His Private Hell - Chapter 106: Chapter 106
You are reading His Private Hell, Chapter 106: Chapter 106. Read more chapters of His Private Hell.
Teeth In The Dark
She heard them first.
Low and distant—voices not carried by air but by memory, crawling across the back of her skull like they belonged there. A choir of something ancient and wrong, humming the tune of a requiem she hadn’t realized she’d already started dancing to.
Eella clutched the sink in the twenty-ninth-floor restroom of Ally’s Inc. Her reflection didn’t match her face. It blinked slower. It smiled when she didn’t. Her breath hitched.
The lights above flickered.
And behind her, in the glass, the door opened without a sound.
She spun, but no one was there. Only the whisper of sulfur. The taste of blood she hadn’t bitten into.
Garrison hadn’t come back to her apartment after the last time.
No text. No call. Not even silence—just a void where he used to be, and in it, a steady increase of static. Emails from Lazarus. A box with no sender containing a silver coin etched with the number II. A warning etched on her mirror in lipstick she didn’t own.
Obedience is the illusion of safety.
The Choir wasn’t one voice anymore. They’d doubled. Tripled. Lazarus had opened the second gate. She felt it in her teeth.
Back in her office, everything smelled like fire.
She touched her mouse and flinched when the screen flickered to life without her clicking. Her calendar blinked red across the top: “Visitor Access to Floor 33: Authorized.”
What the hell?
No one authorized Floor 33. Ever. Not since Darcie had vanished. Not since Eella had opened that goddamn elevator and screamed when she saw what was on the walls.
The lights above her buzzed and then—total blackout.
She stood slowly.
And then the power returned.
But her office door was open now.
Garrison was standing in the hallway, shirt unbuttoned, blood on his throat.
Not his.
He looked at her like he’d crawled out of a grave just to see her. And he smelled like ash. Like whatever fire had burned him hadn’t been satisfied.
“I told you not to go looking,” he said, his voice dark gravel. “And yet here we are.”
“What happened to you?” she whispered.
He stepped in, closed the door with a click. “Lazarus showed me a memory I’d buried. One I didn’t know I’d created.”
She moved to touch him. He flinched like her fingers were flame.
“I saw her again. Darcie.”
Eella froze.
Garrison exhaled like a man being exorcised. “She wasn’t screaming. She was laughing. She’d joined them. She chose it, Eella.”
“No,” she whispered.
“She wanted the chaos. She wanted to burn the walls down.”
Eella shook her head, trembling. “No one wants that.”
Garrison’s eyes turned cold. “You do.”
He reached her before she could retreat, one hand gripping the back of her neck, the other finding her hip with bruising finality. His mouth crashed to hers with the taste of iron and regret, and she moaned before she meant to.
This wasn’t tenderness. This was punishment. This was what a man did when he had no god left but hunger.
He shoved everything off her desk.
She didn’t protest.
The Choir was louder now. The second had been released—Lazarus had set it loose, and it was using Garrison’s skin to sing.
He peeled the buttons of her blouse with impatient precision, her bra following, teeth grazing the curve of her breast until she arched up with a cry.
“Do you feel it?” he growled into her skin. “The fire I buried for years? The beast I locked behind that door?”
“Yes,” she gasped. “I feel it—I feel—”
He lifted her onto the desk with a growl, hiking her skirt and tearing the lace beneath it without asking. His fingers slid inside her before she could breathe.
She choked on her own name.
He devoured the sound.
“Wet for the monster,” he hissed. “Say it.”
“I’m wet for you.”
“No,” he said, dragging her forward. “Say what I am.”
She shook her head.
“Say it.”
“You’re my monster,” she whispered. “You’re the thing under my bed.”
He kissed her like she was the only fire left on earth. And then he moved inside her—deep, brutal, a rhythm built on ruin. Her hands clawed his shoulders, nails drawing blood.
“Harder,” she begged.
He obliged.
The desk rocked with every thrust. Her orgasm hit like an explosion, her mind going white before plunging into black. She screamed. He never slowed.
“I’ll ruin you,” he said against her throat. “I’ll bury your sanity beside mine.”
She wanted that. She wanted to drown in his hell, wrap herself in his sickness, let his pain melt her own.
Afterward, her legs barely held her. Garrison stood back, shirt soaked, hands shaking.
“I saw something else,” he said slowly. “Darcie’s not the only one Lazarus has touched.”
Eella froze.
“What?”
“Your name,” he said. “Was on the wall.”
“No—”
“Etched in blood,” he continued. “Yours. From before.”
“Before what?”
Garrison stared at her like she wasn’t real. “Before you were Eella Hart.”
Her heart stopped.
And the Choir began to laugh.
She turned to the wall—and saw her reflection again.
