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Weems’ unhelpfulness is getting tiresome. At the next family séance, Wednesday is going to give her undead relatives hell for being spineless cowards.
“It doesn’t look like they’re hiding here,” she says, turning toward Thing. “I want you to go back to Nevermore. Check with Agnes if she’s found anything useful.” At his insistent signing, she rolls her eyes. “I’m not scared of Tyler or his uncle. I can handle myself. Now go.”
Thing scurries away, and she continues her investigation of the living room. It still smells faintly of blood and Sheriff Galpin’s decomposing body, which is a comforting companion to her search. Unfortunately, the piles of open mail and brochures for fast food yield no results on the whereabouts of Isaac and the Galpins. Wednesday takes another look around the room: the half-drawn curtains, the toppled over kitchen table. She sat at that table once, many months ago, before she knew what betrayal tasted like. An unfamiliar, heavy emotion lined her stomach as she put butterfly stitches on Tyler’s bloody chest. Guilt. Wednesday doesn’t feel guilty often, but that night it twisted her insides—and not in a pleasurable way—until she feared it might consume her whole.
I almost killed you.
I survived.
She glances at the stairs to the second floor. It would be negligent of her not to investigate it; there could be more clues upstairs. Her boots make no sound on the carpeted stairs. The narrow hallway is dark—there are no windows to let in the meager daylight—and lined with family photos she decidedly doesn’t look at. The first door she opens reveals a bathroom. She does a quick sweep of the cabinet above the sink—which holds nothing of interest—before moving on. The former Sheriff’s bedroom is similarly useless, and she closes the dresser drawer forcefully in frustration. There have to be some clues. She refuses to believe otherwise. Opening the next door, her grip tightens on the doorknob.
This is Tyler’s room.
It looks deceptively normal. A normal bedroom for a normal teenage boy. The perfect cover story, hidden so well even she didn’t see through it. It’s humiliating. Her eyes glide over the boat wallpaper—something a child would have picked out—the corrosion on a table from where the salt lamp has bled, and the half-open dresser drawers. A coffee stained-mug sits on the nightstand. Salt lamp corrosion aside, nothing betrays that he wasn’t just here this morning. Wednesday flips through a notebook on the desk, but it reveals nothing but mathematical formulas and a drawing of an anatomical heart.
“Looking for something?”
Wednesday whips around so fast she almost loses her balance.
Tyler’s frame fills the doorway, head cocked as he regards her. She curses her fit of nostalgia—the same thing she berated Weems for only a few minutes ago—which allowed him to sneak up on her. He looks better than when she saw him on el Día de los Muertos, in that he no longer looks like a strong wind could topple him over. If not for the haunted look in his eyes and the gaunter face, he would resemble the boy who made her latte art for her birthday and took her on a picnic date in a crypt. The same crypt where his master stuck a knife in her gut and left her to bleed out.
She closes the notebook with a snap. “Not anymore.”
“I have to say, I’m surprised you’d come back here.” He smirks, stepping into the room. His aura screams predator. “Hoping to see me?”
Wednesday forces herself not to move. She’s not scared of him—wouldn’t be even if she didn’t have a taser in her coat pocket—but she doesn’t like him getting too close. “Never. But I couldn’t resist the crime scene downstairs.”
Something like pain passes over his face—just a hint before it’s gone.
“Where is the rest of your mentally unstable family?” she continues. “I’m surprised they’ve let you off the leash. Or did they realize you’re not worth the trouble?”
Moving faster than she knew him capable of, Tyler’s in front of her with his hand firmly around her throat. Wednesday gasps, her hand covering his, nails digging into his skin. He hisses but doesn’t let go, instead bringing her closer. Yellow tints his green eyes, showing how close to the surface the Hyde is.
“You really are like a cockroach,” he snarls through clenched teeth.
“Maybe you’re just not man enough to finish the job,” she gets out.
