Chapter Text
Hermione
I toss the pen onto the bed, admiring my study on the last of the Gods to get my mind off a pregnancy that shouldn’t be possible and the ending of a marriage I decided I wanted to keep. There are still gaps, things I don’t understand. Pieces of the puzzle do not fit, like an infant growing inside a disintegrating uterus and Gods whose only importance is their linkage of power and all of us.
Only one of us exists somewhere I know nothing about to consider his name linkable to any of them. It could be that he shares the description of a God with someone else, but who and why? Or he simply doesn’t have one. I sigh. It’s also possible that I’ve linked them, but I’m completely off track. But Wilder…and Anubis, it’s too coincidental. I drag my nails across the material of Sage’s shirt over my pelvis as I look over my notes.
Draco-Thoth: He possesses limitless knowledge and intelligence. Thoth deduced that Horus needed permission from the Sphinx to carry out plans. Horus represents Sage. Interestingly, Draco knew our desires and found a way to tempt them enough that I would give in. Permission. Thoth was a moon god, knowledgeable in law, and extremely wise. He could contrive the courts during our hearing enough so that my charges were dropped and got us into Gringotts similarly—the fine print.
Pansy-Nekhbet: A goddess who shielded the living from all forms of danger, whether spiritual, physical, or illness. She managed to coax Fenrir into revealing Scorpius's location, then informed Wilder, accepting her inevitable fate. Ron, bound by duty, was compelled to separate us.
Blaise-Bennu: Sun god, known for rebirth and creation. He was able to renew himself every day. Blaise spoke on death happening many times over and waking to Wilder’s anger each time. He uses his immortality like a drug, chasing death and rebirth as a high. Bennu refused orders and didn’t like to be told how to live his life. Perfectly fitting for Blaise, who refuses to accept his sexuality, and recently, I’ve wondered if he’s still chasing recovery.
Asher-Sekhmet?: I’m unsure if this fits her correctly as she’s only a new Witch, but using a potion would alter her bloodline, suggesting that she is made rather than born. Sekhmet had extreme powers, the ability to create lightning, which I could control and draw from. Is Asher’s potential suggestive of assistance in mine? Could she be the key to unlocking a new power, a power that could change the course of our journey?
Harrison-Babi: This is difficult to discern because he and Creed have similar qualities to Seth and Babi. Babi was considered blood-thirsty and symbolized aggression in receiving sexual favors. It seems they work in tandem when they take their victims. When I met him at the bonfire, I thought they seemed more separate in their personalities, but I noticed Creed watching me from his seat while Harrison conversed with me. Hawke told me that Creed and Harrison were with Hannah Abbott, which piques my curiosity. She was pregnant. Had she been drugged to achieve it? Both Whitlocks worked together to deliver Hawke’s death as it would prove their aggression and thrive for power. They want a permanent invitation into the grove, but why?
Snape-Geb: Represents he who held sway over snakes. He serves the Dark Lord with an under-the-table loyalty to those of us who do not. He is a spy, an informant. He keeps Wilder informed about the happenings inside the assembly, and now that I know Draco was forming a mutiny, it makes more sense why he would be so willing to spy. Geb was also known for his earthen interests in natural disasters. Snape seemed concerned that the grove was struggling, and according to Kole, he did the same when I left the first time. It’s as if he was told to watch it, but by who? Millicent? Isn’t that Amycus’ job?
Rabastan-Montu: Most fitting for Rabastan because Montu was known for striking enemies from afar with a bow and arrow, sometimes loyal friends. He’s the reason Draco has a scar; he wounded him the day Blaise died, and Draco barely made it back to the manor. Montu represents a female, but the Gods often swapped their identification in the Egyptian realm and ancient history. But what happened to him after he wounded Draco is still a mystery.
Millicent-Bastet: Bastet was a goddess of extreme sexuality. She was known for her experimentation with men and women. She was also held higher on a pedestal for her protection of pregnant women during childbirth. She reflected the sun, fire, love, intoxication, sex, magic, and fertility. Bastet could request gifts in the form of children and pass them into the wombs of those meant to carry them. Not knowing Millicent makes it challenging to decipher, but she knew of the prophecy and warned Wilder at birth with a letter. She requested that he do his duty to protect me, and it seems as though the grove was domed by her for Wilder’s protection.
I fold the parchment and stick it inside the book of Gods, returning to a page I visited once before. Something stood out too prominently, and I can’t figure it out. I read the lines repeatedly, a piece of immortality belonging to Khepri, but I haven’t seen it, and nobody has spoken of it. Wilder presented the ring, Amycus presented the Elixir. This may be something only suggestive by someone else. Maybe they don’t know about it, or it’s already been used.
Something isn’t connecting. As I scan the page and reopen my notes, I feel as if I’m not connecting the correct dots, or the dots are crossing, and I’m not seeing it. Amycus told us that the Gods had offered three lives in the form of immortality, but if Isis’s heart represents one, Osiris’ Elixir is the other; where is Khepri’s comb? There are four…
My cheeks fill with frustration as I fold the parchment again and stick it between the pages, shutting the book. I won’t find the answers in a book of Gods that only informs about their history and powers. A location wouldn’t be noted. Not when Amycus had the elixir.
I lean over, tucking it back into my satchel at the side of the bed. The spine of the diary burns like a calling when I see it. A Horcrux that Draco used to give me an org*sm is still being carried from place to place in my satchel, and I haven’t found the courage to rid myself of it yet. I know it has to be destroyed. It’s a piece of the Dark Lord that cannot be contained and kept without keeping that part of his soul alive. But cats are full of curiosity, and I have the urge to see who on the other side is gentle enough to play tic tac toe with my son but dangerous enough to conform children to war machines. There is an uneasy feeling knowing that Noah was asked for his name.
The material is damning against my fingers as I drag the tips across the cover. For a moment, I’m not even here. It’s like a soft vibration, white noise, and a hum. I drag the tip of my finger over the spine and the edge of the cover, pressing the pad of my finger into the corner until it leaves an indention in my skin. It makes a cracking sound as I open it, fanning the pages to see they’re still blank.
I’ve got the pen in my hand before I realize I’ve even picked it up, the tip outward and ready over the page. My palms warm, and my wrists buzz with a warning. Either I’m drawn to it being a Horcrux, or it’s pulling me. The pen's tip touches the page, my hand drawing out a tic-tac-toe board. When I draw the last line, I notice the strokes become slightly less anxious and more eager.
I make a perfect circle in the center of the board, hesitating to release the pen tip from the page. I take a deep breath, my fingers trembling as I pull it away and count the seconds. 1…13…22…29…37…42…53…62…70…89.
After several minutes, I lose hope of receiving a response, but as soon as I take the diary cover in my fingers to close it, a slow-moving line appears as if it’s being drawn in real time. Another line crosses over it, the tail end flicking upward, proving it was done by quill.
