Myers

by Zepphora

For the spooky bitches who always thought Michael Myers was swinging a horse cock and would fuck like a demon. He knows you can be a good girl and a dirty slut at the same time.

This book is intended to be consumed by mature readers who want their heroes unapologetically stabby and their heroines just as twisted as their love interests.

Bellatrix Rothchild. My only guess is that her parents are huge Harry Potter fans and decided to take one of those weird names and give it to their only daughter. I call her Trixie though.

I want obsession, determination, and possession. I want someone so hell-bent on having me that he’ll chase me to the ends of the Earth just to make me his. I want a man who will stop at nothing to have me. I want a man who’s toxicity knows no bounds.

I’m a patient man and one thing patience grants me is the ability to sit and wait for the perfect time to strike.

I am the lion laying in wait and the gazelles move around me with no idea that I’m ready to pounce.

She’s so beautiful, sleeping like the most dangerous predator in this state isn’t feet from her, staring at her sleeping form like she’s the whole fucking buffet.

This town could benefit from another massacre. It might add a bit of character.

That’s exactly what Damien King is for this town. He is fear. There’s something to be admired about that, how one person can cause such a basic emotion in everyone who hears it.

This is what happens to those who look at what belongs to me. You have been warned. -Damien King P.S. Happy Halloween

He would’ve had a better chance of escaping if he had run out the front door. It’s a classic horror movie mistake. Sidney Prescott said it best.

I’m a dark and twisted motherfucker. It only seems fitting that my woman is at least a fraction of that.

No matter how dark and twisted it is, I want him to want me. I want him to crave me like I’ve always wanted to be desired. I want to be the final girl, the one in horror movies that make it out alive and become an obsession for the killer to finally get.

He’s covered in tattoos, much like I am, but mine are all small symbols of things I found to be significant, like a box of graham crackers or a clown face.

I didn’t think this level of devotion existed. I thought it was only possible in my fantasies, but he’s right here, staring at me like I hung the moon and created the stars.

I’m just as dedicated and obsessed with him as he is with me. It’s not love. It’s better than that. It’s everything.

Does he realize how hot his stabbiness gets me?

I’m just as stained as he is and vice versa.