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Carving for Cara: Chapter 14


Finding words for what just happened is harder than I could have imagined. My head feels heavy from the effects of the alcohol I consumed tonight, making processing any of it next to impossible. I’m not even sure how to feel about it. How should I feel about the stranger in the pumpkin mask? How should I feel about him chasing me through a field like a predator would chase his prey?

That’s what I was tonight, his prey, and I think I fucking loved it.

I liked that he forced me to do horrible things far outside of my comfort zone. I liked riding the line between pleasure and pain, but he also gave me the best sex of my entire life.

Is this my reward for finally deciding to kick Jonah to the curb? Is Rhett a special delivery sent to me by the devil, praising my desire for mind-blowing sex?

Or is Rhett the devil himself?

Either way, my pussy is still throbbing like a starved bitch at a buffet, wanting more of his cock and its metal piercings that somehow managed to strike every sensitive spot inside me, almost as though they were placed there just for me.

“What’s wrong, little nightmare?” He whispers as he guides me through the field.

Little nightmare.

That’s what he calls me, acting as though I’m the one keeping him up at night. Does he not see the wrong in what he’s done? In what we’ve done? Even if I did somehow find pleasure in it, it was fucked up. All of it. He’s fucked up.

I don’t respond to his question, keeping my eyes on the ground as I rub at the torn and bruised flesh around my wrists. The contact of my crusty, dirt covered hands making contact with the open wounds stings, but I find myself unable to stop. That sting is the only thing keeping me from passing out.

“Still having doubts about who you belong to?” he questions from behind the pumpkin mask.

Jonah’s mask. His tone is somehow alluring, yet terrifying and I still have no idea how he ended up with Jonah’s mask. A mix of feelings overwhelms me as he drags me through the field. His hand digs tightly into the dirty flesh of my arm as he strings me along.

My costume is ruined, covered in a mix of blood, mud and cum. The hair I spent hours doing is matted and filled with crusty pumpkin leaves, among many other things. I cringe at the thought of how disgusting I look after what was just done to me, what was forced on me.

His voice pulls me from my darkening thoughts, “I promise once you see what I’ve made for you, you’ll never doubt us again.”

I don’t want to see what he’s made. I don’t care what surprise he has in store for me. I should be fighting and screaming. I want to fight, to break free and run, but I know it’s useless. This masked predator isn’t going to give up on his prey. He would chase me down again in a heartbeat.

But, perhaps part of me wants him to. I know it should be wrong, but is it? What if it’s just two people fucking in public?

I want him to catch me again.

Fuck me. Claim me. Again.


These thoughts are wrong. This man wants to corrupt me. Ruin me.

But, I want to let him. I don’t want to think about how it looks, about what others, even Sloan, would say about it. All that matters is how alive I feel when he does it, and how each barrier he knocks down allows me to feel more free, more like myself. I shouldn’t feel this way, shouldn’t be struggling with the internal battle of confusing emotions, but I can’t help it.

It’s like I’m in a dream state as we make our way across a gravel path toward where a black bike is hidden behind some thick bushes. He releases his hold on me as he approaches it and grabs a helmet from the seat. His hand brushes away the stray hair from my face before he slides it over my head, gently buckling it under my chin.

When he’s done he climbs on and starts up the engine before turning his sights back on me. I could’ve escaped. I could’ve run during those few split seconds, but I didn’t. How did he know I wouldn’t run?

“Get on, Cara. I have something to show you.”

My knees grow weak at the use of my name departing from his lips. A lump forms in my throat as I obey him. The urge to get out of this place is stronger than my fear of him. I climb on behind him and wrap my arms tightly around his waist as his inked hands grip the throttle.

He takes off, racing down the path along the cornfield and past the party. I don’t look back. I don’t search the crowds for my friends. I don’t seek a glimpse of Sloan. After all, even if I found them, they couldn’t save me. They couldn’t free me from this predatory man, and I’m not sure I want them to.

The ride through the farm roads and into town feels longer than it should. I grip my arms around him tighter, pressing my chest against his toned back, when I realize just how large his frame really is. He’s taller than I thought, and well toned. Through the side peeks I get around his mask, I can see his perfectly chiseled jaw, and though I can’t see it, I have no doubt his face is fucking gorgeous. My pussy throbs with the vibrations of his bike, and all I can think about is how badly I’d rather be riding his face right now. How I’d let him break me any way he wanted, as long as he touched me the way only he can touch me.

With his large tatted hands gripping the throttle and his eyes glued on the road ahead, I allow myself to drown in his husky scent as I grip him tighter, afraid the aftershock of the night and the bike’s vibrations against my sensitive pussy will have me falling off the side of his bike and into an orgasmic bliss. Everything seems to blur, and time slows as we speed by familiar storefronts and streets littered with trick-or-treaters, lazily making their way back home with bags packed full of sweet treats.

When we pull up to my house, I’m surprised to find the flickering flames of the tiny candles can still be seen in the jack-o’-lanterns along my stairs. I slide off the bike, and the cold cement is a shock to my senses, almost forcing my knees to give out. As if sensing my struggle, Rhett is quick to grab my arm, keeping me from falling to the ground. I lift my eyes to his mask, suddenly curious about the man behind it.

I wish I could look into his eyes.

What would I see staring back at me?

He chuckles, sensing my internal dialogue as he loosens his grip on my arm and unclips the strap on the helmet, slowly lifting it over my head. I smooth my matted hair with my hands as though it will make any difference to how I look.

I don’t even know why I care how I look. I shouldn’t, but part of me does. Some small part of me likes his eyes on me, and how his gaze makes me feel.

My pulse increases as he turns me around and directs me up the path toward my house. Halfway up the path, I stop, as the realization of this man knowing where I live hits me.

“How– How did you know where I live?” I choke out.

He pauses behind me, and his tone does little to hide the amusement he finds within my question. “I know everything about you, Cara.” He explains, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You belong to me, and I take care of what is mine. Protect what is mine.”

Feeling even more confused by his words, I slowly continue up the path, but this time he doesn’t follow. I turn, looking over my shoulder, and find him standing half way up the path, his hands at his sides as he watches me. His gaze sends a chill up my spine, and I find myself wondering why he stopped, why he didn’t follow me right to my door.

My feet are numb from the cold, and I do my best to hurry the rest of the way, up each step of the stairs past dying jack-o’-lanterns. I spent way too much time carving them, but at the time, they seemed worth it. I always pick the most difficult designs, each one testing my patience and steady hand more than the one before.

Reaching the top step, I glance over my shoulder, finding my predator hasn’t moved from his spot in the middle of the path, his hands still at his sides as he watches me. It feels like I’m home free. Like somehow, after what was just done to me, I’m home. I survived. I reach inside the tiny pocket of my costume, pulling out my keys as I turn my gaze towards my locked door.

I stiffen.

Beside the large door of my house, is my grandmother’s old chair, but it’s not the chair that has the contents of my stomach threatening to make a reappearance, it’s the head that sits on top of it, carefully carved to fit in with my collection of jack-o’-lanterns.

Jonah’s head.

My keys slip from my trembling hand, hitting the wooden deck of my home. My mouth falls open, unable to tear my eyes from the horrific sight before me. Bile rises in the back of my throat as the scent of decay and rich iron hits my nose, forcing me to take a step back.

“Do you like your gift, little nightmare?” his deep voice emanates from behind me, causing me to spin around in a panic.

Behind me I find my predator, maskless as he stalks toward me with a menacing grin.


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