The X sits directly above the O in the top center. I swallow, flattening the page again, and consider which corner to take. My breathing is slightly heightened as I move to the bottom right, drawing an O in the corner. When I lift the pen, an X forms in the top left corner, blocking my row. I move quickly as if a turn could be taken before I can take mine, and I draw an O in the top right to block the row of Xs.
A moment passes, and my heart palpitates as I watch the board, and when the X forms in the bottom center, I wonder if he thinks he’s playing a game with a child. I bite my lips, considering my chance to test my theory. I could draw the O in the bottom left and win or…
I move the tip of the pen to a blank space and draw a circle with sharp points surrounding it to imitate a childlike sun. I watch and wait, expecting it to disappear or a cloud to be drawn, but instead, in the center of the sun, two dots appear, and a curved line reveals a smiling face. A child, he must believe he is playing with a child again.
I return to the board, drawing a circle in the bottom left. Before I can make my line to connect my O’s, one is forming for me. I hold the pen between my fingers as a message appears in the blank space beside the sun—the penmanship, precise fingers, sharp edges, and lines are boyish. My mind retracing its steps to a book with a list of Gods.
Fancy another, without cheating?
I pinch my brows. Cheating? I scan the board and the drawing, thinking he must feel distracted by the sun, but how? The page clears, and another board forms. I write out a response.
What exactly constitutes cheating?
The board completes, and he scrawls out another response below my question.
Center circles should be forbidden. It's a rule for fair play—my turn.
It should be, but it isn’t. There is no rule book on tic tac toe.
A rule book on drawing like a child would serve a better purpose, extravagant artwork. It speaks fluently to your character.
I bite down on the side of my tongue, feeling as if I’ve been insulted. It was an insult; I drew like a child, but it wasn’t childish enough. As an X appears in the top right corner, I consider drawing something more vulgar in the center. I choose the higher high road and draw a star right in the middle. I tap the pen against the edge of the page as I wait, and when a minute passes, I consider writing out a message asking if he’s decided he doesn’t want to play anymore, but when I move my hand, underneath is a question mark.
Yes?
Perhaps you’ve misunderstood the game, X’s and O’s.
I understand perfectly. Working on my drawing skills.
If I could feel a laugh, the pause in his response would be everything I’d expect to feel across the pages. But you cannot feel a laugh that isn’t there, and I’m talking to someone from the past, a teenage boy before he became corrupt enough to curse an entire family line.
Suit yourself.
His pause and short response pluck a laugh out of me as another X appears underneath the first one on the center-right. I follow it, drawing a star in the bottom right corner—a line forms in the top left, an X blocking my row. I purse my lips, drawing a star in the top center to block his. He scribbles out a message.
Scratch, another?
It isn’t a scratch yet; finish what you started. It’s cheating to call a game without it being over just because you didn’t win.
Your explanation of cheating isn’t logical. Cheating is betrayal, knowing the outcome could be painful and doing it anyway. Logic shows that this game cannot be won, so why waste time on a game unworthy of playing?
I’m not done drawing stars.
That’s your response, is it? Well then, draw your star.
I laugh out loud, covering my mouth with my hand and feeling quite childish as I take the pen to the paper and draw a circle under his X. My cheeks begin to ache as I wait for the snarky response, and when he draws a 7 in the bottom left corner, my laugh turns into a snort.
Why a 7?
I suspect you enjoy the play or riling, do you?
Why the 7?
Why stars?
I hadn’t thought of it; my mind went to the stars. He ridiculed my sun, saying it wasn’t childish enough. So I drew a star, knowing it would come out crooked, a little misdirected, sideways, and sloppy. But it was still a star even if the corners didn’t connect.
I enjoy the stars, even if they aren’t always precise. You wanted a childlike drawing, so I gave you my star. Would you rather I drew something else?
Lucky for you, I prefer the oddities. Things that don’t always look exactly as they should, behave as they should. I enjoy the tarnished, and a seven is like a star. They aren’t precise. That is fascinatingly correct. But neither is a seven. At any time in your life, have you ever thought, yes…I will have seven sugar cubes. Or, oh yes…seven days a week makes perfect sense. Seven days in a week doesn’t make sense, neither does asking for an uneven number of things. We typically reach for what is most comfortable, something even or perfectly drawn because it’s appealing. So, in the same way your stars have five legs, I prefer the odd number 7. Consider it lucky to be unlucky. It isn’t always preferred to be untarnished. Pretty things are still flawed things in attractive wrapping. Would you like to play another?
I read the response several times over, slightly but not indirectly amazed by the complexities in the wording. I stare at the paper for minutes, wondering if someone from the past can be impatient; they aren’t part of the present. If I left the game unplayed and picked it up later, would it start where I left it, or would it be an entirely new conversation? Is it on my time or Tom Riddle’s time?
Yes, but I get to go first, and if I want to draw 7s now, what will you draw?
There’s a pause, and I wonder if the past is the present to Tom Riddle. Could he lay the diary down during a game and leave me wondering who wins? I bite my cheek as I consider the way this would go. Perhaps he’s on my time, then. It may be the past, and I may be in the present, but if I lay the diary down, it ends. Until someone else picks it up. Am I causing a ripple by conversing with someone from the past? Would he remember this as the Dark Lord?
The game board appears as he draws it, and I dismiss the thought for now and play the game. He doesn’t respond, so I draw a seven on the left-center. A quickly scribbled star appears in the top right corner, and I laugh out loud again. Not only did this game start with Xs and Os, but now it’s 7s and stars, and he drew worse than I did.
Terrible, I might believe you were a child.
It is difficult to draw something when you’re stunned by laughter resulting from the pilferage taking place in front of you. Continue. It’s rather amusing.
Would you like to trade?
Are you trying to dabble in trickery?
What is trickery to you?
Someone who prefers to swap sides on the game board repeatedly. Who are you playing for, me…or you?
I’m playing to win.
Then play. Make me regret letting you win.
I press my lips together, drawing a 7 in the bottom right corner, glad for the small escape it offers. I watch as he draws a star in the bottom center, and I follow with a 7 on the top left. My eyes scan the squares waiting, anxiety tingling for no reason at all. Being competitive and playing tic tac toe with someone that doesn’t exist in the present makes me feel like a girl trying to cover her ass in a skirt that's too short. A star appears in the top right corner.
You have one chance, be wise.
I draw a 7 in the left center and wait as he writes another message.
Crossing oceans with wishes of puddles will offer but a splash of surety. How sure are you about your choices? Do you want a puddle or the whole damn ocean?
I look back at the game board, realizing I could’ve placed the 7 in the center and won. I knit my brows, rereading his message.
Are you letting me win?
I wait for him to say something more, but instead, my seven fades, and a seven appears in the center, a line being drawn through all three of them.
