Possessed - Chapter 2
Smut By Anastasia Williams
The morning after was a bruise—gray light seeping through Eli’s curtains, his body a map of pain. Every breath stung, his ribs creaking like old floorboards. The mirror showed a stranger: one eye blackened, lip split, a patchwork of purple blooming across his jaw. He didn’t cry this time. He didn’t scream. He just stared, silent, until the reflection felt less like him and more like a ghost he’d left behind.
Downstairs, Claire hovered, her voice soft and trembling. “Eli, please talk to me. You don’t have to go today—I’ll call the school.”
“I’m fine,” he said, the words flat, mechanical. He brushed past her, ignoring the plate of pancakes she’d made—his favorite, drowned in syrup, a desperate plea in every bite. She reached for his arm, but he flinched away, the door slamming shut behind him. Her muffled sob followed him down the street, but he didn’t look back. Not today.
Westridge High loomed ahead, its brick walls a cage he couldn’t escape. The halls buzzed with the same chaos—laughter, lockers slamming, whispers trailing him like smoke. He kept his hood up, head down, a shadow slipping through the crowd. But they found him anyway.
Lunch came too fast. Jasmine lounged at her usual table, Chase sprawled beside her, his arm slung over her shoulders like a king claiming his throne. She spotted Eli first, her lips curling into that familiar, venomous smirk. “Oh, look who’s back,” she called, loud enough to turn heads. “Didn’t learn your lesson, huh?”
Chase cracked his knuckles, his grin a jagged slash. “Want round two, freak?”
The old Eli would’ve shrunk, stammered, run. This Eli didn’t. He stood there, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on them—silent, still, unblinking. The air shifted, a ripple of unease cutting through their laughter. Jasmine’s brow furrowed, her taunt faltering. “What’s wrong with you? Too scared to talk now?”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch when Chase shoved him, hard, against the wall. Didn’t gasp when a fist grazed his cheek, splitting the scab on his lip. Blood trickled down his chin, warm and wet, but he didn’t wipe it away. He just stared, his gaze a cold, empty well, swallowing their jeers whole. Chase stepped back, muttering, “Fucking weirdo,” but there was a flicker of something—uncertainty?—in his eyes. Jasmine laughed, sharper this time, like she was trying to convince herself it was still funny.
The rest of the day blurred. Teachers droned, classmates whispered, but Eli was a statue—mute, unreachable. The bell rang, and while the others spilled out into the afternoon, he didn’t head home. His feet carried him past the familiar streets, past the ache of Claire’s unanswered questions, to the bus stop. The 3:15 to Old Hollow rattled up, its engine coughing like a dying beast. He climbed aboard, sinking into a cracked vinyl seat, the red stone of his decision burning in his chest.
The ride was long, the world outside smearing into streaks of gray and green. Old Hollow was a forgotten place—crumbling houses, skeletal trees, air thick with dust and secrets. Eli hadn’t been here since he was a kid, back when Grandpa Joe’s brother, Uncle Silas, would spin tales of shadows and spells over cups of bitter tea. Silas was a recluse, a magician, they said—half mad, half myth. Grandpa Joe called him dangerous; Claire called him a ghost. Eli didn’t care. Not anymore.
The house squatted at the edge of town, a sagging relic of warped wood and peeling paint. The porch creaked under his sneakers, the doorbell long dead. He knocked, the sound hollow, and waited. Minutes stretched until the door groaned open, revealing Silas—tall, gaunt, eyes like chipped obsidian under a tangle of white hair. He smelled of smoke and something sharper, like iron left too long in the rain.
“Eli,” Silas rasped, voice a low growl. “Thought you’d forgotten me.”
“I need help,” Eli said, no preamble, no softness. The words hung heavy between them.
Silas studied him, those dark eyes tracing the bruises, the blood, the hollowed-out shell of a boy. A slow, crooked smile split his face. “Come in.”
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the tang of old magic—shelves sagging under jars of herbs, bones, things Eli couldn’t name. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting jagged shadows. Silas didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t need to. He gestured to a chair, its velvet worn to threads, and Eli sat, hands clenched on his knees.
