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Eating Crow
Last Updated:
2025-07-14 07:28:14
Latest chapter
Sanctified Sin Eating Crow
The wind clawed at the house, rattling loose shingles and whispering through the cracks like it carried secrets.Eden sat at the kitchen table, court papers and maps spread before her like a battle plan. A half-full mug of coffee sat cooling by her elbow, untouched. The house wasn’t silent—it breathed, creaked, whispered—but every sound felt like a question she didn’t have an answer for.She stared at the manila folder in front of her. Not the one from the lawyer—no. This one was older. Worn edges. Tabs labeled in her neat, obsessive handwriting.It still smelled faintly of candle wax and old hymnals.August.She could see herself as she was then—his cologne on her pillow, his voicemail in her ear, and the heat of a Tennessee summer pressing against the windows like it wanted to listen in.“You’re such a good girl for me, baby. I wish she touched me like you do.”The words hadn’t detonated that day. They’d settled—slow and smoky—until her ribs felt like cinders and her stomach like so
Sanctified Sin Ashes in the Air
Callum had never been good at waiting.It had been nearly a decade since he’d worn a badge, but the instinct was still there, thrumming beneath his skin like a live wire. Back then, waiting had meant the difference between pulling a drunk driver out alive or dragging a tarp over a body. Now it felt just as high stakes, only worse—because this wasn’t some faceless stranger. This was Eden.She was down the hall, her footsteps soft as she moved from room to room. He didn’t have to see her to know her pattern by now—check the front lock, check the back, peek out the windows, circle back to the kids’ rooms, repeat.He rubbed a hand over his face, the stubble catching rough against his palm. He hated the sound of her quiet determination. Not because it made her weak—it didn’t—but because it meant she was preparing for war.⸻“Callum.”Her voice pulled him from his thoughts. She stood in the kitchen doorway, hair twisted up in a messy knot, dark circles under her eyes. Even like this—barefoo
Sanctified Sin Ember
The house creaked with movement—pipes ticking, walls settling, wind pushing against the eaves. It wasn’t silent. Not anymore. Every sound made Eden’s skin prickle, every shadow in the corner of her vision felt like it was holding its breath.She stood at the kitchen sink staring out into the black yard, her reflection faint in the glass. Beyond that—nothing but trees, swaying in the wind. No headlights. No movement. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was out there, watching.The kids’ sound machine hummed faintly down the hall, a soft rush of static that should have been comforting. It wasn’t. It felt like a thin barrier between them and whatever waited outside.Behind her, Callum’s boots scuffed against the floorboards. He wasn’t trying to be quiet—he never did—but she knew him well enough now to hear the difference in his pace. Measured. Heavy. The walk of a man coiled tight and ready to spring.She didn’t turn as he came into the kitchen. She kept her eyes fixed on the
Sanctified Sin Burning Time
The house was quiet again.But it wasn’t the kind of quiet that made Eden’s chest tight. Not the silence that Dusty had mastered so well—turning it into a punishment, a threat, a reminder of who held the power.No.This quiet was alive. Humming. It was the sound of something being built.It was the sound of her sharpening her teeth.⸻She sat at the dining table, a chipped mug of coffee cradled between her palms. The kids were still asleep down the hall, their tiny bodies curled in beds that, for now, felt safe.Callum paced in the kitchen, his phone pressed to his ear, voice low but tight.“She’s filing first thing tomorrow. Emergency custody. Protective order. And yeah—we’ll need deputy presence at the house until it’s done.”He paused, listening, his eyes flicking to her.“Appreciate it, man. Really. We’ll owe you one.”When he hung up, Eden didn’t look up from her mug.“You didn’t have to make those calls.”“I know.” His voice softened, though the edge never left. “But I’m not sit
Sanctified Sin When the Clock Strikes
The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual.Or maybe it only felt that way because Eden couldn’t stop hearing his voice in her head.Tick tock, Edie.She sat cross-legged on the couch, staring at her phone like it might spit out another threat. Callum was pacing near the window, his gaze sweeping the street every few seconds.“Still nothing,” he muttered.Eden nodded absently, her thumb rubbing the edge of her phone. She hated this waiting—the quiet before impact, the pause before a predator struck.“I should’ve called the police already,” she said.“You don’t have to justify anything,” Callum said, his voice steady but tight. “This isn’t paranoia. This is him testing you. Testing us.”Eden’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He’s always testing. Always pushing. He’s not going to stop.”Callum finally stilled, turning to face her fully. His jaw flexed once before he crossed the room and knelt in front of her, his hands covering hers.“Then we push back.”Something in his tone sent a
Sanctified Sin Tick Tock
The smell of bacon woke her.Eden blinked against the morning light streaming through the curtains. For a moment, she didn’t move—just listened. There was no sound of cartoons or little feet racing down the hall. Just the soft sizzle of a skillet and the quiet scrape of a spatula.She stretched lazily, her muscles aching in a way that felt deliciously alive. Last night still lingered in her skin—in her thighs, in her lips, in the faint crescent of a bruise on her hip where Callum’s restraint had finally broken.For once, she didn’t feel compelled to rush out of bed. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting herself exist without a to-do list clawing at the edges of her mind.When she finally padded into the kitchen, Callum was at the stove, shirtless in gray sweatpants, spatula in hand.“You cook now?” Her voice was still husky from sleep.He glanced over his shoulder, lips curving. “Don’t sound so surprised.”“You don’t strike me as the apron-wearing type.”“No apron.” He gestur
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