Work Text:
Seeing this fic for the first time? Don't forget to read Part One: The Devil Drives a Chevy.
A long, black road stretches out before the world ahead, endless and gleaming faintly underneath the weight of the moon. The pavement shines like glass, slick with cold, and its edges lost to the depths of shadow. It winds through the countryside without a single streetlamp to soften its reach. Like a dark, split vein threading through the wilderness.
On either side, the oaks press in close. The trees lean inwards, their tall spines crowding the road. Branches weave together overheard like a net meant to catch the sky. Their bark is damp and black, with the roots clutching at the soil in tangled knots. The air beneath their boughs hangs thick and still, heavy with the scent of earth and frost. Not even the wind dares move through them for long.
Above it all, the moon hangs full and swollen. It casts its pale light through the bare lattice of branches. Like an unblinking eye, it watches the road, painting everything in silver. Every stone, every blade of grass, and every slanted shadow that creeps across the asphalt glows with the color. It’s almost too bright to be comforting. Rather than lighten the pit of night, it makes the world look hollowed out, emptied of all warmth.
Leaves drift down from the trees, their descent slow and endless. They tumble in erratic spirals before scattering across the road, whispering against the cold pavement as they fall. The wind gathers them in low sighs, sweeping them toward the banks on either side, where they pile into silent heaps that tremble with every gust.
And in that stillness—beneath the pressing dark, the watching moon, and the ceaseless dance of falling leaves—the world feels suspended. It feels dangerously wanting, as though something is about to begin again.
The crunch of a dead leaf spills into the night. It catches beneath Hazel Merritt’s tennis shoe, sharp and brittle, echoing faintly along the empty stretch of road. She walks briskly, her head bowed and shoulders hunched. Her fingers curl into the thin, cotton fabric of her black jacket, pulling it down tighter around her chest as if it might just hold the cold at bay.
Each step presses against the frozen asphalt beneath her feet. It fills the air with a muted rhythm, some small, fragile defiance against the silence that seems to press in on her from every side. It’s a quiet that feels far too heavy to be natural.
Her eyes remain trained on the ground at her feet, rolling over patches of frost that glint in the moonlight. She glances up only occasionally to check the edges of the trees, or to stare off into the distance of the curve of the road ahead. The shadows between the trunks look too deep for comfort, and she forces herself not to linger on them.
She tries not to imagine that there are shapes moving just beyond, just out of the reach of the pale light of the moon. But she does it anyway, and it makes her recoil a step further away from the edge of the road. If for no other reason, then it’s just to put herself at ease.
She huffs out a breath into the freezing air, and it blooms immediately into a small, white cloud in front of her face. The chill prickles goosebumps across her exposed skin, climbing up her neck and settling along her arms. She rubs her forearms with her hands. When she touches them, she can practically feel the heat of her own pulse against the thin fabric. The night presses down on her, but she moves steadily, driven by a mix of apprehension and purpose, each step moving her further away from damnation.
It’s Halloween again, exactly one year since that night at the Jetty-Fuel Gas & Mart.
The memory is crisp, like a photograph. It lingers in stinging impressions that staple her mind with things that she can’t shake. Like the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the faint smell of burnt coffee and stale air, the paper bats hanging from the mildewed ceiling tiles. Every detail has settled into her mind like sediment, refusing to wash away.
Out of all of those details, it’s him that she recalls the most. She can still see him moving through the aisles, that calm, relaxed demeanor so wholly unnatural. There was something about his presence that made the space shrink. Even in the moments of silence, he filled the room with the precision of his steps, and the slow sweep of his icy gaze.
Hazel can still recall how her pulse had stuttered, how her stomach had curled with a mixture of fear and fascination. She remembers the dread, settling into her body like cement, and the pleasure, burning through her like a fire.
She stayed in that damn building only a handful of minutes after he left. She gave herself just long enough to breathe, long enough to gather herself. Then she ran. The door swung open with the familiar ding of the motion sensor, letting in a gust of freezing air that hit her face like a slap, and the world outside swallowed her whole. She didn’t look back. She didn’t pause to check that he was truly gone, nor did she wait to see if the sound of any other car engine would peel over the edge of the road. She just ran.
She never called in again after that. She never explained, never sent a message, never whispered a single warning to the people who would have assumed she’d simply taken the shift and moved on. The store ceased to exist in her life from that moment onward. It became a ghost, a place that belonged to someone else entirely.
It’s a place she can’t touch or visit without the memory of that night pressing against her ribs. She has avoided it for a year, and the thought of returning even for a moment makes the skin on her arms tighten. That alone is warning enough that she refuses to ignore it. Her gut knows best, and it knows that it has good reason for fearing him.
Him?
The Devil.
Hazel has never been a superstitious woman. Ghosts, demons, divine wrath? None of it ever held any sway over her. She doesn’t believe in God, or angels, or curses. She believes in what she can see, touch, and measure. That’s always been enough for it. At least, it was enough for her until that night.
Now, some nights, she finds herself muttering words she barely understands, murmuring prayers with a hushed desperation she never thought herself capable of. She prays for forgiveness, for protection, for something, anything, to keep her from the memory that has lingered like frost under her skin. Sins she once shrugged off now feel like stones in her chest. And it’s not just guilt; it’s fear, too, the kind that doesn’t fade with logic or reason.
