She undressed for me that night, laid upon the bed, sultry eyes and a wicked smile. But when I undressed, the grimace on her face ripped my heart out. She still couldn’t look past my cock, so she tried not to look at it at all.
How could I blame her when I could hardly look at myself?
“Stone,” she whispered, the fire glowing on her skin, a call I couldn’t resist.
I slipped back into my trousers and lay beside her. She was perfect, and we were quiet as I inhaled her, obsessed with all her details.
The way she smelled, the way she looked, the way she tasted.
I had time, hours, an opportunity, the entire night to fuck her, but I couldn’t.
But I could please her forever and found pleasure in doing so.
Afterward, she read another chapter of Alec & Circe until we fell asleep, two semicolons curled before a fire, the feel of heat pumping at our backs.
In the early morning darkness,I awoke on my stomach to the sound of cruel winds whistling, a muffled knocking, and the cold feel of neglect.
Not neglect entirely, but the feeling of being forgotten.
“Circe?” I pulled myself onto my elbow and wiped the corners of my eyes.
In front of the window, Circe stood with her back to me, softly crying.
She was wearing my shirt, blonde hair tumbling over one shoulder, leaving me tempted to trace the length of her neck.
I got to my feet and tread carefully, unsure of where the knocking was coming from. As I stepped closer, I realized she was writing a word into the fogged glass.
“Circe?” I said again.
With a stop of her finger against the window, her head slowly turned in my direction. She looked straight through me, not even recognizing me. Green eyes glassy and looking past me.
It was as though she didn’t even see me standing there.
And there was never a fear so deep as the thought of being erased altogether. Never was there a terror so cruel as being forgotten by her. My chest felt like an angry tribe had stomped on it—ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The knocking continued in the background, sounding a lifetime away. A beating heart. I sucked in a breath to gather myself. “Circe, what are you doing?”
Her bottom lip and chin trembled, but she didn’t say anything. She turned to the window again, facing the night and dragging her pointer finger along the fogged glass.
At that moment, I knew she had to have been sleepwalking.
Was this the first time? Had she done this before?
I reached out to turn her around, to guide her to lay back down, but a heart-fisting scream belted from her throat once my fingers touched her shoulders—one that could snap a soul in half.
Her hands shot forward like lead balls from a pistol, ripping apart my chest with her claws. The last thing I wanted to do was cause her any harm, but if she were anyone else, I could have easily cracked the bones in her wrists right then.
Her arms swung at my head, and I snatched them up and wrestled them under mine, holding her close to my burning chest.
Circe thrashed inside my arms, and when she popped her head up, it knocked against my chin, slamming my teeth together.
Blood pooled in my mouth, but I refused to let her go.
If I did, there was a chance she could harm herself.
I turned my head to the side, digging it into her shoulder so she couldn’t throw her head back. I dragged her away from the window and guided her into the bed, cradling her between my bent legs.
“Circe,” I called out to her in a soothing whisper, but she only cried, tears soaking her cheeks, hair sticking to her skin. And these cries weren’t soft or subtle but piercing and spilling with anguish. It was a cry that could break hearts. The fierce grief of losing a lover. Cutthroat mourning. The harshness of it all.
