forty
Sweat dampened Tristan’s neck and back as he lay in his bed. The bed where he’d had the best experience of his life with Effie.
She was next to him, reading a book out loud for him. She’d thought listening to a story might distract him, rather than lying and staring at the ceiling, and she was right. Her sweet voice narrating the story helped him focus on something other than his urge.
The need to go to The Octagon came in waves like a fever. Every time the urge overwhelmed him, he pulled at the rope, and its sharp bite gave him a jolt.
Effie caressed his hair while she read, and he closed his eyes to enjoy her touch better. He had no idea how much time had passed from the moment she’d tied him to the bedposts. To him, it seemed like a week.
“Do you need a drink?” She put down the book.
He nodded, his throat parched. “Don’t let Harris come in here. I don’t want him to see me like this.”
“Don’t worry.”
When she left to fetch Harris, he pulled at the rope viciously and tried to untie himself. But Effie’s skill with the knots couldrival that of a sailor. He wouldn’t untie himself, and to do what, anyway? He’d asked her to tie him down. He was where he wanted to be.
The fact she was so good with knots made him smile for some reason. He loved how resourceful she was.
“There we are.” She returned, carrying a tray. “I have tea, lemonade, and water.”
“Lemonade, please.”
She helped him drink a cold glass of lemonade. Its pungent and sweet taste brought relief to his throat and his head.
“You’re doing so well.” She stroked his cheek.
“It doesn’t feel like that.”
“Would you like to eat?”
“No.” He kissed her hand. “Would you read again?”
“Of course.” She sat next to him and resumed reading.
He closed his eyes. The rope gripped his wrist and ankles as if telling him it wouldn’t let him go. The choice didn’t belong to him now, but to the rope. He had to relinquish control over his urge.
The thought gave him a sense of peace and lifted the responsibility of a choice from his shoulders. It felt liberating.
Effie caressing his hair made him breathe more easily, and her voice eased the tension from his body.
Effie gently caressedTristan’s hair as he slept.
She was surprised he’d fallen asleep, but fatigue, from fighting his craving, was probably wearing him down.
There was a soft knock on the door, and she slid off the bed not to disturb Tristan.
“Yes?” she whispered, pulling the door open a crack.
Rowan craned his neck to look past her. “Harris told me Tristan is sick.”
“He is, but he’s asleep now.” She tried to block his view.
He shifted his position. “What ails him?”
“It’s complicated, but nothing contagious.”
His face tightened. “Does it have to do with him hurting himself?”