Some part of her believes that she’s cursed. Not some tiny little curse of inconvenience, like lingering bad luck. No, she believes she is cursed by something terrible, something that has its teeth in her, patient, and slow, and unrelenting.
Why else would her car choose tonight of all nights to betray her? Tonight, on the night of Halloween. Tonight, the thirteen year that she’s owned the damn thing.
Unlucky thirteen.
Her old sedan has been faithful, albeit worn. It has seen her through over a decade of cold mornings, late nights, road trips, and forgotten errands. Its engine has coughed and sputtered through every challenge, carrying her farther than any car should have managed. But tonight, as if in perfect grim symmetry, it rolls to a stop and leaves her stranded on the side of the road, with not a lick of cell signal and the city miles away.
Hazel’s body practically burns from the cold. The air cuts through her jacket like glass, biting at every patch of skin the fabric fails to cover. She shudders and pulls the thin cotton tighter around herself, crossing her arms against her ribs in a futile attempt to preserve the little warmth she has left.
Each breath she exhales blooms into the night like smoke, faint and fleeting, swallowed whole by the air before she can take another. Her legs ache, her fingers sting, but she keeps moving. Because stopping out here means freezing, and freezing might just mean death.
A gust of wind tears through the trees, scattering leaves and whipping her hair across her face. The dark strands lash against her cheeks before streaming out behind her, a banner of motion in an otherwise motionless world. The night seems to deepen with every step she takes. Around her, the black of the road grows denser, the silver of the moon sharper.
She licks her lips. They’re dry, cracked from the cold, and the taste of salt and blood stings her tongue. Two hours, she tells herself. Just two hours until the next building. Two hours until warmth. But two hours feels like a lifetime in this kind of dark.
She slips her hand into the pocket of her jacket, pulling out her phone. The small rectangle of metal and glass feels like salvation in her hand, though it’s colder than ice. She thumbs the screen, hoping to see the faint glow of a signal bar. Just one bar. Enough to call a cab, or a friend, or anyone. But the wind keeps cutting across her fingers, numbing them, stiffening the joints until her movements come slow and clumsy.
Her fingers fumble over the keypad. The first attempt at her passcode fails. The second does too. She grits her teeth, breath clouding the glass as she tries again. The cold is too deep, too bone-heavy, and her fingers simply won’t obey her.
One moment, the phone is in her grasp, its slippery metal case digging into her palm, and the next, it slides free.
It tumbles to the asphalt in a small, sickening spin before landing face-first with a sharp, unmistakable crack. Hazel freezes. The sound echoes far too loudly in the open air, a brittle punctuation against the silence.
“Shit,” she hisses, dropping to her knees before the phone can even settle. The thin fabric of her skirt flutters around her legs, the hem whispering against the frozen road as she crouches. Her breath comes quick, pluming in uneven bursts as her fingers dart forward to snatch it up.
She turns the phone over, her pulse spiking. A fractured web of cracks snakes across the glass from corner to corner, splintering the faint reflection of her face into something unrecognizable. She presses her thumb against the power button, muttering under her breath, willing it to light up. The screen flickers once, a faint pulse of blue, then dies again. No glow. No signal. And now? No lifeline.
“Goddamn it,” she curses, the words spilling into the dark like smoke.
Her voice feels too loud in the stillness, too fragile to survive the echo that follows. She presses the phone again, harder this time, but it only stutters, flickering weakly, refusing to respond. Her fingers hover helplessly over the ruined screen, and a tremor of frustration ripples through her. For a moment, she can only stare down at the thing, her breath shaking, her knees burning against the cold road.
Hazel pushes herself upright with a soft, ragged sigh, her knees protesting the movement. The wind cuts through her jacket as she straightens, the cold clinging to her like a second skin. She tucks the broken phone back into her pocket, its useless weight pressing against her hip. Then she just stands there in the middle of the road, watching the breath spill from her mouth and fade into nothing.
It feels like it’s been far too long when she starts walking again, her steps uneven, her shoes scuffing the asphalt with small, tired sounds that seem to echo far too loudly in the empty dark.
Her body feels heavy, her limbs sluggish and uncooperative. The chill has sunk deep into her bones now, turning each motion into an effort of will. Her fingers are numb inside her sleeves, and the ache in her toes makes her wince with every step. It’s as though the night itself wants to swallow her whole, drawing her farther from warmth, from light, from anything that could be called safe.
The thought creeps in quietly, uninvited, that maybe she won’t make it back at all. Maybe the cold will win before she ever sees a town light again. The idea is so absurd that she lets out a small, broken laugh, though it dies almost instantly in the back of her throat. She presses on, her gaze fixed ahead, counting the rhythm of her footfalls to keep herself moving. One step. Another. Another.
Then she hears it.
At first, it’s faint, so low she thinks she’s imagining it. Then it swells, deep and mechanical, carrying through the air in a low, familiar rumble. An engine. Somewhere down the road, too far for her to see but getting closer by the second.
Her head snaps up, breath catching mid-inhale. Relief flares for a heartbeat, bright and sharp. Her brain tells her that someone is coming. Someone who might just be able to help. However, almost immediately, that flicker of hope curdles into panic, her stomach tightening as the thought strikes her like a knife.
What if it’s him?
