If you feel the same, meet me Saturday night. Our room.
If you decide not to, I won’t hold it against you. But know that I’m taking this seriously. And I know whatI want.
You.
—Your Storm
My fingers tighten on the page. The last word sits heavily in my chest.
You.
And beneath it . . .
Your Storm.
In the hearth, a log shifts, sending sparks and flames curling higher, but the crackling of the fire sounds distant.
Your Storm.
It feels like a claim. And I desperately want it to be true, for Maeve to bemine.
I read the letter again, slower this time. Maeve doesn’t hedge, nor does she try to persuade me. She speaks plainly, with a certainty that makes the muscles in my stomach tight.
You don’t scare me. Though I know you wish that weren’t the case.
Yes. No.
I don’t want her to fear me, not truly. What I want is for Maeve to feel just enough fear to protect herself.
Fromme.
But... is there something inside me that she needs to protect herself from? Do I not trust myself with her?
And why is it that she has more faith in me than I have in myself?
As soon as the question arises, I have an answer for it.
It’s because I can’t remember ever feeling like this, not in my 333 years of life. Because despite all the years of restraint and control, I lose myself when I’m around her.
Maybe that’s not right.
Maybe I don’t lose myself.
Maybe I find myself.
I lean back in my armchair and drag a hand down my face, stubble scratching against my palm. Grabbing my glass from the side table, I take a quick swig. But the blood does nothing to satiate my thirst.
Now, I know only Maeve can do that. And it feels almost inevitable to me.
I lift the letter again, reading it three, four, five times.
I’m ready.
Inside me, her words stir something more complicated than hunger.
Our room.
Closing my eyes, I drop my head back against the chair. I know which room she speaks of. And thinking of it brings back memories of that night: Maeve on top of me, hair wild around her shoulders, my cock so deep inside her it felt like a portal to another world.
