I wish I could understand what it was saying, or that I could figure out how to write it down or speak it into a translator. But instead, all I have is the broken, fragmented syllables in my memory.
I feel hot. As I stare at my own body, soft and abused in the light of my bedroom, I consider the possibility that I might be entering a flare-up soon. I’m never able to predict them, but this heat that is rolling through me is almost as bad as one.
My fingertips tingle, my skin reacting to every gush of wind that passes by. I want to dump a bucket of cold water over my head; I want to return to the altar room, to Julian.
Last night, as the incubus took me just hours after Julian came down my throat, I wondered briefly if it could sense it. And then, because I am a horrible, sick little thing, I imagined that the pleasure I was receiving was being dealt by another. By someone warm and kind in words.
I liked it. Tasting Julian, I mean. The feel of him heavy and hot against my tongue, his sweet voice, and the way he spoke so viciously yet so softly, marinates in my mind like a drug ready to take out a new brain cell with every passing moment.
I like him so much. I like his body and his smell; I like his kindness and his generosity. I want to know more of him—his thoughts and his desires. His dreams and beliefs. I want all of these things that do not belong to me, that I am not entitled to.
And I want to tell him. To get back on my knees in front of his large, toned body and tell him just how much I like him, and how scared I am that thislikemight soon belove. But I know it’s not fair; it’s not right.
Julian is helping me out of pure kindness, out of self-preservation, and lust. He’s helping himself out of a terrible situation as much as he’s helping me.
Some small part of me believes that if I were to confess, Julian would agree to being with me strictly out of guilt and a sick sense of responsibility. I would rather never touch him again than face that or force him into something that would end in his discontentment.
Julian is too nice for his own good.
I got my wish from so long ago, to see him without his kindness. I saw it when he fucked my face, and when he slammed into me so many nights ago.
But no amount of rough sex will ever deplete him of his true nature: Julian is a protector, a savior without even trying. I will not use that against him.
Nor can I tell him just how much the incubus has changed recently. I fear that if I do, he’ll demand that I sleep in his bed, or vice versa, so that he can protect me.
I am terrified of what will happen to Julian if he involves himself beyond what he has already done. If it has already begun to grow more aggressive every time it touches me, I’m unwilling to experiment and see what it will do to Julian if it finds out what we’ve been doing.
If it knew about last night, or that we slept together many nights ago, it would have appeared to him again. I just know it. And the next time it appears to Julian, it might do something worse than scratch his face and frighten him.
With this thought in mind, I realize just how much danger I’m putting him in. That by letting Julian touch me, I’m opening the door for the incubus to learn of it and retaliate.
That settles it. As I watch my own face morph into depressed disappointment, the decision is made.
From now on, our relationship is research only. I will not risk his life just to get off. To expel this heat. We can meet in the altar room and continue our studying, but past that, no more.
Even as I feel like I’m being gutted from the inside out, I know I’m making the right decision. Things are changing, and not for the better.
I find that I’m growing scared of this incubus, and I will not unleash it onto Julian.
Taking a deep breath, I walk to my closet and grab my clothes before returning to my mirror.
As I reenter the room, I startle, spotting Atticus sitting on my bed.
“W-when did you come in?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious of the amount of time I spent staring at myself in silence.
“Just now, while you were grabbing clothes,” he replies.
I guess I would have seen him in the mirror if he had entered any sooner.
I nod. “Okay. Good morning, then.”
“Good morning.” He watches me steadily, eyes tracing my chest as I slip my briefs and pants on. “Those look pretty bad.”
I just shrug, pulling my blouse over my head. I’m opting out of sheer material today—no need to advertise my abuse.
“I want to help,” Atticus adds, his voice desperate.
“Don’t worry, Atticus,” I answer nonchalantly. “Everything will work out.”