Her pulse stutters, then races, a violent drumbeat against her ribs. The sound of the approaching vehicle grows louder, clearer. Hazel stands frozen in the middle of the asphalt, caught in between the pull of two instincts tearing at her in opposite directions. One screams for her to run. It tells her to dive into the underbrush, to bury herself in darkness and wait until the sound passes. The other whispers for her to stay, to keep her ground, to believe it could just be a stranger. A passerby. Someone who is undoubtedly human.
Her body trembles with unchecked fear as she hesitates, heart pounding, every muscle wound tight. The rumble grows closer and louder. The world around her narrows to that single, encroaching sound.
She doesn’t make the decision fast enough. Her body lags behind her thoughts, frozen between instinct and fear, and before her legs can remember how to move, the headlights crest the dip in the road ahead. The beams split through the dark like blades, slicing through the mist and washing the trees in hard, unnatural light. The glow catches the frost on the pavement, turning it to glass, and then it finds her. It pours over her face and shoulders, bright enough to sting her eyes. Hazel flinches, throwing up an arm to shield her face, the glare painting everything behind her eyelids in red and white ghosts.
The roar of the engine grows louder, deep and guttural, swallowing the quiet. Her pulse jumps in her throat as the vehicle bears down on her, the air trembling with its speed. The wind from its approach catches her jacket, whipping the hem against her legs and tugging at her hair until it lashes her cheeks.
For one dizzy, suspended moment, she thinks it’s him, that the Devil has found her at last. She truly believes that he has come rumbling out of the dark for her and her alone.
Only, the truck doesn’t slow. It tears past her, so close that the rush of air nearly knocks her off balance. The roar peaks, then falls away into the distance, leaving only the smell of diesel and the fading hum of tires on asphalt. Hazel turns, squinting against the dark, her breath shaking out in short, unsteady bursts. The red gleam of taillights flickers and continues on right past her. A laugh breaks out of her. It’s sharp, nervous, and barely there, but it’s enough to ease the stiffness in her chest.
It wasn’t him. Just some stranger on their way through.
She exhales and starts to turn back toward the road, ready to keep walking. Her shoes scuff softly against the pavement as she readjusts her jacket, preparing herself for the long stretch ahead. The silence creeps back in, steady and cold, and for a fleeting moment, she almost believes that everything is fine.
Then a sound cuts through the air. A shriek, high and terrible, ripping apart the stillness like a tear through fabric. Hazel’s heart leaps into her throat, her whole body seizing with the sound. She spins around, eyes wide, searching the dark for its source.
The truck that had passed her seconds ago is no longer a set of vanishing taillights. It’s moving sideways, screeching across the asphalt in a violent skid. Smoke billows from its tires, rolling through the moonlight in thick gray ribbons. The smell of burnt rubber burns her nose as the truck drifts across the lane, its engine howling like something alive.
In one brutal, final lurch, it stops, angled across both lanes, headlights still burning, and a harsh white glare spilling through the night. The road falls silent again, save for the faint hiss of the engine cooling and the soft rustle of leaves disturbed by the wind. The quiet that follows feels worse than the noise. It feels expectant, as though the world itself is holding its breath around her.
Hazel stares at the truck with wide eyes, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and her throat. Both of her hands are frozen at her sides, clutching the fabric of her jacket so tightly that her knuckles ache.
The world around her has gone impossibly still. Even the trees seem to have stopped their restless shifting, their branches drawn back as though waiting to see what she will do. Her heart hammers against her ribs, a desperate, uneven rhythm that makes her stomach twist.
Because she knows that truck. The sight of it settles over her like a cold, heavy hand. It’s an old Chevy pickup, the kind that looks as if it’s outlived three decades of bad weather and worse roads. The body is dulled by grime and road salt, its once-red paint long since faded to a weary gray. Rust blooms along the wheel wells, and the chrome on the bumper is pitted, dull beneath the pale wash of moonlight. It looks tired, familiar, like something torn straight out of another time, another life. Her life, one year ago today.
The windows are dark, solid black from where she stands. Not tinted exactly, just impenetrable, the glass swallowing every hint of the interior. She blinks once, twice, straining to see movement inside. Nothing. No shadow, and no face. The cab looks hollow, like it’s watching her through a single, darkened eye.
Then the driver’s side window begins to roll down. The sound is soft, a low mechanical hum that carries through the cold air, slicing through the silence like a whisper.
Hazel’s stomach drops. Her breath falters, and every instinct screams for her to turn, to run, to make off into the tree line before she sees what waits inside. Yet, her legs refuse to move. She can only watch as the glass lowers inch by inch, her pulse pounding louder with every turn of the motor.
The interior of the truck reveals itself slowly, inch by inch. She gets a glimpse of worn leather seats. They’re dark, creased, and gleaming faintly under the dim glow of the dashboard. The dash lights cast a cold, green-blue hue across the cabin, pulsing faintly against the instruments. The air inside seems warmer somehow, tinted with a faint haze that doesn’t belong in this world.
Before her eyes, the man inside moves. He lifts a hand, slow and deliberate, and presses a finger to the small dome light above his head. The bulb flickers once, then blooms to life, spilling a rich, golden light throughout the interior. It spreads like the first flare of dawn, warm and impossibly steady, washing over his face until the shadows melt away.
And she sees him.
The Devil himself.
He sits behind the wheel with the same easy composure she remembers, his posture loose, one arm draped over the open window as if this were just another quiet night on the road. His skin glows with the faintest sheen of warmth against the gold light, his features cut sharp and symmetrical, just as unnervingly perfect as she remembers. His jaw is completely clean-shaven, hard like marble, and his lips curve into a faint, knowing half-smile that never quite reaches his eyes.
