ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀɴ ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍ| Dark Erotica ⛓

Nancy Drake, Such A Snaek

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—"What have I ever done to you? You fucking cunt!"

It was such a simple question, uttered through Holly's closed teeth as she jutted up her little frame and rested on her haunches.

Simple, but one that made Espen's withering eyes withdraw suspiciously under knitted brows.

This was the first time in his life he had ever heard a woman use such language.

He gazed at her dimpled chin, his crop lowering slightly at the fat—tears growing in the corners of her blown eyes.

She wouldn't cry.

And even now, with defeat inevitable, she was trying so desperate to be fierce, lashes snatching beads of sweat as that red lip curled.

As she threw back her head and looked at him like slime, her hair a tangled knot of black jungle, The Rider had to catch his smile. 

The outlaw bared her soul so easily, heart furious on her teal-veined wrists, sun—beat face so hard and bitter as she licked away her wince at the tiger stripes steadily blooming on her clenched backside.

What a sight she must have been, red—sashed terror on a golden stallion, a nameless thing made of wreckage and gun—smoke and an indestructible spirit, that even now, made her sigh like the entire thing was one little inconvenience.

He knew he could never take her back to Boston, she'd probably burn it down.

"What have you done?" Vorden's voice was a sotto snicker as he knelt down to her little level and raised her head with the crop, "you don't even know, do you?"

The outlaw rubbed at her peepers, shoulders slumped as she sobbed a whine, "n—no. I don't get any of this. Why me? Why six years?!"

A vicious back—hander slapped the salt from her skin, and The Rider burned so hot Holly could barely look as she held the bright welt on her face aghast. "Why did you do that?!."

"You killed my wife." He spat as his hands coiled around her throat.

Face a battlefield of blood, spit and sweat—Holly didn't fight back as she crumbled into his suffocating choke.

"You!" Vorden screamed in her pale—white face, "Holly fuckin' Quinn, the girl with the pearl—gripped pistol."

She was fighting back now, thrashing against him, her paws clawing at his hair. "I—you're—killin' m—."

"You killed my wife!" And with one giant swoop of his arms he lifted her five feet into the air.

Holly's eyes rolled as they sprang with shots of violent red, blood pooling from her nose as she kicked into his stomach.

"That's what you did to me." Espen panted.
He let her crash to the floor just before she climbed to the peak of suffocation.

The out—law crawled away, spluttering with coughs as her breaths rattled dangerously. "Oh."

This is funny Holly thought. Lips creasing with a smile as she slithered for his discharged pistol.
If only fate was kinder and she would have died in the shade of the cobble—stone well.
She didn't even have her boots on.

The ever slight sounds of a miserable piano played somewhere in the depths of this almost—haunted mansion, a chill bitter as winter whipping through their tangled hair.
'Beware the fury of a patient man.' The outlaw thought as she peeked at the blazing tower of grudge that slammed down his boot between her shoulder blades.

"Six years ago, Willow Pass, South Dakota." His weight was crushing as she raked her nails on the polished floor. "What the fuck do you say to that? Bitch?"

.一
I had something to say.
None of them conducive to my survival.
But sorry?
That definitely wasn't one of them.

You may think me awful.
And I probably am.
But every now and then—
A person comes along, so stinking awful and detrimental to the greater good, that they just need to get capped.

Espen's old, cold lady was one of them.
To give you an idea, Whiskey sales soared by sixty fucking percent, because everyone toasted her passing.

It was enough to make me stick a fist inside my trap to stop laughing.

Nancy Drake, such a snaek, with a nose long as a witches tit, eyes perpetually alight with a cyanide sparkle, who carried a bull—hook to beat upon the common plebeian, was the reason I was here.

If I could go back in time—I'd still kill her.

It was almost like swatting a fly, a big—fat fly with the teeth of a tiger, an orphanage burning, old—woman killing, slave—owning, make nuns beg for food fly after it whooped on it's horses until they collapsed, then getting punished for daring to snuff out the misery spreading agent of pestilence. 

Out of all the shit God could punish me for—it was for her.
Or perhaps this was her wedding favour after she took her vows to Satan.

I guess it was a quiet acceptance as I sighed and sucked the blood from my gums.
What was there to say? Oops?
I didn't think he'd appreciate that.
Even less the truth.

"Well, I'll be damned." I sputtered. 

Momma always said, 'you never get away with anythin', sooner or later, we all gotta pay.'

But I was thinking, through the scream in my ears and the pit in my tummy—as I stared over my shoulder at the blue—eyed inferno, his carved arm poised to strike me down, I remembered Nancy Drake was prude as January.
She didn't carry his last name, she probably thought herself above being a Vorden.

I wasn't an alienist, but maybe she beat on him too.

One thing was for certain, I wasn't gonna die over a bitch like Nancy.

o。．O、。o。。