Then, he left.
The way he spoke, it was as if Oscar was terrified that something bad was going to happen to me. That now that Julian has seen my curse, the demon will retaliate. But Atticus saw it once, and it did nothing—nothing at all.
I do not know everything about the way of the incubi. In fact, all I know is what the priest and the psychic told us. We are running on very limited information and two years’ worth of vivid yet blind nightmares.
I used to be so afraid of the incubus who has claimed me, and though it pains me to admit it, I am not necessarily afraid of it anymore. Sure, I’m miserable to be stuck in this condition and crushed under the guilt of my own pleasure, but I don’tfearthe incubus most days. It’s never hurt anyone but me, and it’s never hurtmeoutside of rough sex.
Have… have I gottenStockholm syndromefrom a demon?
Needless to say, I find Oscar’s panic to be a little misplaced. I can’t see a reality in which the incubus punishes me for Julian's having involved himself for one night, no matter how much he saw.
And he saw… a lot. Things that disgusted him.
I can’t seem to stomach that rejection, that pain. So instead, as I lie on my bed waiting for the inevitable, my mind is creating its own fantasy. One in which Julian came up to my room that night just to find me, unable to fight his own desire, not due to my sister’s fear.
And as he did, he found me on my bed in a compromising position; a position that woke his own body, and he found himself overcome with want.
In this fantasy I’m spinning, as I stare down at my own soft skin covered by my white, silky pajamas, I imagine that he would have stood over me and fought his own urge to touch me. To experience what I feel like. Or, at the very least, would have used me for visual stimulation.
But of course, this is just a fantasy. Julian is far too kind for that type of toxicity. It only makes sense that instead, he would have bathed me and wrapped me in a soft towel, leaving me to sleep alone.
Just once in my life, I want to see Julian without his kindness.
If I told him the truth of my curse, my condition, could I see it? Would he be overcome with rage, unable to forgive me for lying? Would he want to protect me?
Julian is a clever man; will he ever sort the truth out on his own?
A part of me hopes he never does. That we can continue as we have been, doing this slow and torturous dance of ours where we avoid the thick tension between us whilst trading longing looks and half-spoken declarations.
Yet the other half hopes so desperately that he barges up here and demands the truth. That he rips my door from its hingeswith his bare hands, pins me to this very mattress, and insists I tell him who orwhatwas truly touching me.
But someone as beautiful and untainted as he is should not be in my bed. He should not be here, on the same mattress where I am frequently taken by a thing made of nightmares and sinful pleasure.
No, it is best that we stay suspended in our torturous dance, forever separated by an invisible line drawn between us. This way, I will not face heartbreak.
And he will not be tainted.
I once again debate hiding away in my bedroom. I know Julian must be back from his party by now, but I am unprepared to see him again.
How do you face someone who has shown you their disinterest? How am I meant to look him in the eyes when I know he finds me disgusting?
Will we be able to resume our painful dance in the end, or is that all wishful thinking?
I dress appropriately for a Chastain New Year breakfast—a blush pink silk button-up and wide-legged cotton pants—and head toward the dining room. I fear missing this breakfast will cause more harm than saving face would benefit me.
The walk to Hall E1 is quiet; I see no other life forms. But inside the dining room, everyone is seated in their usual seats. Aside from the chair next to Abigail, which is empty.
Julian is not here.
Jeremy sits in his chair that is placed next to mine, so I know they have been invited to eat with us, just as they were on Christmas Day. So where is he?
“Darling,” Mother calls, smiling softly at me. “Come sit.”
I follow her instructions, taking her small hand in my own as I take my place next to her. A hot cup of tea is already waiting for me, and Atticus is trying to get our father to speak with him about something business-related.
Abigail sighs, a gentle pout forming over her lips as she fiddles with her silverware.
“What is it, little one?” Father asks her, taking his escape from Atticus’s prying.