He squeezes harder, and the lack of oxygen hits her brain and her core at the same time, the warmth expanding down between her legs. Tyler’s eyes flicker over her face, then he cocks his head. His eyes darken, breath growing more shallow.
“Fuck, Wednesday,” he murmurs. “Is this getting you off?”
His grip slackens slightly, allowing much-needed air back into her lungs. Her chest feels like it’s about to burst.
“In your dreams,” she hisses, but the tone lacks bite.
The way Tyler looks at her reminds her of that evening in the Weathervane. It’s part anticipation and part disbelief, and it’s fully disarming. Then his mouth is on hers—or maybe it’s her mouth that is on his. It’s hard to tell who crosses the line first or if they meet halfway. This is nothing like their first kiss. This one is full of bruising anger and a pent-up frustration that Wednesday’s tried to ignore for months. Her hands fists in his shirt, wanting to bring him close enough to climb into his chest and play with his insides. The hand around her throat lifts to tilt her chin up as his teeth tug painfully on her lower lip. His breath is harsh against her skin, body almost trembling. Her back hits something hard before he grabs her waist and lifts her onto the desk. Pushing forward, his hips slot between her spread knees and press against the bulky fabric of her skirt. She is lightheaded again, more so when he yanks on her braids, forcing her head back so he can redirect his mouth to her neck. Tyler bites down on her neck before soothing the sting with his tongue. A whimper forces itself from her mouth at the dual pain of her scalp and his teeth on her jugular. Wednesday hates her body’s reaction to him. It makes her want to make him hurt, make him bleed with her name on his lips, begging for mercy.
She pushes at Tyler’s chest hard enough that he stumbles back a few steps. Neither of them speaks. Wednesday’s heart is making a valid attempt to jump out of her chest, and she’s uncomfortably warm. Tyler’s face and neck are flushed, his lips swollen and his hair disheveled from her hands. He also looks like he’s expecting her to storm out. She should. She should get the taser from her pocket and hit him straight in the neck, watch him twitch on the ground and tell herself this was all a lapse in judgment; hormones getting the best of her.
But she doesn’t.
Wednesday doesn’t have lapses in judgment. She is in charge of her actions and emotions, not the other way around. So she hops off the desk and removes her coat, the heavy wool pooling on the floor by her feet. Her blazer and tie join it.
“Don’t think this changes anything,” she says.
Tyler exhales audibly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He moves back as she steps forward, both predator and prey in an unspoken dance, until he sits on the edge of the bed. Wednesday’s gaze flickers to the bulge in his jeans, hating the dull ache it sends through her. She expects him to reach for her again, but he seems to be waiting for her lead. Curious.
“Take off your shirt.”
It’s a command he doesn’t have to follow—since her plan of becoming his master was regrettably thwarted by motherly sentimentality—but he removes his flannel shirt and t-shirt anyway. She wouldn’t admit it under torture, but she’s been unable to forget the sight of him shirtless and chained at Willow Hill. The current view gives a similar response.
Wednesday considers leaving him there, half-naked and aroused. It would be the ultimate display of power. But she doesn’t move towards the door. The opposite. He is hot against her palm, and his skin pebbles when she drags a blunt nail across the length of one of the scars. Her eyes flicker to his. He exhales shakily before grabbing her hips, the grip bruising as his mouth devours hers again. His hands slide around her thighs, pulling her onto his lap. The sound she makes against his lips is a mix between a whimper and a moan. His cock hits right on her clit, and the friction when she rolls her hips is delicious.
“I need to touch you,” Tyler whispers breathlessly against her lips, yanking her shirt from her waistband. “Please say I can touch you.”
She drags her nails painfully over his shoulders, making him groan. “If you rip my shirt, I will taser you.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Both.”
He apparently has a death wish, because he tears her shirt off, buttons flying as the garment is thrown onto the floor. His mouth swallows her protest. Wednesday gasps at his warm hands against her cool skin, splaying across her rib cage and deftly removing her bra. It dawns on her that he’s done this before, and it sends an uncomfortable feeling into her chest. She has no reason to feel ownership over him; jealousy is for people who don’t know their worth, but thinking about him like this with other girls plants the seed in her anyway.