He’s wearing a thick denim jacket, worn soft by age, its collar turned up against the chill. Beneath it, a black graphic T-shirt clings to him, the faded print showing a smiley face with small, pointed fangs. The kind of thing that feels like a joke told at her expense.
A pair of aviator sunglasses rests on the bridge of his nose, the lenses reflecting the light in mirrored gold, hiding the eyes she remembers too well. Those cold, inhuman eyes that had looked at her once and seen everything.
Even now, even through the glass, that same feeling wraps around her from before. The subtle pull, the sense that the night itself bends toward him. And all Hazel can do is stand there, trembling, her breath frosting in the air between them as if the cold has found a way to live inside of her.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite girl,” he says, his tone edged with that casual charm that just doesn’t fit the moment. He greets her like an old friend, his voice warm and easy, carrying across the cold air as if nothing about this night were strange at all. His hand drops from the light and smacks lightly against the outside of the truck door, the sound sharp. “You look a little lost out here, sweetheart. Need a lift?”
Hazel’s breath catches, and for a moment she can’t summon words. The sound of his voice is like an electric current. Smooth, with that soft, lilting drawl that makes everything he says sound harmless, even when it isn’t.
She takes a step back before she realizes she’s done it, her fingers twisting tight in the fabric of her jacket. “No,” she says quickly, the word tumbling out sharper than she intends. “No, I don’t. I’m fine.”
He grins, slow and deliberate, the expression curling the edges of his mouth into something that almost looks like a sneer. “She’s fine,” he repeats, drawing the words out like he’s tasting them, as though the very idea of her amuses him. His hand lifts, brushing along the side of his sunglasses. “Hell of a night for a midnight stroll.”
His fingers press down on the metal edges, and he tilts them down just enough for her to see his eyes.
They’re exactly as she remembers them. Icy and impossibly blue, too bright against the warmth of the cab’s light. There’s something ancient in them, something that doesn’t belong in a man’s face. For a breath, she can’t move. Her body feels locked, her pulse roaring in her ears. The headlights spill between them, making the gold of his hair gleam where it falls loose from the messy ponytail tied at the back of his head. Strands catch the light and glint like threads of fire, half-tamed, half-beast.
He regards her quietly, the same way he did that night, like she’s a puzzle he already knows the answer to, and he’s only watching to see if she’ll catch up.
Hazel swallows hard, the motion tight and unsteady, her breath catching halfway up her throat. The night air feels suddenly heavier, pressing down against her lungs. “I know what’ll happen if I get in that truck,” she says, her voice breaking at the edges, barely more than a whisper. The words don’t sound brave. They sound like defeat.
His grin spreads wider, splitting into something feral, all teeth and red. It’s the grin of a wolf, one that’s already digging into the belly of its prey. Abruptly, a sharp laugh bursts out of him, startling in the quiet.
“Oh, Hazel,” he drawls, his voice syrup-smooth and cruelly pleased. “If you already know, then you know you’re getting in whether you like it or not. Might as well make this easy on yourself.” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming behind those half-lowered glasses. “Or do you still need some convincing?”
She doesn’t have the time to answer. Her body moves before she can even think. One step, hard and heavy, shakes through the pavement. Her heel hits the ground, and then another step follows, unbidden. It’s as if something inside of her has been caught by an invisible thread, tugging tight. Panic seizes her chest, but her body doesn’t care. She takes another step, and then another, until her knees meet cold metal. The swells of her breasts brush against the driver’s side door.
Hazel’s palms slam against the open window, gripping the edge of the frame. Her fingers curl tight, nails biting into the weathered paint. She’s trembling now, caught between fight and surrender, eyes wide and bright under the pale spill of moonlight. She knows this feeling, this rope around her. It’s the same as before. That power that lurks in his voice, in the easy curve of his grin, in the weight of his gaze.
He doesn’t rush to speak. His large hand moves instead, slowly reaching out across the space between them. It lands on her shoulder, firm and final. The warmth seeps through the thin fabric of her jacket, spreading like fire through her veins. It tingles, hums, and before she can even breathe, the world seems to narrow to the two of them.
“Come on now,” he murmurs, his hand sliding higher, slow as a rising flame. His palm traces the line of her collarbone, and his thumb brushes the edge of her throat, the bare skin there chilled from the night air. “You’re frozen to the bone,” he says, the words caught somewhere between concern and mockery. His touch lingers a second too long, and she can feel the pulse jump in her neck beneath his thumb.
Where she’s cold, he burns. His skin is feverish, alive with heat that feels too much to survive. It sears faintly against her, radiating through the thin barrier of her jacket. It’s not an illness, she knows that much. It’s something deeper. That same infernal warmth that once filled the gas station air with dread. Warmth that can melt away a chill or burn sin from the blood.
Hellfire. It lives in him, coils beneath his skin, and it pulses now through the pads of his fingers as if trying to brand her.
When he finally pulls his hand away, the world stirs. The invisible thread that’s been holding her still unravels. It’s like a spell breaking. She gasps out a shuddering, sharp sound, and her knees nearly buckle with the release. Then she’s moving before she can stop herself. Without a word, without even daring to glance at him again, Hazel rounds the front of the truck, her boots crunching over the gravel and leaves. The air bites at her cheeks, but she hardly feels it.
