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Before she killed her rapist, she wanted him to suffer worse than he’d made her suffer, while she went on to live and thrive for the rest of her natural life. It would be the perfect conclusion to her perfect revenge.
Isn’t death too harsh a punishment for a rapist? For any criminal, for that matter? But the other side of her—the side that clawed for justice—for vengeance—screamed: death is not enough.
The phrase “the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice” ran through Joy’s head before she could stop it, making her blush furiously.
Joy wasn’t a small woman in literally any sense of the word. She was six feet tall, and she was deliciously fat. It was a rare sight to find anyone bigger than her.
“You have summoned me to kill someone for you.” Joy’s smile felt manic when she let her lips stretch with it. “No, I want to kill someone. I want you to make it look like an accident.”
and the fact that he’d watched fucking Thor, and not just Thor, but Thor 3.
When exactly did he say this?? What? 🤔 He only mentioned Thor, not any of the sequels.
She’d soon realised, with a bitter, soul-crushing epiphany, that his world had pretty much remained the same, while hers had been completely shoved off its axis.
Your best friend was supposed to believe you immediately when you told them you’d been raped. Your best friend wasn’t supposed to ask what you’d done. They weren’t supposed to ask if you were sure.
She couldn’t imagine Iyore, a small, bright-eyed child of ten years old or less, being taken advantage of—being violated by her fucking uncle in her own fucking home. Then the gall of her own mother to— Joy took a deep breath. Her voice didn’t feel like her own when she asked, “Is he still alive?” Iyore snorted. “Still invited to every family event.”
She didn’t want to be strong anymore. She wanted to be hurt. She wanted to be fucking furious.
Malachi had a theory after all his time spent on earth; each human and the emotions they gave off tasted differently depending on the human and their principles.
Was he afraid?” “Petrified,” Malachi replied honestly, his voice husky. “Good,” Joy growled, pacing, like she couldn’t keep still. “Oh, so fucking good. I can’t wait to fuck him up. I can’t wait to absolutely destroy him.”
“Sweet, murderous Joy,” Malachi husked, his wings flaring, wanting to wrap around them both, like he could shelter them from the world. “You are exquisite.”
At one point, she’d thought if she was exhausted enough, she’d simply black out and wake up none the wiser. She’d soon realised that no matter how tired she was, she would always be plunged into a more sinister version of the same nightmare.
“put your fucking mouth on me—” Get his fucking touch off my skin. “Yes,” Malachi said worshipfully, sinking to his knees.
After him, she never thought she’d ever feel aroused again. She never thought she’d get to indulge in self-pleasure again. He had ruined everything with his touch, with his words—he’d taken everything.
Joy smelled like satisfaction, but unlike last night, her desire still lingered underneath. She still wanted— Malachi forced the thought aside. That scent was not an invitation.
Joy almost laughed. Oh, he felt safe here, did he? Well, that was about to fucking change.
“what did your victim do to you that requires such calculated revenge?” At first, he didn’t think she would reply. Then she took a deep breath. “He raped me,” she said matter-of-factly.
And so what? He suddenly thought, almost viciously. So what if Joy was using him?
But how else would he even know her if she wasn’t using him?
He would very much like to be owned by Joy.
She’d had a mini-panic attack, he’d tried to calm her down, then he’d touched her—then she was touching him, and he’d confessed to not being touched in a long time, and she was just supposed to what? Stop? Okay, maybe. Yes.
Wasn’t the whole shindig about Christianity being that you had a choice? Of course, the other choice was going straight to hell, but even at that tender age, Joy thought if people wanted to damn themselves, then they should have the right to do so.
“I sold my soul to kill my husband.”
“I can’t believe I found them attractive at all; they’re so obsessed with walking and nature and exercise and “healthy” meals. It’s exhausting.”
She had to fuck him. It didn’t have to mean anything. After what her rapist had done to her, why shouldn’t Joy take pleasure where she saw fit?
“I wish I could haunt him in his dreams like he’s been haunting mine,” she whispered, words vicious. “How perfect would it be when he wakes up, thinking he’s safe, only to see me standing right here in his bedroom?”
even though it hadn’t been her fault, she’d still felt ashamed.
Turned out life had simply gone on for him. Nothing had changed. Joy had known then, there was only one of two ways this was going to end. With her death. Or with his.
Some part of her had thought maybe she’d feel remorse—maybe she’d feel disgust after she was done. Maybe killing him wouldn’t make her feel better, after all. She was wrong on all counts. Her blood was practically singing. She felt a sheer sense of joy and peace; she felt fucking high.
He froze just before he made contact with her flesh. “Fuck. Protection?” Joy shook her head quickly. “I’m STD-free, last time I checked. And I literally can’t get pregnant.” She knocked on her lower belly like it was an empty container. “No uterus.” She waggled her eyebrows.
My only question is: WHY? Like, writing this was definitely a choice.
Malachi nodded. “I can use my magic to make sure I’m safe, and I’ve never been with anyone,” he added in a rush.
Didn’t he said he was “touched” against his will 15 years ago?
After this was all over, she was going to do what she’d planned to do after she’d finished enacting her revenge; rebuild her life, and resume living instead of merely surviving.
“The Iron Giant,” he finally said. He loved that movie because it told the story of an outsider who simply wanted a home—wanted to belong. It was a story that said who you were didn’t have to have anything to do with what you were born to do; you choose who you are. “I find the story very relatable.”
“Do demons not have families, then? There’s no one you left behind in hell?” Malachi paused. “I have … memories of another … one who was created at the same time as I was, but we were separated not long after our birth.”
if he was going to be alone for the rest of his life, Malachi wanted to be alone in comfort.
It’s just … it’s too much. I need to be on my own for a while. I need some time so I can find me again.”
she needed some time to be on her own—to live again, now that her rapist was dead and no longer had that strong of a hold on her and her life.
harder. Of course she was glowing; killing the man who’d raped you and fucking the sexy demon who helped you to get away with it would probably do that to a person.