You can’t lose if you’re always ahead of the game. Consider it like a game of cards: a hand dealt is determinism. But the way you play your hand is entirely free will. You chose to battle, and I showed you how to win.
The door opens, and I shut the diary a little too quickly. Nova turns her head, covering her eyes. “I’m sorry, I knocked, but you didn’t answer. I thought you were sleeping. Mom is in the kitchen, and I just needed to check your bandage.”
I slide the diary back into the satchel. “Don’t apologize. I was…” I shake my head. “I was only taking notes. You startled me, is all.”
She lowers her hand, her eyes swollen from tears as she looks me over. “Oh…” She slides her hands into her pockets, and I notice when she turns that the locket she usually has around her neck is no longer there. Considering the gap in time since I’ve seen her, the predicament in which she left the room, and her face without makeup…it’s me, or whoever Fisher is, that has disturbed her. “Do you mind?” She says, motioning toward my feet under the sheets.
Feeling out of place, I nod. Nova collects a pair of fresh gloves and steps to the side of the bed as I pull the sheets back. She first presses a finger to the tops of my feet and then my shins, presumably to check for pitting, as she said this morning. I turn my leg so that she can check my heel. “The pillow helped, it seems. It’s been a couple of hours since the last dressing change.” She looks at the clock on the wall and retrieves a rolled bandage and some salve. “How is your pain?” She asks when she returns to the bedside, beginning to unravel the bandage around my foot.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I answer, and she looks at me for less than a second before tossing the bandage into the waste bin. As she begins to unravel the new one, I notice she’s avoiding eye contact, which makes me uneasy. I don’t like to feel that I’ve caused her pain. “Are you okay?” I ask, and she swallows, avoiding my question as she wraps the new bandage around my heel.
“With the bleeding under control and your energy returning, you should be able to leave the room whenever you feel ready. I would avoid putting too much pressure on your heel; it isn’t deep enough to cause trouble with healing if you walk on it. But I wouldn’t run, or…jump, I guess.” She places my heel back on the pillow and pulls the sheet over my legs. “I wouldn’t dig in the waste bin either. You might be the only patient she has at the moment, but in any other medical setting, you could have hurt yourself worse than just stepping on glass. Imagine touching a needle that was in the skin of someone with something like Hepatitis or a drug you’re allergic to.” She pulls the gloves from her hands and tosses them into the waste bin.
“Nova…” I say as she walks over to the wash basin and begins to scrub her hands. “I know we don’t know each other well, but you don’t have to pretend you aren’t upset.”
She dries her hands, tossing the paper towel in the waste bin and turning around, her chin quivering. “You’re right. I don’t have to pretend like I’m not upset. My…” She stops, looking up at the ceiling to stop the tears from forming. I know the gesture; it’s a feminine way to regain your emotional control, and it doesn’t always work, but it’s always worth a try. She blows, and her voice wavers as she continues. “My mom can act like it doesn’t affect her, but I can’t. I’m angry, and I’m…I’m disappointed. I’m not okay with this, I’m not. But there isn’t room for me to speak my peace. This is between the three of you, and it doesn’t matter what I think.” She turns and reaches for the door.
“Nova, wait,” I speak, pulling my foot from the pillow. She turns, wiping a tear from her eye with the tips of her fingers, a tiny sob as she speaks before I can.
“No, I won’t wait. It’s wrong. What you did was wrong. They loved each other enough to coexist until you came back, and now they argue whenever they’re in the same room. I didn’t know what my dad's voice sounded like until he used it to tell my mom he wouldn’t apologize for following you to the valley. He lost his voice before I could ever receive a scolding, and I grew up learning to receive lectures with sign language. I wondered what it would sound like to hear him laugh. Now I hear it often, and it’s only when he’s around you. Do you know how long my mom has wanted to experience what he’s giving you? Do you have any idea how painful it might have been to monitor your baby's heartbeat? Knowing my dad is why it’s in there.”
The door opens, and Rune leans in. “You need to try and eat something, maybe try and move around.” Nova turns her head away from me, and Rune looks from me to her. Nova keeps her head down and pushes the door open more so she can slide past her into the hall. She looks back at me with a brow raised in question.
“I’m not hungry.”
Rune crosses her arms. “Infants need nutrition. Consider the growing pup you’re carrying. You might not be hungry, but your iron diminishes because you neglect your needs. I’ll gather the plate Asher sent for you and meet you in the kitchen.” She says as she steps back into the hall. I slide my legs over the side of the bed, staring at the floor, wondering how it was so easy for Sage to conceive, but I had been irresponsible with others just the same. Of all the seeds to accept, my broken cervix chooses someone with a family. The Gods are either entirely against me or somehow working in my favor by placing me in positions that leave me incredibly uncomfortable and hopeless.
I place my feet on the floor, carefully avoiding my heel as instructed. “Well, sh*t, I thought I would have to teach you how to walk again.” Sage’s voice sounds as he steps into the room.
The shirt falls to my thighs as I push off the bed, eyeing him over my shoulder. “Bad timing, Sage.” I hop, turning to face him. “I need a mirror.”
He steps around the side of the bed, holding his hand out. “I can tell you you’re pretty if that's what you want.” I avoid his hand, limping past him.
“Not for my looks.”
He beats me to the door, pushing it closed, a palm against it as he leans over my shoulder. “What then?”
“Why are you keeping me from leaving the room?” I look down at the floor. He takes my jaw in the opposite hand and holds my head back against his chest as he slides his fingers down the front of my throat.
“Because you’re running from me. You never run without a reason, so what is it then?”
I swallow against his fingers. “I’m supposed to let your wife serve me dinner after watching your daughter cry and pretend that I have the right to be here. I don’t. I shouldn’t be.”
“Why don’t you have a right to be here?” He drops his hand from the door, reaching for the hem of the grey Def Leppard shirt. I want to move to smack his hand away from me, but his fingertips graze my thigh as he lifts it, and with the gentle nature of his eyes on mine, my body allows it…drinks it, begs for it. On instinct, I relax into him and obey. Prickles of awakening tickle over my skin as his fingertips brush my pelvis, his palm flush with the space beneath my navel. “Because of this? You think you don’t have a right to be here because you’re bearing my blood, is that it?” My skin shudders beneath his hand.
“You have a family, and I’ve done exactly what I told you I didn’t want to do, causing a painful dilemma.”
“I am a father first, above everything else, but respect is earned where it’s given. Nova will learn her place. She’s young. She has time to grow and understand where she fits in this world. Rune has no excuse and deserves no remorse for the actions and decisions made. She was given plenty enough warning. She is my wife, and I’ve crossed some lines, but that has nothing to do with this.” He taps his thumb against my pelvis. “If you think you’re going to run from me and expect that I will sit back and watch you go this time because you’re having a moment of misinterpreted importance, then my sex has told you nothing. I will feed you in front of her; don’t test me, Hermione Jean.”
