He rubs one, then two fingers at my entrance. His voice shutters and morphs between sighs and grumbles. He practically roars as his fingers slip inside me. “No. Undergarments? You are a naughty bird.” What I used to think was a diluted English accent is now, clearly, a Cockney accent, and not diluted by any means—now he isn’t trying to hide it. His fingers thrust in and out, pushing me higher. “Alright, dove.”
I moan in response, while he continues, “I’ll give you one more chance, make it this easy next time,” his pacing is rhythmic, as he says, “and you’ll need a safe word. For the punishment-” all sensations vanish, “I have planned for you.” His voice fades, leaving me here, horny in a puddle of my emission.
Ugh, edging must be his kink.
Why does he keep leaving me like this?
Suddenly, his voice materializes out of thin air, and again he is standing over me. “Run… and this time make it real.” I stagger to my feet, incredibly precocious. My knees buckle as he draws his knife once more—painfully slow, a serial killer who has finally got his victim alone. Pulling the knife into view he rocks it back and forth, giving the impression that he is examining it. Then, his eyes are on me—a Kubrick stare sharper than the dagger he wields, then he inhales. Slowly, like a leak in a hose, he hisses, “I. Said.Run!”
All I can do is stand there in awe, his brilliant blue eyes changing and shifting into something else, something hungrier. Darker. Void of everything except thehunt. He charges forward, and before I can blink, he cuts my waist belt. A grimace smears over his face, one so evil, you would think a demon possessed him. “Run!” He shouts.
I start running again, leaving the garden behind. The courtyard comes into view as I pass through the cutout in the shrubbery. I am taken aback, as the fountain reflects the warm colors of the sunset in a breathtaking phantasmagoria of light—a single beam directs my sight to the base of the estate, where I find a set of bulkhead doors. I run to them, and as my hands fall on the warm wood, I let out a sigh of relief to see that the hatch is already unlocked.
Lifting the piece of wood, I stop to peek over my shoulder. Before entering the darkness, I take a final glance up at the sky. I push the chase to the back of my mind, overshadowed by the looming uncertainties surrounding the wellbeing of my sister. I see the sun and moon both present, knowing that one will soon disappear to allow the other to shine—my body shudders at this morbid truth.
Chapter 12
Oliver
"Sometimes,the monsters we fear areonly reflections of our own pain."
Where did she go? I gave her a head start, allowing her more time to be creative. I walk through the courtyard behind the estate when I am, damn near blinded by the sun reflecting off something. Walking over to the cellar doors, I find the lock cut and thrown haphazardly to the ground beside it. Inspecting it, I can tell this wasn’t my doves doing.
I open the cellar doors and proceed deeper into the obsidian shadows that retreat from the slim orange glow of the setting sun—into a darkness that callously inherits the dwelling as it evades the light peeking from behind the trees. Sadly, the hunt will have to wait, for this take's precedence above all.
I close the doors behind me, knowing the shadows will mold to my advantage. “Whoever is here will regret it.” I stalk about in the pitch blackness of the cellar, making sure to offer little to no noise. All is quiet, then a sharp pain erupts in my gut, then another in my leftshoulder blade. The stabbing and slashing were habitual, as searing pain forms on countless parts of my body. I throw my arms up—an attempt to block myself from my invisible attacker.
Splintering pain charges its way to my elbow, and my clothes begin to stick to me. A warm and thick substance coats my skin as the scent of Iron fills my nose...blood. I keel over coughing, as the syrupy liquid saturates my body. “Oliver!” I hear her scream.
The clicking of her heel's echoes on the cobblestone floor. “No...run!” I manage to get out, but she is already at my side. I don't want her to see me like this, but it is too late.
Her hands touch my shoulder, and I wince in pain. “I’m so sorry. Stay there. I'm going to find a light.” The warm hue from the bulb flickers on in no time, doing little to frighten away the darkness that clung to the musky walls. She gasps the moment her eyes find me kneeling, fist on the ground. I switch my gaze from my bloody forearm to look at her. “Are you going to help, or just stand there like a deer in the headlights?” I manage to strangle the pain, forcing the words from my throat.
“I-” She is shaking like a leaf. I need to distract her. My body quivers and sways as I get to my feet. Deep red lines have formed, indicating the cuts and their location. I start to slide my suspenders off my shoulder, making her believe that I’m trying to clean things up. Once I have relieved them from my slacks, I lunge at her, pinning her against a Wine rack, and using them to capture her wrists and‘suspend her’ to one of the empty wine bottle compartments. I chuckle at the pun in my head.
so ‘suspense-full’.
I reach behind her as she shrieks, “What are you doing? You’re hurt, why-” She pulls and tugs, as I chuckle at her—amused by her efforts. I allow her to finish her question, “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I can.” The tension my smile has on my face dampens the intimidation in my voice, “It's no use. I used to be in the Navy,” I pull the strap taut, “Tied a lot of. Knots. In my day.” I pull a bottle of 1812 Bordeaux from behind her waist—she winces from unknown intentions. “Now, since you made that so easy, we can justhangfor a bit.” I look her up and down. “Well, you can.”Ha! So punny.
“Wait, are you not hurt? Was that all just a ruse to catch me?” I don't answer her. I begin tearing the decorative foil off the bottle, popping the cork with my knife, then I start lathering my wounds in the alcoholic beverage. The opaque liquid joins the blood and turns the dry parts of my gray shirt burgundy. There she goes, biting that lower lip again as she follows the crimson droplets down my body.
I use my thumb to pry her lip from between her teeth—a smear of blood from my hand tracks after, staining her skin a cherry red. I stand paralyzed as her tongue extends, tasting the little crimson line. I set the bottle down on a nearby barrel, as my eyes shift between her and the knife in my hand. Facing her again, I put the honed edge to my palm, then clasp my hand around the blade—the tapered end and handle leaving indents in my skin.
As I slowly slide the steel across my flesh, I study the emotions that flash and contort her face: worry, fear, and lust. Once the full length of the metal has left my skin, I slam it into a piece of the wine rack above her head—the steel bending slightly from the pressure. Cambering toward her, I elevate my right-hand, now coated in red, and level it with her eyes—they widen with desire. Tightening my grip onthe knife handle, as I thrust the other hand at her engulfing her mouth beneath it. I observe as blood from the cut drips scarlet down her chin, while promptly, I feel her tongue rolling, and lapping at the blood coursing from my palm.
I release my grip on the blades handle to coil my fingers around the neck of the bottle sitting stagnant on the barrel. Slipping my head into the shadows, I take a long swig leaving next to nothing in the bottle. “Mehm,” I clear my throat, “Bitter... like my soul.”
Then, coming back into the light, I trace her jawline with the closure of the bottle, watching as the remaining edge of the foil produces paper-thin raspberry stripes in its wake. With my hand still over her mouth, I bring the glass to my lips—gnashing my teeth over the malleable metal, I tear away the embellishments that give the brand its uniqueness—without it it's just an opaque glass container with a paper label.Once free from the close-fitting hold the fine metal had to the glass, I allow it to fall in a downward spiral.
By the gods, I am obsessed by the look on her face—the one of
curiosity when she can’t make out my expressions.
Especially in times she feels it should be easier.
Praise the All Father, for the shadows in which I reside.