He tears his mouth from hers, trailing wet kisses over her jaw and neck and further down and wrapping around her left nipple. Her back arches. Wednesday can’t catch her breath, can’t focus on anything but the sensations of his mouth, his tongue, his breath, his teeth. He switches to her other nipple, fingers replacing his mouth and tugging hard. The balance between pain and pleasure is almost too much, so she uses the grip on his hair to yank his head back from her skin. He looks at her like a man starved, lips swollen and eyes dark.
“Clothes off, now,” she bites out.
Tyler’s arm wraps around her waist, and then she’s on her back with him hovering over her. She reaches for his belt as his hand searches for her skirt zipper. Getting his jeans button undone, Wednesday cups him through his underwear. The effect is immediate; his body tenses and his forehead drops against hers, breathing heavy as his hand stills.
“That feels so good,” he groans.
When she moves to put her hand inside his boxers, he grabs her wrist and pushes it away. He removes the rest of her clothes, her boots thudding against the floor. Tyler pauses, kneeling on the bed with his chest heaving and looking at her like he can’t believe she’s real. It’s unsettling. Sitting up, Wednesday tugs on his waistband.
“Take off your pants.”
Tyler complies—Hydes are good at following orders—and soon he’s as naked as she is. She doesn’t get long to look at him before he’s covering her body and claiming her mouth. His hard cock brushes against her inner thigh, making him groan. Wednesday drags her fingers over his chest, nails raking red lines into his skin until one hand is wrapped around his cock.
His mouth leaves her, forehead still against hers as a ragged groan tears through his chest. “Fuck, Wednesday.”
The feel of him is not altogether unpleasant, and his reaction makes her core pulse. She is of course familiar with the male appendage from her internship at the mortuary, but that was purely in a clinical sense. It’s nothing like this. Tyler is warm and hard, his hips move into her touch. Which is why there’s a flicker of irritation when he pushes her hand away, again.
“Was that not satisfactory?” she asks.
Tyler huffs a chuckle. “The opposite; I’m gonna come if you keep that up.”
“Is that not the point?”
He runs his hand up her inner thigh. “Yes, but I’d rather come inside you.”
Wednesday’s eyes flutter closed when he presses his thumb over her clit. She is familiar with the act of masturbation, but has found any attempts fruitless and disappointing. It never felt like this. It’s live wires underneath her skin: she’s burning, flying, and only his weight keeps her grounded. Her hips jerk into his hand. It’s too much in the best way, an ache spreading through her until she can’t breathe.
“Does that feel good, cockroach?” Tyler breathes close to her face, lips curled in a smirk.
Wednesday isn’t in charge of her reactions and therefore can’t stop the way his name falls from her mouth like a plea when he slips first one, then two fingers inside her. The feeling is unfamiliar but not unpleasant—far from it. She grabs his arm, digging her nails into his skin as his pace quickens. His thumb keeps the pressure on her clit as his fingers curl deep in her. Then her body turns into static; it’s electroshock therapy without the mouth guard, blazing through her body and tensing every muscle until she can’t move.
Opening her eyes—when did she close them?—Wednesday blinks. Tyler’s face is flushed watching her, chest heaving and eyes dark. His forearm is covered in crescent-shaped red marks. Her eyes flicker to his hand resting on her knee, his wet hand. A different heat spreads through her face and chest.
“You look so pretty when you come.”
Glaring, Wednesday lifts onto her elbows. “And you look better when you don’t talk.”
Tyler chuckles and curves his hand over the inside of her knee. “I thought you didn’t like my generic looks? I have to say, that one hurt less than calling my barista skills subpar. I worked hard on that latte art.”
“The only thing you worked hard on was manipulating me.”