Only this time, her eyes were black.
She heard them first.
Low and distant—voices not carried by air but by memory, crawling across the back of her skull like they belonged there. A choir of something ancient and wrong, humming the tune of a requiem she hadn’t realized she’d already started dancing to.
Eella clutched the sink in the twenty-ninth-floor restroom of Ally’s Inc. Her reflection didn’t match her face. It blinked slower. It smiled when she didn’t. Her breath hitched.
The lights above flickered.
And behind her, in the glass, the door opened without a sound.
She spun, but no one was there. Only the whisper of sulfur. The taste of blood she hadn’t bitten into.
Garrison hadn’t come back to her apartment after the last time.
No text. No call. Not even silence—just a void where he used to be, and in it, a steady increase of static. Emails from Lazarus. A box with no sender containing a silver coin etched with the number II. A warning etched on her mirror in lipstick she didn’t own.
Obedience is the illusion of safety.
The Choir wasn’t one voice anymore. They’d doubled. Tripled. Lazarus had opened the second gate. She felt it in her teeth.
Back in her office, everything smelled like fire.
She touched her mouse and flinched when the screen flickered to life without her clicking. Her calendar blinked red across the top: “Visitor Access to Floor 33: Authorized.”
What the hell?
No one authorized Floor 33. Ever. Not since Darcie had vanished. Not since Eella had opened that goddamn elevator and screamed when she saw what was on the walls.
The lights above her buzzed and then—total blackout.
She stood slowly.
And then the power returned.
But her office door was open now.
Garrison was standing in the hallway, shirt unbuttoned, blood on his throat.
Not his.
He looked at her like he’d crawled out of a grave just to see her. And he smelled like ash. Like whatever fire had burned him hadn’t been satisfied.
“I told you not to go looking,” he said, his voice dark gravel. “And yet here we are.”
“What happened to you?” she whispered.
He stepped in, closed the door with a click. “Lazarus showed me a memory I’d buried. One I didn’t know I’d created.”
She moved to touch him. He flinched like her fingers were flame.
“I saw her again. Darcie.”
Eella froze.
Garrison exhaled like a man being exorcised. “She wasn’t screaming. She was laughing. She’d joined them. She chose it, Eella.”
“No,” she whispered.
“She wanted the chaos. She wanted to burn the walls down.”
Eella shook her head, trembling. “No one wants that.”
Garrison’s eyes turned cold. “You do.”
He reached her before she could retreat, one hand gripping the back of her neck, the other finding her hip with bruising finality. His mouth crashed to hers with the taste of iron and regret, and she moaned before she meant to.
This wasn’t tenderness. This was punishment. This was what a man did when he had no god left but hunger.
He shoved everything off her desk.
She didn’t protest.
The Choir was louder now. The second had been released—Lazarus had set it loose, and it was using Garrison’s skin to sing.
He peeled the buttons of her blouse with impatient precision, her bra following, teeth grazing the curve of her breast until she arched up with a cry.
“Do you feel it?” he growled into her skin. “The fire I buried for years? The beast I locked behind that door?”
“Yes,” she gasped. “I feel it—I feel—”
He lifted her onto the desk with a growl, hiking her skirt and tearing the lace beneath it without asking. His fingers slid inside her before she could breathe.
She choked on her own name.
He devoured the sound.
“Wet for the monster,” he hissed. “Say it.”
“I’m wet for you.”
“No,” he said, dragging her forward. “Say what I am.”
She shook her head.
“Say it.”
“You’re my monster,” she whispered. “You’re the thing under my bed.”
He kissed her like she was the only fire left on earth. And then he moved inside her—deep, brutal, a rhythm built on ruin. Her hands clawed his shoulders, nails drawing blood.
“Harder,” she begged.
He obliged.
The desk rocked with every thrust. Her orgasm hit like an explosion, her mind going white before plunging into black. She screamed. He never slowed.
“I’ll ruin you,” he said against her throat. “I’ll bury your sanity beside mine.”
She wanted that. She wanted to drown in his hell, wrap herself in his sickness, let his pain melt her own.
Afterward, her legs barely held her. Garrison stood back, shirt soaked, hands shaking.
“I saw something else,” he said slowly. “Darcie’s not the only one Lazarus has touched.”
Eella froze.
“What?”
“Your name,” he said. “Was on the wall.”
“No—”
“Etched in blood,” he continued. “Yours. From before.”
“Before what?”
Garrison stared at her like she wasn’t real. “Before you were Eella Hart.”
Her heart stopped.
And the Choir began to laugh.
She turned to the wall—and saw her reflection again.
Only this time, her eyes were black.
End of His Private Hell Chapter 106. Continue reading Chapter 107 or return to His Private Hell book page.