This is where you would play “Like You Mean It” by Steven Rodriguez
My name rolling off of his tongue makes the hair on the back of my neck stand and my back curve against his chest. “There is something dangerously sexy about hearing a man talk about being a father that makes me want to pull this shirt up and bend over for you. But I’m going to bite my tongue, feed an infant I never planned for, and pretend I don’t want to take my nails down your back every time you touch me. I’m blaming it on timing because there is no other way it could’ve happened. If your sex has told me anything, it’s that I feel like I can’t swallow every time you’re inside of me or use my tongue for anything more than licking you like batter on a spoon, and I can feel you so deeply rooted that my veins hum and my muscles forget how to work correctly. No one does that, and unless you want to explain, I suggest you keep your distance, Sage…Alexander…Hanson.” My neck loses the will to hold my head upright as I speak each name, and when I feel his tongue on the outer curve of my ear, my panties dampen. I press my ass into his jeans, scrunching the shirt up at my sides with my crossed arms to feel the material against the backs of my thighs. “Why…is it…like this?” I breathe, and he takes the tip of my ear between his teeth, pushing me forward until my cheek meets the door.
My ear stings as he takes his hand from my pelvis and tucks two fingers into the lace against the skin of my ass. The material lifts as he slips his hand in, wrapping his fingers into a fist as they come out of the other side. He tugs up on them gently, and the thin covering against my cl*t glides in the wet. I grind my teeth, the opposite hand slipping up my shirt to toy with a nipple, and my top lip no longer belongs to me when he groans.
“I told you standing like this and grinding your ass into me is a hazard. It will cost you more than an org*sm, kid. You could lose this ear to my teeth, and the only remorse you would receive until I’ve drenched your thighs in my seed is the sound of chewed cartilage.”
I bite down on my bottom lip to suppress the little squeak that slips from my throat, and he presses me harder into the door until my hips burn from the wood. “My mind wants to retort, but my body and whatever it is inside of me that calls to you is begging you to do it. I’ll repent for it later.” My breath fans over the door, causing the wood to sweat against my cheek. He jerks my panties to the side, dragging two fingers down my second entrance, and my jaw goes slack when his fingers slide into my dripping core.
“Nothing is sexier than a pregnant Witch in heat with the same feline qualities, wet puss*, and exuding the embedding of my scent.” I spread my legs further as he glides his fingers in and out of me, and I meet the top of his hand with my fingertips, pushing it into me as my instincts react with a grind. My muscles clamp around his fingers, and his breath burns my skin as I shudder against him. He pulls his fingers free, and my hips buck.
I turn to correct my wrongs and beg him for release, but I see that he’s unbuttoned his jeans, the pink tip of his co*ck peeking through the fly of his briefs as he pulls his jeans down just enough to free it, and my mouth waters. He looks down at my still-exposed puss* and tugs his top lip into his mouth. “Do you…want to…” I start, and the tipped white of his teeth shows when his lip pops free. His pupils shrink when the words come out as a whisper. “...lick it?” My back thuds against the door, and I haven’t a chance to muffle before his co*ck meets my folds and his hand covers my mouth.
He doesn’t enter, he glides. The smooth skin absorbs the nectar dripping between my thighs. “Cross them.” He speaks low and gruff. I don’t have to think. My body obeys, my legs crossing to create a perfectly cushioned pocket of thigh and puss* for him to f*ck. The sound is wet, his briefs coating with a mixture of arousal and creamy pleading. His tongue flicks outward like a feline as he turns my face to the side, dragging it up the expanse of my jaw, and I moan into his palm. His lips meet my ear, his breathless whisper teasing. “No…I want to bite your cl*t to the point of bleeding crimson. Then I want to watch you eat your own puss* and cum over your own tongue so you can see why it’s a f*cking malignance to strap myself when all I want to do is breed. I want to lick it from your tongue while I fill you with the disloyalty of extramarital sex.” My puss* convulses as the deep crown of his co*ck plays tag with my cl*t, touching and running…touching and running…and I open my mouth behind his hand, my eyes rolling back, begging for him to slip inside. “You’ll sit with my cum against your throbbing puss* while you eat, and the next time you threaten me with distance, I’ll make it a point to remove your panties and have you sit on the chair with your thighs clenched to keep the spores from spilling over the wooden chairs in my kitchen. If the opportunity should arise to bury her band, it’ll be inside of you, and you’ll need more than a tongue to fish it out. You’ll do it, and you’ll cum again and again as you try to keep my wife from catching the scent of your puss* soaked in adultery. I enjoy watching you cum. It would be entertainment for me to see the lechery in your features every time you do it in silence.”
He slows his strokes, and I buck, my breasts heavy as they bounce from the pleasure of his co*ck against my puss* and the lethal honey that oozes from his mouth when his feral side slips through. Sage is a master with his tongue, and it isn’t the way he uses it on my puss*. It’s how the dominance intensifies every time he opens his mouth. He looks down at his wet length as he glides. The sticky sounds of my spread lips and the tiniest glimpse reveal my reddened cl*t raking painfully slow over each and every vein. The sight alone springs a popping org*sm, and I tilt my hips forward as the convulsions begin to take me under, my cl*t sitting right in the tiny dip of his co*ck, right against the hole.
His top lip quivers as he watches his release pour from the hole over my cl*t, and my eyes become hooded as he slides it back into the makeshift pocket, his hand releasing my mouth so he can breathe into it instead. I can’t speak, my words stolen from me as his teeth bump mine and my nipples soak the worn Def Leppard logo on his shirt. I’ve never produced milk before birth, but he’s been working on my nipples until my breasts have become engorged, and whether it’s to fulfill his kink or not…it only makes me cum harder to see him react to it the way he does. Sage Hanson isn’t an irresponsible boy; he’s a father, a lover, somebody's husband, and knows what he wants. My chest tingles as his lashes brush mine while he frisks the tip of my tongue. As he sucks on my bottom lip, my fingertips spark, and I can feel the blades of grass in the rivulets of his eyes on my skin when he opens. “You keep looking at me like that, and I might choke on my words, Sage Alexander.”
He chuckles, sliding his co*ck from my thighs, and the moment it leaves I want it back. I want to keep it there in permanence so I can feel his energy and pulse rhythm anytime I want. He slips himself back into his briefs, a mess of thick white release, as he adjusts his briefs to hide it. “Mites on a chicken's ass.” He winks as he hooks his fingers into the wet panties over my sex. He releases them a few inches away, and they slap my cl*t with a sting. “You take them off, and I’ll know. You should probably sit with your legs crossed, or you’ll be rocking against it in your seat.” He opens the door, and when I step into the hall, he taps my ass, sending me on my way with a wolfish grin and a warning.