He’s already waiting for her when she reaches the passenger side. The heavy creak of the hinges fills the silence as he pushes the door open, his movements smooth, unhurried. The cab’s light spills faintly over him, outlining the shape of his body behind the wheel. He looks larger in the truck than she remembers him being. His shoulders are wide beneath his jean jacket, forearms thick and strong, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting easily against his thigh. His presence fills the space, commanding it, claiming it completely.
Her eyes flick down before she can stop them. His ripped jeans hang low on his hips, a sliver of skin visible above the dark band of his studded belt. There’s something terribly human about that, almost enough to make her forget what he is.
Almost.
With a dry swallow, Hazel forces her legs to move. She grips the handle, climbs up into the truck, and shuts the door behind her. The sound it makes is like a coffin lid clicking closed. Trapping her in a grave that may as way be sealing her into an eternity of suffering.
The moment Hazel settles into the seat, her breath still catching, he throws the truck into gear with a smooth, practiced flick of his wrist. The movement is so quick, so sure, that she barely registers it before the shift jolts through the cab. He glances over his shoulder, his elbow hooking casually over the top of the seats behind their heads, the picture of ease. Hazel’s fingers twitch toward the seatbelt, but she doesn’t make it that far.
With a sharp press of his boot, the truck lurches backward. The engine roars to life, deep and guttural. The sudden motion throws her forward hard, her shoulder slamming into the seatbelt buckle at her side. She cries out, her palms flying up to brace against the dash, the cold metal biting into her skin. The world outside blurs, a rush of dark trees and moonlight spinning in reverse through the windshield.
Her heart pounds so loud she can barely hear the sound of the tires tearing over the asphalt. “What the hell are you doing?” she gasps, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. The forest looms behind them, growing closer by the second. Black trunks, heavy shadows, the gleam of bark slick with frost. They’re barreling straight for the woods.
Then, just as the outline of a massive oak rises up in the glow of the taillights, he slams the brake. The truck shrieks in protest, tires screaming, smoke curling up around them. Hazel’s body jerks backward, her shoulder slamming against the door, and for one breathless moment, she’s sure they’ve hit it. But when she looks up, they’re still intact. The back bumper sits a whisper’s breadth from the tree.
Her chest heaves as she grips the edge of the dash, trying to steady her breathing. He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he shifts again, one hand flicking the gear stick forward. The truck surges ahead down the road like nothing happened. The smirk that slides across his face is pure satisfaction, infuriatingly calm.
Without missing a beat, he rips the aviators from his face and tosses them down onto the floor at her feet. The gold frames flash in the dim light before they disappear into shadow.
“What?” he drawls, voice dipped in laughter. “Don’t trust my driving?”
Hazel exhales shakily, the sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. It comes out as a weak noise, small and trembling. She doesn’t answer him. She can’t. The only thing she can do is stare out the windshield, the long black road unfurling ahead.
As they speed down the narrow stretch of road, the soft hum of the overhead light flickers once. His hand moves without ceremony, fingers brushing the small switch above their heads, and the cab is immediately swallowed by darkness. The sudden absence of light feels suffocating. The only illumination comes from the dash: those green-blue numbers and gauges casting their eerie glow across his face.
Hazel blinks against it, trying to adjust her eyes, but the longer she looks, the more her vision starts to betray her.
The glow slides across his cheekbones, across his jaw, and for the briefest instant, the lines of his face seem to shift. His features ripple in the dim light, his mouth twisting, the sharp edge of his jaw lengthening, the skin around his eyes seeming to stretch too tight. His teeth glint too white, too sharp, like something caught halfway between man and beast.
She jerks upright, her breath catching hard in her chest. The air feels thinner, harder to pull into her lungs. “What—” she begins, her voice strangled, but then he turns his head toward her.
The movement is slow, deliberate, predatory. His eyes meet hers head-on, and what she sees steals the sound straight from her throat. The familiar blue of his irises is gone, drowned in two bottomless pools of black. They’re glossy and unnatural, absorbing the light instead of reflecting it, and for a heartbeat, she swears they’re moving, swirling, like smoke trapped behind glass.
A low, amused sound slips from him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he murmurs, the words mocking, enough so to make her flinch.
Her throat works uselessly. “Where– where are you taking me?” she manages, the question cracking at the edges. Her voice is so small she almost doesn’t recognize it as her own.
His grin deepens, slow and knowing. Without answering, he jerks the steering wheel sharply to the left. The tires leave the pavement in a violent spray of gravel, and the truck dives nose-first into a narrow dirt path that carves its way through the trees. The sound of crushed leaves and snapping branches roars around them. Hazel grips the door handle, her body bouncing against the seat with every roll over uneven ground.
Her pulse hammers as she looks out the window, because this road, this path, shouldn’t exist. She’s driven this stretch more times than she can count, walked it even. And she knows with absolute certainty that there has never been a turn here.
Not until tonight.
The truck lurches forward for a stretch, tires crunching over loose dirt and scattered leaves, before it comes to an abrupt halt in a small clearing, a pocket of moonlight struggling to penetrate the dense overgrowth.
Beyond the edge of the truck’s headlights, the dirt road seems to vanish entirely, curling off into the shadows as though swallowed by the forest. The trees rise on either side like walls, gnarled and blackened, leaving only the suggestion of a path that could stretch on forever if one dared follow it.
