As she sank into the tub, she tried to let the miasma of steam envelop her and wash away her worries, but it did little good. As she scrubbed at her belly, the dried blood turned the water pink, though there was a scar left in its wake.
Had the man cut her last night? All she remembered was the euphoria of his metallic blood, the way his tongues tingled her nerves as he painted her body. But now the swirling spirals seemed etched into her skin, smooth pink scars surrounded by pale flesh.
She traced a coil with her finger, a baffling sense of peace overtaking her. She was disgusted withherself,enjoyingthe way that beast had marked her,claimedher, or so he had said.
But what did it mean? And moreover, how would she move on from here?
Isabelle wrapped her arms around herself, begging the moon mother for divine guidance as tears rolled down her cheeks.
As the days passed, a memory she had hoped would fade into obscurity was ever present in her mind. Vines of thorns caressing her skin, a forked tongue between her legs, the lust raging through her from one drop of sticky blood.
Isabelle saw him in every shadow, always in the corner of her eye, just out of sight. But for a week, he didn’t reappear.
Perhaps Jean-Phillipe had moved on, sent to torment another innocent woman in a different small town. She wanted to forget him, purge the evening from her memory, but she caught herselfhopingshe would see him, getting disappointed when a dark-haired man ended up being a person from town and not the mysterious beast who had followed her home.
Foul thoughts, all of them, but despite her prayers to the moon mother, she was not granted clemency.
No, every waking moment was spent wondering where the beast had gone, every night filled withstrange dreams. A dark forest, not unlike her own, but distinctly wrong.
Trees so large she couldn’t see the tops, a layer of mist like a ghostly apparition. Eerie wails echoing through the dark. And no matter how much she searched, she couldn’t find her cottage.
There was more, too, though her recollection was fuzzy, the dreams always fading quickly once she awoke.
Running through the woods, leaves and twigs crunching under her feet, her chest heaving with exertion. The thrill of fear racing up her spine. Claws at her waist, her neck, holding her down, pushing her into the dirt. A flurry of feathers, animalistic grunts, and searing pleasure.
Every morning, she awoke in a cold sweat, her cunt aching with need, though she dared not touch herself. It was torturous trying to ignore the arousal twisting through her each day, but she begged the moon mother for strength. The cilice did little good, though she still dutifully wore it, the sharp tines reminding her of the supernatural thorns that had circled her wrists and neck.
“Haven’t seen you at the temple in a while.”
Her illicit thoughts crumbled under the smooth voice of Henri, and she stood at attention behind the café’s counter.
“I’ve been busy,” she said quickly, perhaps too quickly, and Henri raised a dark brow.
“Will you be at the offering of light? I… may or may not be required to make acontribution.”
That dashing grin made her heart flutter, piercing blue eyes glimmering with mischief. She could only imagine what sins he’d admitted at midnight confessional, though the tender way he’d bedded her was so different from the feral fucking in her dreams.
“I’ll be there,” she said, knowing she could only avoid the moon mother’s ardent gaze for so long.
Hoping against hope that an offering would purge her of these thoughts.
“Good,” Henri said, putting on his best pout. “I miss seeing you.”
She flushed as she mixed his coffee with a cube of sugar and a dollop of fresh cream, his usual order. Her hand trembled as she stirred the concoction, trying to get a hold of herself.
Celeste encouraged marriage and procreation, but she’d seen what losing her mother had done to her father, the way he was a shell of a man, no longer whole. He had cared for her, of course, but had always seemed to keep her at a distance, like his mind was far away in a world where he hadn’t lost his wife.
And she knew Henri wanted children, which was completely out of the question for her. After learning that her mother had passed on the day of her birth, she vowed never to put herself or a potential husband through that. She was cursed, and the bloodline would die with her.
Isabelle handed him the coffee, and he brushed her fingers, a touch which would once have sent a jolt through her. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe her pining had subsided; no, another was occupying her mind where Henri and Pierre had once been.
“Thank you,” Henri said, his voice a raspy whisper.
“Of course. I will see you tonight.”
She busied herself with cleaning the counter, trying not to grimace as Henri made his way to a seat.
CHAPTER 5