I cross into his room as he descends the hall, my panties sliding against my core, heavy with his release, and I consider disobeying. He says he would know, but would he ? I’ve never had to sit with cum in my panties, let alone in front of someone's wife. I’m used to being the wife. I press my fingertips against the material between my thighs, and just as he said, the want-to-rock commences. f*ck.
I suck in a breath, reaching for leggings. The thin material can’t have much coverage, so it would be easier to catch his scent, wouldn’t it ? I release the breath through my nose, choosing a pair of jeans instead. Pulling them up my thighs, a small flick against my thumb stops me from buttoning them. I felt the same small tap in the forest when Hawke left me standing.
With a mirror available, I tug the shirt over my head and toss it into the laundry bin, examining my sticky nipples. I drag the tip of my finger over one of the buds, reddened and damp. They’re bigger and heavier, and my nipples are sensitive to the touch. I drag my fingers down my breasts to the tiny beginning swell of my pelvis. It isn’t large enough to consider an apparent show of pregnancy, but now that I know, it’s evident that there is a pronounced upturn.
I reach for a clean tank, considering a bra but choosing against it as I slide it over my head. The thought of a bra and buttoning my jeans makes me nauseous, but I can’t go out downright indecent. Cum in my panties, no bra, and my jeans unbuttoned-fantastic display of giving not a single f*ck. I suck it in and button as the door opens, and in trots Noah with a piece of parchment. “Mom! I drew this picture for school.” He turns it around, but the words catch me off guard as I wad my curls up on top of my head.
“I’m mom now?” I laugh, and he blushes. The parchment shows a list of questions and a picture of a boy holding a hand. I knit my brows as I bend to take a closer look. Drops of blood are on the floor around the boy's feet. “Noah, what is this?” I ask, and he grins.
“Well…I’m glad you asked. It’s Uncle Hawke’s hand. I want to be a healer like Nova, and…well, I got to heal Uncle Hawke once. It’s parchment all about me.” He holds it closer to my face. I accept the parchment from his hand, reading over the questions with my fingers over my mouth.
- What do you aspire to be when you grow up?
I want to be a healer like Nova. She’s the best healer, next to my aunt Rune. She’s smart and funny and doesn’t get queasy when bleeding. Sometimes, she yells for me from the bathroom, and I have to get her one of those long earplugs. She says it’s none of my business what she needs it for, but one day, I want to have a period, too.
- Something unique about my parents is…
My dad is a little bit of a Wizard and a lot of Wolf. Sometimes, he goes into my Aunt Asher’s room while my Uncle Kole is asleep, and they laugh a lot. My mom makes the best chicken nuggets, and she’s really good at having long nights of sleep with all my daddies.
- Something my parents say often is…
My dad says, “Girls don’t like boys with dirty bums; wiping good is a must.” My mom says, “I love you, beautiful boy.” My other dad says, “You did that sh*t, holy sh*t, you did that. Look at you, Noah The Great. I’m so f*cking proud of you.” My other other dad says, “sh*t far, boys, small Jesus delivered the longest of hair to the pit of the chosen. Great job, little buddy.” My other other other dad was a little not right; he couldn’t talk for a long time, and my Pa fixed him. Now he says, “You look just like your mama when you do that.” I have another dad, but I don’t see him much. He has a tattoo on his arm that makes him a prisoner, but he won’t let me fix it.
- What is your favorite thing to do?
I like to fix things and play the guitar. I also like to experiment with squished Fred and see if I can make his heart beat again with the other Freds. Sometimes, I steal cars, run people over, and take all their money, and mom doesn’t like it when I take the crack pipes. I like to help Uncle Hawke try to paint the dragon's nails, and sometimes, I take a ride on the tail. My mom robbed a bank and took the dragon. She’s the best.
- My best memory is…
Uncle Wilder cut off my Uncle Hawke’s hand once. He said my mom forgets how to act right when that man comes over. I don’t know who the man is or why my mom has to act, but I have a bunch of body parts just in case.
“Noah!” I say, and he looks up at me. “Baby…this is…you did a great job, but I think we need to sit down and maybe change some things. I don’t know if we can turn this in like this.” Noah chuckles.
“Okay.” He smiles, hugging my waist as I ruffle his hair. “Mom?” He looks up at me.
“Hmm?” I smooth the curls around his temples, the fruity scent of Blaise’s shampoo stronger than before.
“I hear things sometimes.”
I pause. “What do you mean? What is it that you hear?”
He presses his ear to my pelvis. “Sometimes it’s echos, sometimes a snore, but sometimes they talk to me.”
“Who, baby?” I ask, tilting his chin upward.
“The Gods.”
He takes a step back, getting down on a knee to look under Sage’s bed. “Noah, what are you talking about? What do they say to you?” My heart begins to beat harder as he reaches under it.
“That the baby in your belly is a gift, with eyes like the sun on stained glass.” He extracts a clear-wrapped cake. It’s golden brown in color and round, similar to a swirl covered in glaze. He stands, dusting it off. “I don’t like those things Aunt Rune made. They’re nasty.” He picks up his parchment and heads for the door. “Don’t tell her I said that. I fib about her cooking sometimes. She’s not very good at it.”
“Noah…” I say, and he stops, unwrapping the cake. “When did you put that under there?”
“It’s okay. Daddy said if it has green stuff, we can cut it off, and it’s still good. It’s just penicillin.” He snigg*rs as he takes a bite. “This one isn’t moldy, though. I took it from Uncle Hawke’s last week when that girl was there.” He steps into the hall, and my mind goes to Pansy and Lavender. She stayed over last week when I arrived, and Noah is stealing snack cakes. I press my fingers into my temple. He pokes his head back in, waving his cake toward my abdomen. “The Gods say my brother is called Khalek. It means competent and deserving.” I stand speechless, deciphering the revelation, and when Rune emerges behind him, I swallow back my shock as he tucks his cake into his chest and slips past her, Sage rounding her right after. I watch as the toe of his boot taps the toe of the boot with the missing shoestring while he removes his shirt, replacing it with a cut-off.
I bite my cheek a little harder as I turn back to Rune, her eyes trained on mine, her lips flat.
“You’re looking a little pale, hon. Dinner is on the island. You should probably eat while it’s hot.” Sage’s shirt brushes my arm as he steps back into the hall and disappears into Nova’s room. I hear Noah giggle as Rune looks me up and down. “Unless you plan to visit Kole, Asher’s in bed for the night.”
I stand still, unmoving, as she stands in the doorway. Her remarks are like bullets, and I’m currently not in a predicament to be without a vest. It’s unclear if passing her will give up the proof of Sage’s cum between my legs. So I don’t move, and neither does she. It’s a stare-off, her eyes on mine, waiting. “I’m coming,” I say, and she crosses her arms.
“I’m sure you are. I’ll wait.” She turns her wrist, looking at the skin where a watch should be. Sheer spite uncovered. “We’re all on your time, dear.”
