Chapter Six - Part One: A Deal Written in Moans.
1815 Words
Havana fell.
She didn’t remember stepping. Didn’t remember letting go. One second, she was pressed against Ten; the next, the world had crumbled beneath her, and darkness devoured everything.
Her scream echoed through the void, but there was no air, no sound. Just the feeling of falling—not down, not up, just… away. She couldn’t even tell where her body ended and the abyss began.
Then—impact.
She landed hard, knees scraping against what felt like cracked marble. A choking cloud of smoke immediately enveloped her, thick and bitter, curling into her nose and mouth like ash.
She coughed violently, struggling to get her bearings. The surrounding space was vast, but indistinct. No walls, no ceiling—just smoke and a flickering, pulsating red glow somewhere deep in the haze. Her hands scraped across the floor, cold, but palpitating faintly. She called out instinctively, throat raw.
“Ten?”
No answer.
“Ten!?”
Silence.
Then, his voice—disembodied, drifting on the smoke like a whisper.
“You’re on your own now, Havana. The trial starts here. Good luck.”
She staggered to her feet. “Wait—what do you mean—?”
But the voice had vanished. The air thickened, each breath a little harder to draw. Her body trembled—not with fear, not quite—but with something deeper. Anticipation. As if every nerve was reaching out, taut and trembling, for something just beyond sight.
A low growl rumbled through the smoke.
She froze.
The sound slithered around her, vibrating the air. Something big. Something huge. And it wasn’t far.
Then—red.
Two piercing, blood-red eyes blinked open within the fog. They weren’t human. They weren’t even animal. They were hunger. Rage. Desire. All at once.
“Ten?” she called again, weaker this time.
The eyes moved.
They didn’t walk or step towards her. They Glided. Closer. Then gone—disappeared into the fog again.
She spun around.
Nothing.
A whisper of air stirred behind her neck—a presence.
Then, the growl again, much deeper than the one before, somewhere behind her back.
“Hello, prey.”
Havana whipped around, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out every thought.
“Who—what—are you?”
A chuckle followed. Not Ten’s this time. It was deeper. Rougher. Sensual, but threatening.
“My name,” the voice rasped from the shadows, “is Termibestia Obscura. But you can moan Scura later.”
The red eyes reappeared—this time right in front of her, inches away.
She stumbled back with a gasp, only to see the beast fully now. A hulking, monstrous black wolf stepped forward from the smoke, massive paws silent against the floor. Its fur shimmered with shadows, but a single stark white stripe cut diagonally across its face, like a scar of moonlight.
Rows of jagged teeth lined its mouth, and when it smiled—yes, smiled—something primal inside her quaked.
“Holy f**k… What the f**k are you?” Havana’s voice breaking through fear.
Scura laughed, the sound both lupine and man.
Then, with a shudder of his form, the wolf’s shape broke, splitting at the seams in a fluid, grotesque dance—and standing before her now was a man. If man could describe him.
He towered over her, at least 6’8”, his body cut from marble and sin. Pale skin stretched over corded muscle, his chest dusted with coarse black hair. Black veins spidered from beneath his skin like ink, climbing across his arms, shoulders, and ribs—everywhere except his face and neck, which remained unsettlingly pristine.
His hair fell just below his jaw, inky black except for one thick white streak that matched the stripe he bore as a wolf. His eyes—still burning red—fixed on her with a hungry fascination.
But it was his tongue she noticed next, when he spoke again.
A split tongue, twice as long as a human’s, flicked past his lips like a serpent’s caress.
“I’ve waited centuries for prey like you,” Scura said, his voice molten and dark. “And now here you are, trembling in front of me, already dripping wet with fear. Or is it arousal? It’s hard to tell, but your body never lies.”
“You’re disgusting,” she muttered, even as her knees threatened to give out.
He stepped forward, slowly circling her. “You wound me,” he purred. “But that’s alright. You’ll be screaming my name soon enough. It always starts this way. The trembling. The denial. And then…” he paused behind her, leaning close to her ear, “the begging.”
“Is this the trial?” she asked, her voice cracking. “You… seduce me into what? Losing control?”
Scura chuckled, his breath hot on her skin. “No, Havana. This isn’t about control. It’s about you surrendering to me. You’ve been fighting your whole life to feel something. Here, in Limbo, you can. But only if you let yourself.”
“I’m not letting you touch me.”
“Oh, but I don’t need permission. That’s the beauty of Limbo. This place reacts to you. It feeds on desire. On fear. You summoned me the moment you let that little thrill of curiosity bloom between your thighs.”
