever. Opening her door like a gentleman when he has no idea what she really needs, what she truly craves.

He doesn't deserve quick.

I could take my time instead.

I'd subdue him—chloroform, taser, doesn't matter. Wake up restrained in my barn. Confused, terrified, asking why the fuck I'm doing this.

Because you touched something that belongs to me.

Simple. Honest. He'd understand then, in those final hours.

I've never killed anyone in my barn before. Never needed to. The cabin's always been my personal space—retreat, refuge, the place I disappear to between jobs. The barn's just storage. Firewood. The industrial furnace I use for burning evidence from kills that happen elsewhere.

But it's got that walk-in freezer.

Previous owners were hunters. Elk, moose, whatever the fuck. Built the freezer custom, restaurant-grade cooling, thick insulation, heavy steel door with a manual lock from the outside.

Perfect for hanging a carcass while it ages.

Perfect for keeping a man alive while you work on him slowly.

I'm rock-hard, pulse pounding in my temples, cock straining painfully against my zipper. I drop into my chair and shove the waistband of my pants down roughly, freeing my erection. It springs up, already leaking. I wrap my fist around myself and start stroking—fast, rough, no finesse—while the images keep coming.

Ryan's blood spreading across frozen concrete. Steam rising from the spreading pool. His body convulsing as shock sets in, his pathetic attempts to beg through the gag becoming weaker, more desperate.

I'd take my time after that. Hours. Maybe days if I kept him conscious enough.

Peel his skin off in strips. Start with the fingers—those hands that touched her luggage, that opened her car door like he had any fucking right.

My hand moves faster now, rougher, punishing. I'm gripping myself so tight it almost hurts, but I don't ease up.

The images come quicker now, sharper.

Ryan screaming as I work the knife under his fingernails. Ryan thrashing when I remove his eyes with a melon baller. Ryan whimpering as I break every bone in his hands with a ball-peen hammer, methodical, thorough, crushing each knuckle individually.

I'd make art of his suffering.

Document every stage. Photographs. Video. Send them to Scarletta afterward so she understands what happens when other men think they can have her.

This is what I do to people who touch what's mine.

I imagine Ryan's final moments. Hypothermic, mutilated, barely conscious. I'd stand over him and jerk off, just like I did with Volk. Come all over his ruined face while he dies watching me.

The orgasm hits like a physical blow. I grunt, hips jerking up as I spill all over my hand, my shirt, my desk. Thick ropes of come painting my stomach while the fantasy plays out its brutal conclusion behind my closed eyes.

I keep stroking through the aftershocks, milking every drop while I imagine Scarletta finding out what I've done. The horror in her eyes. The knowledge that I'd kill anyone who tried to take her from me.

Finally spent, I slump back in my chair, cock still twitching, come cooling on my skin.

I don't feel shame.

I don't feel remorse.

I feel satisfied.

This is who I am. What I am. A man who gets hard imagining elaborate torture scenarios. A man who comes thinking about murder, and mutilation, and making people suffer for the crime of existing near what belongs to him.

I'm not going to apologize for it.

I'm not going to change, either.

This.

Is who.

I am.

Chapter 7

Scarletta

My new closet is insane.

Like, objectively ridiculous for someone who spent most of her adult life living in blanket forts and wearing her dead dad's hoodie for a week straight without showering.

But here I am, standing in front of it like I'm admiring art or something, staring at all my Vegas purchases hanging in perfect color-coordinated rows. The image consultant taught me that—organize by color family, then by occasion. Casual to formal. Light to dark.

I actually did it when I got home.

Unpacked everything immediately instead of leaving the suitcases on the floor for three weeks like I normally would. Hung every dress. Folded every shirt. Arranged my new shoes on the bottom rack like I'm some kind of functioning adult who has their shit together.

The Golden Goose sneakers next to the Balenciagas. Combat boots lined up with the heeled booties. My statement LBD hanging next to the vintage leather jacket like they're a power couple.

It's giving girl who plans outfits the night before energy.

It's giving person who owns a lint roller and uses it vibes.

Honestly? It's giving not me at all.

But I kind of... love it?

I reach out and touch the sleeve of the leather jacket. A statement piece I paid real money for instead of scrolling past longingly on Pinterest before closing the tab and eating Lucky Charms standing over the sink.


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