My fingertips burn as I bite back my pride and step into her space. She stands firm as I pass the doorway into the hall before her. “I don’t need a babysitter. If you don’t want me here, I will leave. You clearly have ill feelings toward me, and I don’t mind sitting in the dark. I did it for years before I came here. I’d rather you say it than tiptoe around it because you’re afraid he won’t agree with you. To be the one with mothering nature, you have plenty of hostility toward an infant that didn’t ask to be here. I answer to myself, so if it’s a problem that I’m here…say it.” I speak, and she says nothing as she looks down her nose at me.
“There isn’t a problem, Hermione. I just want you to eat…while it’s hot.” My eye twitches. Rune is taller than I am, wolven height, and she has the Carrow temper and snide humor. But it does nothing for the fury of a Witch protecting a growing infant, whether it belongs to her husband or not. Either she’s attempting to care for me because it’s his, or she’s doing her duty as their healer and using that to mask her discontent for me. I want to remember Rune as she was before I left and her loyalty on the manor grounds. But this woman is scorned, and it might be my fault, but I’ll be damned if I stay in her home and walk on pins and needles because she’s uncomfortable but refuses to admit it.
I turn on my heel and head toward the kitchen, every step a reminder of my cum soaked panties as I reach the island. I pull the chair out and sit, my stomach somersaulting as I do so. I cross my legs immediately, looking down at what's plated before me. As it would be, meat…and potatoes. I take a bite as Rune steps around the counter, gathering something from the stove. She opens the freezer, removing a pint of frozen custard.
Several bites later, she slides a small dish before me and returns to the sink. I spear the last bite of venison, dragging it through the red juice and savoring it as I chew. It’s the first and only time I’ve eaten every bite, and I still craved more. I drag my tongue across my bottom lip, laying the fork down on the plate. “You eat like that every meal, and you won’t need supplements,” Sage speaks as he steps into the kitchen and the breath leaves my lungs, a carnal need to bite.
This is where you would play “Uh Oh” by Tate McRae
He reaches for my chin, taking his thumb across my bottom lip to wipe away the juice, and I pull back, my legs coming uncrossed as Rune turns. My body reacts, grinding against the inseam of my jeans, sliding my cl*t over the slick release. I bite down on my tongue as she sits a spoon on the small dish, her eyes on Sage as it clangs. She lifts her lips in a smile sweetened with artificial sugar, and he doesn’t take the bait. He twists his mouth, and I would think he’s biting back his words, but he speaks. “You don’t have to hang around if you want to brush your teeth to get the bitter taste out of your mouth…that works too.” Her brow curves in an arch I’ve only ever seen on Wilder as she turns around to dry her hands on a towel, more Carrow as if I don’t have enough on my plate.
He leans down to my ear as he pushes the dish away. “You’re rocking; cross your legs, or you’ll cum.”
I grind my teeth, pressing harder against the wood, a pleasureful answer making my cheeks heat. I shake my head, no . He grins, unphased that his wife is in the room, the dimple sitting pretty on his cheek. “Feel good, little girl?”
My teeth pierce my tongue until my mouth fills with copper, and I grind against it again, my nipples hardening against the fabric of my tank. “You’re making it worse.” I mouth, his eyes on me, making it harder to contain the need to climb him right here.
I press my fist into my lips, and he fills my ear with his venomous words. “Cum pretty, I want to hear you purr.” I squeak as my neck prickles and my panties soak in more than just his release, adding the gush of my desire. His effect on me is like a braided magnet. The pulling away does nothing to release the latch when he's close. His dick is a death trap, and his words are the shovel in the dirt.
Rune turns as Sage opens the fridge to retrieve a bottle of water. He passes it to me and grabs another. The dish glides across the counter again, and I attempt to close my thighs as Rune takes the plate in front of me. “You’ll like this.” She smiles, but it looks plastic. She waits until I pick up the spoon and slide it into the sponge, and it’s as if I’ve lost total awareness of my senses as I slide it into my mouth, and the flavor of the sponge, the sauce, and the custard mixes. The tickle between my legs turns into a pulse as I go for another bite, just as Sage coughs on water. He grabs my wrist as I take my second bite.
“No, not for you.” He says, and I pull on my wrist, my thighs spreading again.
“Let her eat.” Rune snaps, and this is the only time I agree with her, but it’s as if I’m drunk, everything foggy with the euphoria building between my legs and the buttery taste of… f*ck . I grab the bottle of water from Sage’s hand right in front of her, no matter that I have my own. I gulp to stop the teeter and prevent the after-effects of toffee pudding, hoping it dilutes it enough to keep the morning sickness at bay. Sage’s jaw twitches as he looks at her, and all the while, an org*sm swells in my cl*t, the ripple causing a groan to crawl from my throat as water spills down my chin and between my breasts. “Toffee pudding isn’t easily resisted. She likes it; let her be.” She crosses her arms as I sit the bottle on the counter, squeezing too tightly. It squirts out the top, my eyes watering. The feeling intensifies as if it’s activating another. I roll my hips against the chair, dropping my forehead into my hand as the peak forms. Sage moves to push the dish away, and I grab the toffee pudding as a strangled moan escapes, using my hand to stuff it into my mouth to cover the satisfaction burning at my core. Rune’s smile is like pure cane sugar.
I’ve made a mistake, a terrible f*cking mistake. I’ve never been able to stomach toffee pudding with either of my pregnancies, and it can’t be any different now. I swallow, licking the drippings from my hand as the custard runs down my forearm, and Sage’s eyes widen. It’s an ungodly, feral danger to be in the room with a man who can control your body with one look. But f*cking lethal to be there in front of his wife and knowing he has a kink for things such as this. He grabs a towel and pulls my fingers from my mouth, wiping the mess away.
“f*ck. She can’t eat toffee pudding, Rune. I’ve told you this.” He snaps, and she rolls her eyes. I grab the water bottle, wash down the remnants of something I know will creep back up later, and pray that it doesn’t. But when the tickle in my cl*t returns, I spring from the seat, pulling my wrist from his hand, and dart out of the cottage. The air hits me like a wall, and I gasp, allowing the purity of the dampened forest fill my lungs. I hadn’t realized how suffocated it can feel to be in a cottage with people who don’t want you there and have very little control over your sexual desires.
“Hermione,” Sage says as he steps out behind me. I hold my hand up, backing down the steps.
“No, I need to take a walk. I just need to breathe.”
He stops at the top of the steps, running his hand down his unkempt beard as he sits. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out and slides one between his lips. “I’ll be here.”
As I turn, a pinch burns in my hip, following the dirt path into the forest, letting the darkness sweep over me. I sigh, walking with my fingers pressed into my temples in search of an escape. When the sound of a melody causes a tug in my abdomen, I realize I’ve instinctively followed the sound of Wilder’s guitar. The closer I get, the louder it becomes.