His grin falters for a moment before it turns wicked. “It was actually not hard at all.”
This does something to Wednesday’s insides she would prefer not to think about, so instead she asks, “Are you going to fuck me or not?”
“Since you’re asking so nicely.”
Tyler covers his body with hers and finds her mouth again, prying her lips apart with his tongue. She plants her feet on the bed and rolls her hips against his, needing more of him and now. He shifts above her, then his cock rubs over her clit and down to her entrance before he presses inside without pause.
Wednesday’s head falls back with an outdrawn keen. She’s wet, but he’s big, and every thrust is met with a resistance that feels fitting. There’s a delightful burn, and inch by inch all Wednesday can think about is how full she is of him, how it feels as though he’s imprinting on her being in a way that will never go away.
Without giving her a chance to adjust, he sets a fast and hard rhythm that steals the breath from her lungs. His mouth is hot against her, lips barely touching. She locks her ankles around his back, tilting her hips to encourage him deeper. Pleasure burns through all her nerve endings, curling her toes and making her feel like her chest is about to explode. Tearing her mouth from his, she pants into his neck—lightheaded even as air fills her screaming lungs.
“Do you like that?” he practically growls in her ear, clearly as affected as she is, before tugging her lobe between her teeth. “Fuck, Wednesday. I’ve wanted you for so long.”
Wednesday isn’t coherent enough to reply; the onslaught of sensations from his cock and mouth is driving any comeback from her brain. She wants to feel his touch linger on her for days, sore like a bruise—alongside the actual bruises he’s already left on her body—a reminder of this obsession. Most of all, she’s angry: at him for kissing her, at herself for not putting a taser to his neck when he did. Most of all angry that she doesn’t want to.
Using her sparring experience, Wednesday tightens her legs around him and uses momentum to flip them until she’s seated on top of him. This pushes him deeper inside her—it’s bordering on painful—and Tyler groans. Keeping her balance with one hand on his chest, she grabs his throat. Not as hard as she could; it’s meant as a mark of dominance rather than causing pain. Tyler’s eyes widen, but he makes no attempt to remove her hand even though they both know he could.
“Your sentimentality is sickening and unnecessary,” her voice is embarrassingly breathless. “This means nothing.”
“Is nothing why you came all over my hand?” He grins and grabs her hips tightly, pulling her into movement.
Her eyes almost roll back—it’s much more intense like this, and he’s dragging against a part of her that makes her toes curl.
“Shut up,” she moans.
His chuckle infuriates her. “Very convincing. Now try that again without moaning.”
Her fingers tighten around his throat. “Do not toy with me,” she hisses. “I realize it’s your specialty, but I thought you would have learnt your lesson when it got you locked up.”
“Oh, it was worth it.” He emphasizes his words with a deep thrust that makes her whimper.
The bed creaks with their movement, wooden headboard slamming against the wall every time her hips are flush with his. Her thighs burn, but it’s the furthest thing from her mind when it feels this good. Wednesday reluctantly realizes why her peers seem so obsessed with physical pleasure.
Tyler’s right hand slides inwards from her hip, thumb pressing on her clit. Wednesday’s head tips back with an involuntary moan, the twisted tension at her core growing tighter at the dual sensation of his cock and his touch, his pulse jumping underneath her hand. He groans her name like a plea, and then she’s coming so hard her vision goes white.
Wednesday is barely aware of collapsing on his chest, of catching her breath against his sweaty neck as he keeps fucking her. Her body is heavy and still shuddering, the change in position bordering on too much for how sensitive she is, but she welcomes it all the same. Tyler’s mouth finds hers, hot and desperate. Her next orgasm rolls over her like a storm cloud, lightning strikes of pleasure forming his name thick in her throat and coming out against his lips.
“Fuck, Wednesday—” He holds her tighter as his hips snap up harshly before stilling, the accompanying groan so feral it reverbs through her body.