“You’re not here for tea,” Silas said, rummaging through a drawer. “You’re here for power.”
Eli nodded, throat tight. “They hurt me. I want—I want them to stop.”
Silas chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. “Stopping’s one thing. Making them *pay* is another.” He turned, holding something small between his gnarled fingers—a stone, no bigger than a marble, red as fresh blood, pulsing faintly with a light that shouldn’t have been there. “This’ll do it.”
“What is it?” Eli’s voice was a whisper, drawn to the stone like a moth to flame.
“Old magic. Dangerous magic.” Silas’s eyes gleamed. “Take it in your hand, say a name—clear, loud, right in front of ‘em. Then say ‘possessed.’ They’ll freeze, still as stone. Can’t move, can’t speak, but they’ll *feel* everything. Every cut, every scream in their head. You decide how long it lasts.”
Eli’s breath hitched. The stone felt alive, whispering against his skin as Silas dropped it into his palm. It was warm, too warm, like it had a heartbeat of its own. “Does it… hurt them?”
“Only if you want it to,” Silas said, leaning closer. “It’s yours now. Use it, or don’t. But don’t come crying when the weight of it breaks you.”
Eli closed his fingers around the stone, its heat seeping into his bones. His mind raced—Jasmine’s laugh, Chase’s fists, the blood on the gravel. He saw them frozen, helpless, eyes wide with terror they couldn’t voice. Something twisted in his gut, not fear, not shame, but hunger. “Thank you,” he murmured, slipping the stone into his pocket.
Silas waved him off. “Go. And don’t tell your mother. She’d burn this place down to keep you from it.”
The bus ride back was a blur, the stone a quiet ember against his thigh. Night had fallen by the time he reached Westridge, the streets empty, the air sharp with coming rain. He didn’t go home. Claire would be waiting, her worry a chain he couldn’t face. Instead, he wandered, the stone’s weight anchoring him to something new—something dark.
He found himself near the school gates, where it had all gone wrong. The memory clawed at him—Jasmine’s sneer, Chase’s boots, his own broken pleas. His fingers brushed the stone, tracing its smooth surface. He could see it now: them standing there, laughing, until he spoke the words. *Jasmine. Possessed.* Her body locking up, her smirk trapped, her mind screaming while he watched. *Chase. Possessed.* Those fists useless, that rage caged, his power stripped away.
A sound snapped him out of it—footsteps, voices. He ducked behind a tree, heart pounding, as Jasmine and Chase emerged from the shadows, her arm looped through his. They were close, too close, their laughter cutting through the night. “That kid’s a freak,” Chase was saying, voice thick with disdain. “Should’ve finished him off.”
Jasmine giggled, pressing against him. “He’s nothing. Let him rot.”
Eli’s grip tightened on the stone, its heat flaring, matching the fire in his chest. His lips parted, the words trembling on his tongue—*Jasmine, possessed*—but he stopped. Not yet. Not here. He needed them alone, needed it perfect. The silence stretched, his breath shallow, as they disappeared into the dark.
He stepped out, the stone pulsing in his hand, a promise, a weapon. His eyes burned, not with tears, but with something sharper, something alive. Tomorrow, he’d go back. Tomorrow, they’d see him—not the shy boy they’d crushed, but the shadow he’d become. The stone thrummed, and he whispered to it, voice low, a vow to the night.
“You’ll feel it,” he said, the words curling like smoke. “You’ll feel *everything*.”
And somewhere, deep inside, the spark ignited into a blaze.
TO BE CONTINUED…
This was the first book I ever wrote. If you’ve never read Dark Desires, you’re missing the spark that built everything I do now. I wrote it for women and couples who want to taste what they read—to turn pages into touch, words into breath, and fantasy into something real. The messages I still receive from that book remind me why desire is holy.
So go on—treat yourself. It’s more affordable than your next lunch… but it might ruin you for ordinary nights forever.