He plays with precision, but it’s slow and relaxed like he’s trying to find the right tune, or perhaps he’s stuck in a world of thoughts. I scan the porch, seeing that it’s empty, and when I spot him sitting at the end of the dock with his back turned, a touch of guilt stabs me in the gut—remembering a revelation about an infant boy growing. I told him it wasn’t true because, at the time, it wasn’t.
He turns his head toward the strings, watching his fingers move as he strums, and a familiar spark of reverie bleeds through my body when he begins to hum. I take slow and quiet strides to the closest tree and lean against it with my shoulder, observing his shirtless back, the wings on his neck and how he plays like nobody is listening.
He keeps his head down, singing slow words with the kind of vocals that make the hair on your arms stand. His voice carries so beautifully over the water, though it's low. It’s so well-pronounced and different from what I’m used to.
I…wasn’t that dumb darlin’...but why…would you say somethin’, if you don’t believe it yourself. Mine set in stone…and my heart crested chrome…
I attempt to cross my legs, the tingling reminder that my panties still contain a desire for sex and the sound of his voice feeding the penalty in punishing waves to match the wavering vocals in his deep resound. He stops and crosses his arms over the top of the guitar. “Lurking isn’t your strong suit. I can feel you.” He speaks, and I bite down on my lips, pushing off the tree. He sets the guitar down on the dock.
“No…you should play,” I speak as I reach the bank of the pond to his left and squat, intending to sit but reconsider when I feel the slide of my panties against the seam of my jeans. He narrows his eyes as he looks at me, and I feel caught, stuck in limbo, unsure if I should sit or lay…continue to squat. He doesn’t say anything as I touch the ground with my hand and move a foot, then move it back and start to stand. The glide begins again, and I bite my cheek and squat again. I wave him off. “Excuse me…I seem not to know what I want to do right now.”
He crosses his arms, likely pondering a response as I stretch a leg and pull it back. “I can see that. You’re up and walking, which means you’re well enough to do so. I assume your struggle to sit means you’ve had a plentiful helping of Wolf dick.”
I glare at him. “I thought you might like some company. You were sitting alone. I wanted to hear you play, but you know what, f*ck you.” I stand, turning back toward the forest. When his taunting laugh climbs my spine, I contemplate using magic to push him off the dock, but I remember that I have little control over it when I’m angry, so I choose physical push instead.
I sprint over the dock, and when I throw my hands out to shove, he moves, and I fall headfirst into the pond. I push off the bottom in a panic, jumping through the surface with a gasp as pond water spills from my mouth. Its gritty and foul tasting. I scramble to push the loose, wet curls from my eyes, peeking through one lid at the brooding Warlock sitting before me with a smile made to be on catalogs. “Congratulations, you’ve successfully found yourself neck deep. That’s how you do it…isn’t it? Neck deep. Two…sometimes three at a time. Who does it belong to?” I glare at him. “Don’t forget which Malfoy I am, I’m not talking about your puss*, love.” He points at the water, but I know what he’s referencing. “Considering everyone here has had their hand in the pot, you probably don’t know…do you?”
My lips quiver from the cold water, my shoulders quake profusely, and my head cannot remain unmoving as I shake. “Why…are you…like this?” I speak through my body's response to try and heat itself. He waves a hand over the pond to heat it and stares at me. I can see the flecks of gold prominently in his eyes, but that's it; it's just flecks. “You’re so angry with me that you can bring Sesily to dinner and obnoxiously rub all over her in front of me but still sit next to my bedside when I’m unconscious and hum the same damn tune. You can’t lie to me, Wilder. Your eyes tell on you every f*cking time. Say it…whatever you want to say, say it. I’m here, I’m stuck in the f*cking water…say it!” I yell, and his nose flares as the water drips from my chin. “But make sure it’s worth every damn word that comes out of your mouth because the list of things you can’t take back is growing, and I may not remember what I said to you before, but I sure as hell remember it now. Say…it.” I shove at the water, and it splashes over the dock against his chest. He doesn't flinch. He wears it. Both of our chins dripping.
“It’s Sage’s…isn’t it?” He asks, as calm as ever. “I’ve been just as oblivious as before, lovesick and blindfolded. Draco knew…he never said it was his. He called it an heir, and you were a Malfoy at the time. Clever.” He nods, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip, hanging a moment before he reaches for his guitar. “You’ve gone back to prancing around without a bra, too, I see. I bet he tells you how pretty they are at night when he takes your nipple between his teeth and drinks from the body that’s housing his child. How decent with his wife down the hall. Bet he covers your mouth, too, doesn’t he?” He swallows, and with a blink, a tear falls. My breath hitches in my throat as my lips part. “Does he tell you he loves you, too? You whispered it to me, and the night he left you standing in the rain…you screamed it for him. There are measures spoken in the raw emotion, and the rain may have been ours, but you loved him despite the storm. Lightning strikes…and your truths are always on display…”
This is where you would play “House” by Henry Verus
He strums the guitar, and my throat begins to ache as his voice cracks. He then continues where he left off.
I didn’t know what I love you meant to you…
He bares his teeth, pushing the words out like he did in the shimmering rain, and as the words flow through him, I feel them in my bones. Lightning strikes and the pond lights up. His eyes are a mixture of stormcloud and emerald: pain and love.
Damn it, I know that you didn’t mean it…I did, we were kids, but it still felt like we were playing house.
He takes a deep breath, and another tear falls down his face as the sky brightens again in another fracture of electric blue, branching in different directions. The trees sway, and my jaw slack as I watch what he hid from me before when my back was to his front.
And damn it, I don’t miss it all, but the good times blind all of the bad.
It’s real and rare…like bloodied meat. He hasn’t completed this song. He’s making it up as he goes, and it cuts deep with every word that leaves his lips. I could live in his mouth, feed off his sound, and sleep curled up on his tongue.
I hope it’s hard to sleep cause God knows that everybody here is sleeping with you but me, and I don’t hate you…I know it’s insane…but I wish that we still made it work.
He degrades me, and my chin quivers as I take the punch to the gut, and yet I can’t look away. It hurts, and I feel the crack in my chest split a little more as he heals it again with his words and rips it apart in all his jagged glory like the branches of lightning shooting across the dome. He looks directly into my face as he continues, and I choke on the air.
You know what you’re doing every time that we talk…you know you were using me you were never lost…
The way his lips move against his teeth is entrancing, stamping me with the permanence in his admissions. His eyes are so heavy in tears that I can’t differentiate the blue from the hurt. His thumb strums the strings as his fingertips on the opposite hand move across them to match the vigor in his voice.
…cause you deserve the damage you’ve dealt me…but I’m still yours…
The tendons and muscles in his neck flex as his voice picks up again, and a crack in the sound matches the one he puts in my chest, and the thunder causes the ground to shudder. He holds firm with his gaze, and if I didn’t want to choke him, I might climb the dock and wrap myself around him instead.