She shivered as he circled again.
“You think Ten chose you? No, sweet thing. You chose us. You were always going to end up here. Because you are hollow inside, aching for something… someone to pour in.”
A bed rose from the ground behind her, formed from smoke and stone, covered in black velvet sheets. Havana stared at it, then back at Scura.
The surrounding smoke stirred, sentient, almost aware. It curled around her wrists and ankles like living chains, binding her slowly, sensually. Her clothes peeled away in shreds, vanishing into mist.
“Wait—stop—”
But there was no stopping.
Limbo had already begun.
Scura stepped closer, licking his bottom lip. “See, Havana, I am temptation made flesh. And flesh is so very weak. Shall we test how far yours can go?”
He didn’t touch her.
He didn’t need to.
The smoke itself pressed her back onto the bed, holding her open, vulnerable, exposed.
Scura leaned in, lips brushing her thigh. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “This is only the beginning.”
She couldn’t fight it.
Scura hovered above her, not touching—yet. His eyes flicked over every inch of her as if studying a rare specimen or a long-awaited feast. His gaze burned hotter than his hands.
She trembled.
“You're scared,” he said simply.
She clenched her jaw. “Of course I am.”
A slow smile. “Good.”
“You think fear and pleasure are separate things,” he mused, tilting his head. “But they’re sisters, Havana. You tremble the same way for both.”
Her breath stuttered. Her body ached. Her thighs tensed. She hated this—how her body reacted without her consent, how it craved something she didn't yet understand.
“f**k you,” she hissed.
Scura’s smile widened. “Oh, darling. That’s the idea.”
His forked tongue flicked out, dragging slowly across the inside of her thigh, not touching her skin, but tracing heat through the smoke barrier. Her hips jolted involuntarily.
“I won’t beg,” she whispered.
“You will,” Scura said, matter-of-fact. “You’ll be begging for me for years to come, in your dreams, in your thoughts, in your other s****l encounters that don’t even come close to what I’m about to make you feel.”
She looked at him, startled.
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t have to beg just yet. How about we start by making sure you don’t forget you belonged to me, even if our time together is brief-- ”
Her silence answered.
He pressed his mouth near her neck, his voice a growl against her skin. “I smell your grief. Your desperation. You want someone to rip you apart so that you can feel whole.”
She bit her lip so hard it bled.
He noticed.
“Ah. Red suits you.” tasting her blood with his fingers. “Yummy.”
Scura snapped his fingers, a knife materializing from the smoke around them.
“Can you guess what this is for?” he murmured, his voice a low purr. A slow, sinful grin curved his lips as the knife glided between his fingers with intimate precision, twirling like a toy in hands far too practiced.
Havana, heart pounding, eyes locked on the blade, barely found her voice. “Please... don’t kill me.”
Scura let out a laugh—loud, exaggerated, almost theatrical. “Kill you? Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I waste something so... interesting? I’m just going to carve my name into your pretty little thigh, a souvenir of our time together if you will.”
Havana barely had a moment to register his words before a sharp, burning sting lit up her thigh. Her gasp caught in her throat. Scura was carving his name into her skin—slow, deliberate strokes, each letter no more than two inches tall, but etched with wicked care.
His breath grazed her ear as he worked.
"Now you won’t forget you belonged to me," he whispered, voice velvet-soft and soaked in sin.
A moan slipped from Havana’s lips—raw, unbidden. The pain had already melted, transmuted into something heady and electric, pleasure igniting where the blade had kissed her skin.
Scura dipped his fingers into the fresh blood, slow and deliberate, then brought them to his mouth. He sucked them clean, savoring the taste with a low, guttural moan, his eyes locked on hers—dark, hungry, reverent.
“You taste sweeter than sin,” he murmured, his voice like silk dragged over flame. “Like honey poured straight from the gods.”
Havana’s smile curved with slow, sultry confidence, but it faltered the moment Scura acted. There was no warning—just the sharp command of his hand tangled in her hair and the sudden, brutal push of his thick nine-inched d**k forced past her lips.
She gagged, throat constricting, eyes brimming and bloodshot as he held her there, trying to force every inch of his d**k inside her.
“Good girl,” Scura growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You exist to be used like this.”
He thrust deeper, savoring the tremble in her body, the way her throat fluttered around him.
“Take it,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I want to feel you choke on me—want to feel your body surrender before you even speak a word.”
- Writer