He clicks his tongue, a sharp, deliberate sound that slices through the silence. The engine dies, the dash lights wink out, and the cabin falls into darkness so complete it feels like it’s swallowing them whole. Hazel blinks against it, trying to orient herself. Her shoulder throbs from the sudden stop, pressed against the hard edge of the door, and her gaze slides helplessly to the floor, where the faint outline of his sunglasses are still sitting at her feet.
For what feels like minutes, maybe longer, she stays frozen, head bent, letting the darkness press down on her. The chill of the night seems to creep through the thin cabin, wrapping around her spine, and she hugs herself tightly, wishing she could will her body warm. Each second stretches, slow and unbearable, until the quiet is shattered by his voice.
“If I know you, Hazel, and I think I do,” he begins, the sound soft but undeniably sharp, “you’ve thought about this moment every single day since that night. Haven’t you?” His tone is playful, but it carries a cruel edge that makes her stomach tighten.
He leans slightly toward her, just enough that the scent of him—warm, metallic, heady, and masculine—creeps into her senses.
“I know exactly what you've been thinking,” his voice cuts through the quiet, low and teasing, almost a purr. He leans even closer now, his elbow resting casually on the back of the seat behind her, the heat of his body radiating into hers.
Hazel swallows thickly, pressing her lips together. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t even breathe, but she feels the weight of his gaze as though it’s a physical force.
“You replay it in your mind like a bad dream,” he continues, voice softer now, silk over steel. “That night… the store… my hands on your throat. My tongue between your thighs. Do you remember that, Hazel? Do you remember how fast you came for me? And yet…” He chuckles, low and dark, “look at you now. Trembling like a leaf.”
Hazel’s fingers clench against her thighs, nails biting into her palms. She keeps staring at the floor, but the heat of his voice curls into her chest, wrapping her nerves around itself.
“You touched yourself afterwards, didn’t you, honey?” he murmurs, again leaning closer, now a breath away, though he doesn’t touch her yet. “I know you did. I can practically see those nights in your eyes. I can picture you, lying in bed, your heart hammering… as you try, try, try to convince yourself that you didn’t love every second of it.” His thumb lowers, brushing her arm. “I know you hated yourself for wanting this day to come. You hated yourself for thinking: what if he comes back? What if he doesn’t come back?”
She flinches slightly, and he laughs, the sound a low growl, amused. “You can’t even lie to yourself about it, can you? Every time you ache, every shiver that runs down your spine… you think of me… and you want me, just a little. You’ve been waiting, haven’t you? Waiting so, so patiently for the moment I would tear you apart.”
Hazel turns her head slowly toward the window, staring out into the endless dark, telling herself not to react. She can feel him watching her, measuring her, enjoying every little twist of her face.
“Oh, don’t turn away now, sweetheart,” he says with a teasing nudge to her arm. “Things were just getting good.”
The cabin is silent for a beat, except for the faint sound of her shallow breathing. She wrings her hands together, her eyes welling with heat. She can’t tell if she’s on the verge or tears of it’s just embarrassment that’s making her eyes strain. Because she knows he is horribly, terribly right about her. She has thought of this night. She’s spent hours upon hours writhing in anticipation for it. And she knows she’s damned for it.
“Damned?” he murmurs, voice low, almost intimate. “He’ll forgive you, Hazel. Oh, how the Lord doth love his little lambs… and oh, how I doth love to slaughter them.”
Hazel’s throat tightens, mortal fear burrowing itself inside of her like a poison. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t move, but her pulse races. He reads her like an open book, pulling the thoughts out of her mind before she ever speaks them aloud. Every answer he gives in response presses down on her, pulling her into a darkness that she thought she had left behind her, and into a reality she’s never been able to escape.
Without waiting for a response, he begins to move across the seat towards her. Her eyes widen, and her body stiffens, a reflexive attempt to resist his advances. But his body closes in until he is crushing her against the edge of the seat. His body is a solid heat next to hers, commanding her every ounce of attention until there is nothing but him.
He grinds his leg puposefully against hers. She feels the press of muscle, the weight of him leaning across the narrow expanse between the seats, and the subtle, intoxicating presence of him floods her senses until she feels like she’s drowning.
Then his hand moves, large and certain, gripping the back of her head. His fingers thread through the strands of her hair, holding her close, forcing her to stay still. Before she can think, before she can summon the logic that screams at her to pull away, his lips find hers.
The kiss is deep and forceful, a reminder that this night has changed everything for her all over again. Hazel’s breath hitches, and her hands, tense at first, falter between her parted knees. Against her own will, a strange, trembling warmth spreads through her chest. Her body reacts instinctively, melting toward him despite every warning her mind offers.
Time distorts, the truck’s cabin shrinking into a cocoon of heat and dark, his presence pressing into her chest like an immovable weight. The world outside ceases to exist. All that remains is the warmth of him, the fire in his touch, and the impossible draw she feels toward him.
Hazel’s knees weaken imperceptibly, and she sways into his chest. Her lips part, breath mingling with his, and the tension she’s carried all night frays and falls away, replaced by something darker, something forbidden that sets her blood thrumming.
He chuckles darkly, his lips still hovering a breath away from hers, his fingers tightening in her hair. His free hand slides up her thigh, rough nails scratching against her bare skin where her skirt has ridden up. She can feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric, leaving her skin hot and flushed.