Her exhale comes out shaky. Tyler’s grip around her back is still bruisingly tight, and it’s with horror she realizes she doesn’t mind the feeling of being contained. His hot skin feels horrifically pleasant, like they were always meant to be in this position. This breaks her post-coital haze, and Wednesday pushes against his chest to get up. Tyler lets go right away.
“Wednesday, wait…”
She stumbles off the bed, legs refusing to support her fully. What a teenage cliché she is. Her body protests when she starts gathering her clothes, and she knows she’s going to be delightfully sore. Zipping her skirt, she reaches for her bra.
“If you breathe a word about this to anyone, I will cut out your heart and feed it to you,” she scowls, tugging her shirt on and doing up the few buttons still attached.
The bed creaks when he stands. “You know what, Wednesday, that threat is starting to lose its charm.”
Wednesday whips around, half-undone braids smacking against her back. “It’s not a threat, it’s a promise.”
Chuckling wryly, Tyler reaches for his jeans. “I don’t think you want to kill me at all.” He brushes damp curls from his face and smirks. “Or did you mean la petite mort, with the way you came on my cock?”
Her face burns. “Don’t flatter yourself. Now be a good Hyde and tell me where your uncle is hiding.”
“I know you don’t expect me to tell you that.” He’s fully dressed now, but his shirt collar doesn’t fully hide the marks where she sucked bruises into his skin. “Just stay out of our way.”
“You know I can’t do that.” Not as long as her vision says an Addams will die, but she’s not about to volunteer that information to him. “People will get hurt.”
He scrubs a hand over his face with an exasperated sigh. “I could say the same thing to you, Wednesday. You bulldoze your way through life without a care who you hurt in the process, as long as they’re useful to you.”
She scoffs. “You didn’t seem worried about that when you worked your unassuming barista act on me for months. You must have had a great time coming up with ways to make me trust you. The picnic in the crypt was a nice touch. I bet Laurel was pleased with her lapdog when you told her about that.”
Tyler shakes his head. “She wasn’t. Her orders were only to keep you from figuring out what was going on earlier than she needed you. The vision you had in the Weathervane really fucked up her timing.”
Wednesday blinks.
Regaining consciousness in his arms after her vision had been the beginning of the end, cliché as the expression may be. She’s replayed the moment in her mind a lot in the past few months, wondering how things would have played out if the vision hadn’t come. Would she have been lured to Crackstone’s crypt with the promise of another picnic, only to end up with a knife in her gut?
“You’re lying.”
Tyler shrugs. “I honestly don’t care if you believe me or not. But it’s the truth. I fell in love with you, Wednesday.”
Wednesday prides herself on being unfazed in most situations. Few things get underneath the thorned armor she’s cultivated since childhood. Nero’s death was one, Thing’s near demise another. Then the cold seep of betrayal on the floor of the Weathervane, looking into concerned eyes but only seeing rage and blood and lies. His words now elicit a similar response, all the while she can still feel his touch on her skin.
Wednesday does the only thing she can think of and tasers him in the neck.
Tyler’s eyes roll back as he goes down, crumpling in a heap on the bedroom floor. She keeps her finger on the button, unsure of the voltage required to subdue a Hyde. It seems to have been enough—probably because he’s in his human form. He’s half-lying against the side of the bed, neck bent to his chest in a way that makes his breathing come out in wheezy bursts. Rolling her eyes, Wednesday pushes at his shoulder until he’s fully on his back without the risk of suffocating to death. It would be too pedestrian a death for him.
She finishes getting dressed in silence—ignoring the dampness between her thighs and on her underwear. Boots laced and braids redone, she looks down at Tyler’s still unconscious form. She should kill him. It would be easy to; the knives downstairs in the kitchen might not be as sharp as she’s used to, but there’s no risk in someone walking into an active crime scene. But something stills her hand.
When Wednesday leaves the Galpin house, she’s locked the events in Tyler’s bedroom deep inside her chest. She’s got a regenerated zombie to find. And a morning-after pill.