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My eyes roved over the other furnishings, widening as they fell on something peculiar, causing my heart rate to rise. A gorgeous, antique fainting couch stood lengthwise, its faded floral pattern contrasting perfectly with the dark sapphire armchairs and displayed about a foot before a different style of bookcase than all the others in the building. In fact, it reminded me a lot of the one in my apartment's master bedroom. Although it was out of place, considering the rest of the uniform oak bookcases, this one was built right into the wall.

I tapped a finger against my lips. Perhaps it was an antique, a part of the original building before they updated a few aspects about a century prior.

Tucking my feet underneath me, I ignored the objections of my sore quads and relaxed into my seat, acknowledging how dwarfed I was by its mass, easily capable of fitting two regular sized adults—a giant I was not. As if the thought summoned him, an image of Bane flashed across my vision.

I shook my head, removing my journal from my backpack, opening to today's entry. My eyes narrowed on the first and only item under my What the Fuck list thus far.

~Luggage brought in (and unpacked) from Jeepie.

I tapped the top end of my dark purple and gold fountain pen against my thigh as I thought of all the strange happenings recently, knowing from experience that my brain refused to function properly until I had my thought loops under control; physically writing everything down on paper was a solution I adapted into regular use years ago.

I thought back to Friday, ignoring the light coating of sweat lining my spine and the way my heart pumped harder, anxiety tightening my chest as I recalled the bizarre sensation of the skeleton key the first time the brass touched my skin. My throat constricted, but I added it to the list without hesitation.

~Skeleton key seemed to zap me

~Slept for almost two straight days (read- unconscious)

~Feeling like I’m being watched

~Unusual muscle soreness/aches

Soon, the ever-present uneasy energy simmered to a low hum somewhere in the back of my mind, like a beehive in the distance. Oh, it was still very much affecting my mind and body, but I was too skilled at compartmentalizing to pay it any mind.

Yet, the brief inkling of the thought of a bee’s home brought me full circle to the grotesque, my belly swarming with mutating butterflies. He called me Honeybee.

I worked diligently, losing track of time as the list grew. Some of the things I wrote I knew were downright impossible, while others, if coupled could be weakly explained away. But as I stared at the list, my fingertips rubbing small circles against my temple with my free hand, I had to admit some hard truths. Flipping to a fresh page, I sorted through my theories.

I’m actively losing my mind.

It’s been too long since I had sex of any variety- other than with myself. *Remember to charge bunny*

~ Wouldn’t it be splendid if all my problems could be solved with self-pleasure? ~

The dreams were a result of options one, two, or three, perhaps even a combination of them.

I blew out a slow breath as my stomach growled, grumbling hard enough that it vibrated against my forearm crossing under my breasts to hold the journal steady. I stared down at my midsection as if I could glare the organ into silence, then sighed and tugged the Little Moth Tea Shop pastry bag from where it fell between the ornately carved legs of the end table.

Not to be ignored, another obnoxious protest sounded from my belly. “Shush. I hear you.” Of course, the body parts and inanimate objects I talked to never responded, but that didn’t stop me from conversing with them, or cursing them out if they, say, made me stub my toe—It’s definitely always the dresser’s fault, not my inept walking skills. I inhaled deeply as sugary sweetness floated to my nose, then removed the partially smooshed scone and took a large bite.

I moaned, closing my eyes as the flavor of tart cranberry and a sprinkling of orange mixed with just the right amount of mild sweetness met my tongue. My eyes opened, and I found myself chewing another bite without realizing I’d taken one. “Are you satisfied now?” I asked my stomach. “I’ll take your silence as a yes.”

I need to remember to thank Axel properly the next time I see him. He’s right, Little Moth Tea Shop is fucking delectable.

My thoughts wandered aimlessly as I continued to devour my treat, imagining his huge, sexy smile and flirty words. A frown tugged into a pout the more I recalled his visage. I wasn’t immune to his gorgeous features, but he was almost too good looking to be real.

In my mind’s eye, a different smile transposed over Axel’s, stretching unnaturally wide. All too soon, several visages of my grotesque seared into my brain as I snuggled deeper into the soft cushions and closed my eyes. No matter how I tried to move onto other musings, it was as if a portrait highlighting his most inhuman attributes were tattooed on the back of my eyelids.

Not to mention his deep voice paired with that fucking accent. Shit, I swear I could climax just from him whispering dirty words into my ear. I didn’t know how to truly describe it. Sometimes it sounded distinctly Scottish, the burr of certain words rolling off his tongue, as well as certain colloquialisms used in the Scottish Highlands. Nonetheless, other times his sentences flowed smoothly from one to the next, lilting and lyrical as Irish accents are known for.

My eyelashes fluttered as I swallowed hard.

Furthering the complexity of his voice, there was also a mysterious element about it that hinted of age beyond his time, the dialect forgotten or from undiscovered lands.

I pressed my thighs together, remembering the way his horns showed through his hair, the glowing bars of our cage playing over them, triggering a new fantasy. Heat spread across my chest and crawled up my neck, my mind concocting a series of lude suggestions, one of them more vivid than the others as if it was centerstage, a spotlight baring all the dirty details. I couldn’t get the image out of my head—my hands gripping his horns and using them as handles as I rode his chiseled face, a purr vibrating his lips and tongue.

I wonder what his tongue looks like. Is it just as tantalizingly different as the rest of him?

I forced my lids open, my panting breaths too loud in the quiet of the library and hid my face in my hands. My guts twisted uncomfortably, awkward emotions extracting their toll, yet, I couldn’t ignore the copious wetness gathering between my thighs.