…and that might be the death of me, I’m saying…damn I know that you didn’t mean it…I did, we were kids but it still felt like we were playing house…and damn it I don’t miss it all, but the good times blind all of the bad…
I hope it’s hard to sleep, cause God knows that everybody here is sleeping with you…but me…and I don’t hate you, I know it’s insane but…
…but I wish that we still made it work…
The rain fades quickly into a torrential downpour, the water splashing around me, and I can’t speak. My heart is in my throat as we stare at each other, and it’s like I’m seeing him at a different time but in the same place. His onyx tendrils drip over his face, his lips wetting with rain, and I see it now…I know why it rains when he cries.
My brows shake as the air in my lungs depletes, and I cross my arms around my body to draw warmth as if he never charmed the water. It feels like minutes have passed since he stopped singing, but his fingers remain on the strings, and the emerald in his eyes plays with the leaves in mine as his chest rises and falls with every breath.
I blink rapidly, not to shield my eyes from the rain but to clear the hurricane building against my lids. “It rains harder when you cry…” I speak, my voice drowning in the storm. He blinks, looking down at his knees as he lowers his guitar: the memory, the rain…and Sage’s face. I hurt them both.
He holds his hand out and without thinking, I take it, not weighing if it’s trust or trickery. As he lays his guitar to the side, he slides a hand under my other arm and lifts. Water sloshes over him as I catch myself with my knee on the dock. Instead of standing right away, I pause.
It’s been weeks since I’ve been this close to his face without an urgent need to defend myself or slap him. Looking back and forth between his eyes, I forget my barriers and limits, the frustration with his demeaning nature, and I touch my fingertips to his cheek.
He grabs my wrist and pulls my hand away from his face. “Don’t touch me.” He snaps, pulling himself away to stand. He picks up his guitar and snarls down at me. “Rune may not be a pureblood, but she’s not an idiot. If you think you can walk around smelling like sex and she won’t notice, you’re a f*cking fool.”
I bring myself to my feet, my fists at my sides as the rain beats down on me. Wilder rounds the side of his cottage, and I’m on his heels before he opens the door. “Does it make me a fool, Wilder? Or are you trying to hide your feelings by belittling me?” I hiss as he opens the door. “I’m already pregnant. In case you’ve forgotten, sex causes that.” I follow him just inside the door, gritting my teeth, and he turns, his face an inch from mine.
“Get out of my cottage.” His emerald deepens, specks of gold returning, a war in the brooks—devotion suffocating the wards of his heart.
“It’s a game to you, isn’t it?” I snap, and lightning strikes from the ground up a foot from his front porch. “Who can hide it better? I see you…Wilder. You’re a villain, and you want to be known as one. A prince born in hostility, dripping with death, I’m fuel to your iron flame. I have pre-eminent control of your shadows, the suppression of your magic belongs to me…and you…can’t…f*cking…stand it.” I press my hand to his chest, and he shoves it off.
He grins, looking down at my lips, and I see the emerald in his eyes turn into paintballs of heliotrope, swallowing the gold as he shifts back and forth on his feet. I ground my stance as his rain-wet onyx tendrils graze my damp curls across my forehead. His shoulders teeter as he laughs low and listless. “That’s the thing about monsters.” He whispers. “We create rivers of hatred, intending to drown our victims with our magic. But words are just as bloody and brutal. A villain can make you love just as painfully as he can make you swallow your tongue.” His bottom lip brushes mine.
“I want to love you…but you won’t f*cking let me.”
This is where you would play “Seven” by Natalie Jane
He steps forward, and I step back, my boots meeting the wooden porch. He bites down on his bottom lip, tilting his head to the side as he sizes up my face. “You love, like I f*ck, Hermione. Shameful…euphoric and repulsive. It’s an insufferable agony to want something to be as it was so badly that a serpent would swallow its tail to hide its faults. That’s the beauty in a curse made by the same black death you unleashed over Berkshire. It chokes repetitively as it tries, and eventually, the poison rots through until there's nothing left to swallow.” I hear the door handle of his bedroom turn, and he laughs as he steps backward, absorbing the darkness of his cottage. “I’d ask you to stay, but my bed is already taken.” He pushes the door with his fingertips, and it slams in my face.
I stare at the door in disbelief. He let her stay… he let her stay . I reach for the handle, and it burns my fingertips when I touch it. Hissing at the pain, I jerk my hand back and form a fist, but as I reach forward to pound the door, I’m knocked back a foot. My ass hits the wood on the top step, and I barely catch myself before I fall down the steps. My free hand grasping for my pelvis in protection.
Breathing heavily, I pull myself to my feet, remembering I shattered his windows. But when I step around the side of the cottage, I see they’ve all been replaced, and the stone siding is just like Hawke’s, a forcefield to keep me out. He did it effortlessly from the inside out, and as I back toward the treeline, lightning strikes again; I can see the shadow of his broad shoulders over the window. He removes his shirt over his head, a dainty hand reaching outward, and I know what he’s doing the moment his shadow drops because the window is right over his bed.
When it rains here, it reminds me of you. It’s full of secrets in the dark and only tells the truth when the lightning strikes.
Nausea swirls in my stomach, and bile rises in my throat. I turn and dart, stopping halfway into the forest to heave, my hand against the bark of birch as the sweet taste of partially digested food taints my tongue. I gasp for air remembering that I’ve eaten toffee pudding and wish like hell I hadn’t. I feel incoherent, like I’ve just woken up from a terrible nightmare or downed an entire bottle of liquor. There's a sting in my stomach, a tug in the opposite direction of Wilder's cottage, and it’s just enough to make my legs move again when I want to drop, plummet, and sleep.
I take slow strides, the trees blocking the brunt of the rain as it comes down in buckets. As I approach the center bush, Noah runs across the dirt path and up the steps of Blaise’s cottage in a hurry to keep from being drenched, and with my eyes on him, I almost miss the cackle to my left. My eyes snap to Hawke’s porch to see his hair pulled back in a copper bun as it always is. A trucker hat adorns his head, a sweater half on and half off, the sleeve hanging over his front. He claps once, accepting a blunt from Pansy and placing it between his lips.
Sage is already halfway to me when Hawke leans over in his chair, and it isn’t until I’ve stepped almost directly in front of his cottage that I can see his profile. The end of a blunt between his teeth as he blows a shotgun into her mouth. I haven’t a chance to question why Sage would be trying to get to me so quickly before I realize it isn’t Pansy, and my palm shoots outward; a bolt of blue smacks into the forcefield, and it lights up like a dome covered in blue capillaries. His arms are around me as everything moves in slow motion, his hands over mine. Hawke turns, a blink like a slow-moving butterfly wing as the blunt falls from his lips into his lap. The girl next to him turns her head to face me, glasses the shade of a rainbow, and blonde dreads long enough to graze her lap.