"I knew you'd give in," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement, with pure victory. "Your kind always does. You fight it, squirm, pretend you don’t want it… but then those pretty little thighs part for me all the same."
His thumb glides over the soft flesh of her inner thigh, just shy of where she really wants it to be, and she shudders openly. A small, broken noise escapes her, swallowed immediately by his mouth as he kisses her again, far harder this time. His teeth catch her lower lip and he bites down until her skin aches beneath the sharp points.
The taste of him floods her senses. She swears she can taste metal on his breath, like blood, but something deeper and smokier too, like the air before a wild storm. His tongue slides against hers, possessive and demanding, and she can’t stop herself from responding. Her body betrays her with every ragged breath she takes.
His hand leaves her thigh, sliding up to fist in the front of her jacket. With one sharp tug, his rips the fabric open wide, revealing the thin, barely there sweater covering her chest. Cold air rushes in, but it barely registers, because a second later his eyes are narrowing in on the small, silver necklace hanging around her neck, and the delicate, gem-studded cross that’s attached to it. He growls deeply, animalistically, his palm pressing towards her chest, his fingers curling around that necklace roughly.
"Look at you, Hazel," he breathes against her lips, grinning as she gasps. "Trying so hard to save your soul, aren’t you?" His fingers hook into the thin chain and yank. The metal snaps like it's nothing, the broken ends falling away into the dark.
Hazel's breath comes faster, her pulse thundering in her throat. His hand slides beneath the edge of her shirt, his calloused fingers skimming over the curve of her covered breast, and she arches into the touch before she can stop herself.
"How cute," he murmurs, his voice dripping with hunger, with untampered pleasure at her utter helplessness. “Did you really think that some trinket would keep me out?"
His fingers close around her breast, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp. His thumb rolls over her bud through the fabric, teasing it into a stiff peak before pinching down on it sharply. A whimper escapes her lips, half-pain, half-pleasure, and he drinks the sound in with another bruising kiss.
"You prayed, didn't you?" he murmurs against her lips, his breath hot and mocking. "Kneeling at the foot of your bed, whispering to a God who never fucking listens. Take my word for it, Hazel." His hand slides down her stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her skirt. "But I’ll hear you… I’ll put you on your knees and watch you beg."
Her hips jerk as his fingers brush against the damp fabric of her panties. She's already wet, shamefully and impossibly wet, and he lets out a low, satisfied laugh as he drags his fingers along her slit, feeling the heat of her through the thin barrier.
"Now, how about that?" he growls, his voice rough.
Hazel's face burns, but regardless of what she wants to cry over and deny, her body gives her away. Her thighs tremble as he presses harder, the flat of his palm grinding against her clit hard enough to make her thighs quiver. She bites her lip to stifle a moan, but he catches it anyway, and his eyes blaze.
"No, no, honey," he purrs, fingers hooking into the black lace of her underwear. "I want to hear you."
With a sharp tug, he tears them off, the fabric splitting apart like tissue paper beneath his beast-like grip. The cold air hits her exposed flesh, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his fingers pressing back against her, this time skin to skin. His touch is merciless, rubbing her sex just hard enough to make her hips buck, then dipping lower to tease her entrance. He hums in approval at how easily his fingers glide through her slick, gathering it up before pushing two digits inside without warning.
Hazel chokes on a cry, her back arching as he stretches her, his searingly hot fingers curling just right to make her vision blacken.
"There she is," he murmurs, his thumb shifting to rub over her sex as he drags his fingers into her, the slick, obscene sounds filling the cab around them. She can feel herself tightening for him, her body betraying her completely, forcing her to climb higher, and higher, and higher.
And then he stops.
Hazel whines, rocking her hips down onto his hand, trying to chase the sensation of being filled up by his hot digits. He pulls his hand away entirely, lifting his glistening fingers to his lips and sucking them clean with a dark, satisfied smirk.
"Patience is a virtue," he chides, voice thick with amusement.
Before she can protest, his hand fists in her hair again, dragging her across the seat until she's straddling his lap. His hand burns against her scalp, bringing tears to the corners of her eyes. The hard outline of him presses against her through his jeans, and she groans at the contact, her body trembling with need.
His free hand works the button of his pants, popping it open before yanking the zipper down in one sharp motion. His length springs free, standing up against his stomach with intimidating size, the tip already glistening with pre-cum. He grips himself, stroking lazily, his other hand still tangled in her hair.
"Well, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice a dark, sinful whisper. "It’s your time to shine."
Those words are like a gun firing off, blowing through her skull and leaving her empty inside. She hesitates for only a second before shifting her hips and sinking down onto him, her body going absolutely rigid as he fills her inch by agonizing inch. The stretch burns in the best way possible, her body clenching around him as he sinks all the way inside.
"Attagirl," he hisses, his grip yanking her head back.
Her thighs shake as she starts to move, her hands braced against his chest for balance. He lets her set the pace, but she can see the hunger in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches as she rolls her hips, taking him deeper with each slow, desperate stroke.
It’s not enough for him. As she knew it wouldn’t be.
His hands grip her waist suddenly, fingers digging into her skin hard enough to bruise. He drives her down onto him, slamming up into her with brutal, relentless thrusts. Hazel cries out, her nails scraping against his chest as pleasure coils tight in her stomach, her body tightening around him with utter need.
"You gonna come for me, Hazel?" he growls, his voice roughened and strained with the pulse of exertion. She twitches around him, her walls squeezing tight. "Oh, yes you are."
She doesn't answer, can’t answer, her mind drowning in sensation as he drills her harder, his hips snapping up to meet hers with every stroke. She doesn’t know how he does it. She doesn’t know how he feels this good even when he isn’t touching her. She’s never finished without touching herself, never been able to work herself up this much, but–
The feeling hits her like a bolt of lightning, her entire body seizing as she comes undone around him. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow. He keeps driving into her through it all, dragging the pleasure out of her until she’s a whimpering, oversensitive mess.
A guttural snarl rips from his throat as her walls convulse around him, the sound more animal than it is human. His head snaps back, his throat bobbing with a thick swallow, and for the first time, the dim moonlight catches the unnatural gleam of his teeth, highlighting two fang-like points glinting like shards of glass.
“Fuck–!" he hisses, his voice distorted, deeper than before, layered with a touch of something inhuman for all of a few seconds.
His hand cracks against her bottom in a brutal spank, the sharp slap echoing through the cab. The pain blooms hot and bright, mingling with the aftershocks of her orgasm until she can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Her eyes squeeze shut, her body jerking against him, but he doesn’t let her pull away. His grip on her hips is iron, fingers bruising as he grinds her down onto him, forcing her to take every last inch as he thrusts up erratically, chasing his own release.
She can feel him pulsing inside her, a sign that he’s right on the edge when paired with the stutter of his constant rhythm. His breath comes in ragged growls, his hips snapping up one last time before he buries himself down to the hilt. A hot, thick flood spills into her, filling her up as his sharp nails dig into her thighs, hard enough to draw blood.
"Oh, Hazel," he snarls, voice dripping with dark satisfaction as his release pumps into her for the second time in her life. "My own little taste of Heaven.”
She lets out a choked noise, her sensitivity finally getting the better of her. She tries to pull away from him, but he doesn’t let her move, doesn’t let her escape the heat of his body. His lips curl into a vicious grin as he leans in closer, his fangs grazing her throat.
Without warning, he presses forwards completely. His teeth sink into her throat with brutal pressure, piercing her skin like it’s nothing. Hazel screams, her body jerking violently against him, but he pins her in place with an unbreakable grip. The pain is white-hot, searing, but beneath it, something terrible pulses through her veins, flooding her system with a dizzying rush of warmth.
He pulls back with a wet, satisfied sound, his grin stretching wide, those monstrous fangs still glistening with her blood. His pupils dilate unnaturally, pulsing like ink spilling through water, and for a heartbeat, she swears she sees something flicker behind his eyes. Something ancient and ravenous.
Then, just as fast as it came, the predator in him retreats. His grip loosens, his expression softening into something almost tender. He exhales sharply, his chest rising beneath her, and with a rough but careful motion, he drags her down against him, pressing her face into the crook of his neck.
"Shhh," he murmurs, his voice gruff but unexpectedly soothing, one hand stroking down her spine in slow, deliberate motions. "I’ve got you, little lamb."
And just like that, the fight leaves her. Her body goes limp, her muscles surrendering to exhaustion, to the strange, intoxicating lethargy that floods her limbs. The pain in her throat fades into a dull throb, the warmth spreading through her like liquor, thick and heady.
She should hate this. She should claw at him, scream, fight. Instead, her fingers curl weakly into his shirt, her breath hitching as she presses closer. His scent fills her nose once again, smoke and leather and blood. Against all reason, it’s comforting.
His lips press against the top of her head, lingering there for a moment before he exhales, long and slow. "Good girl," he murmurs.
And it doesn’t sound like mockery. It sounds like genuine praise. Somehow, that in itself is more terrifying than anything else could be.
The truck’s cab is silent now, save for the steady rhythm of their breathing. The weight of all that has occurred presses down on Hazel, but her body refuses to revolt, refuses to do anything but curl deeper into his warmth. His fingers trace idle circles along her back, slow and hypnotic, as if he’s memorizing the shape of her.
Outside, the wind sighs through the trees, and she can hear it rustling the leaves in a sound like whispered secrets. The moon watches them from high above, pale and unblinking, but the night no longer feels hollow like it did before. It feels charged, like the air before a storm, heavy with something inevitable.
After a long moment, he shifts beneath her, his voice rumbling low in his chest. "Time to go," he says, and it isn’t a suggestion.
Hazel doesn’t argue. She doesn’t have the strength left.
He sets her back in the passenger seat with surprising gentleness, his fingers lingering on her thigh for just a second too long. Then he reaches for the keys, turning the ignition with a smooth twist of his wrist. The engine growls to life, vibrating through the cab like a monster come to life. It feels unnatural given the moment that has passed between them. It’s as if she’s coming out of a dream. Or rather, a nightmare.
As the truck pulls back onto the road, Hazel stares out the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass. Her thighs press together, the warmth of his release still sticky on the inside of her legs. Her throat throbs, and she brings a hand up to press over those bloodied, deep holes in her flesh. The trees blur past, swallowing the clearing behind them as if it never existed. The road ahead stretches on, endless and dark.
And she knows, with a certainty that settles deep in her bones, that this isn’t over. She knows that it never will be.
The Devil grins at the wheel, his fingers tapping along to some rhythm that only he can hear.