Page 81 of Presence

My gaze is instantly captivated by his chiseled abs, taut and firm under the leather straps. His skin, stretched thin over the muscles, creases slightly as he crouches above me, legs spread wide.

“O-oh, really?” I stutter. “This has happened to me before, you know. Right after you left me in the woods. I thought maybe I’d... wake up in the real world again. Wait a minute... shouldn’t you already know that?”

Echo blinks.

“I can’t hear your thoughts when I’m away,” he says, tilting his head to the side in an oddly unnatural way. “But I don’t mind. This surprise was nice. Maybe I should allow myself to be more... unknowing in the future.” He pauses, blinking slowly. Something shifts in him—it’s subtle but unmistakable. He moves closer, his chilly breath grazing my ear. “Were you dreaming about me?”

I shiver, torn between fear and an odd thrill that his presence brings. “I... I don’t remember. I don’t think I dreamt at all.”

A smack of his lips. A deep groan coming from his chest.

“Mm,” he muses. “That’s a shame. I was curious about what might happen if you did.” He trails a claw lightly across my cheek, sending another shiver down my spine. It’s so sharp, that he could easily draw blood if he wanted to. “How did it feel, sleeping here? Do you feel any different?”

My eyes widen as each question races in quicker than the last. Is this what he meant about allowing himself to be more unknowing? Has he stopped reading my thoughts?

Echo? Have you? Have you stopped?

Nothing.

With no sign that he heard me, his claw travels to my neck, the needle-like tip turning motionless on my artery. I feel my pulse quicken against it.

“That’s…” I can’t even finish.

“I’ve got an even better question for you,” he cuts me off, his voice no longer urgent but a slow, gut-wrenching hiss. “Why aren’t you as scared of me as you were yesterday? And yet, somehow, you smell even better?”

The question lingers, thick with menace. My mind spins, grappling with the implications. Not that scared of him? I’m fucking terrified. What is he talking about?

“I don’t know,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. The claw at my neck tightens slightly.

“I could spill your blood right now,” he threatens. “We could paint this whole cavern with your pretty maroon paint.”

The cold, cruel edge in his voice makes me dizzy. I try to swallow, but my throat is dry, my heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst. The tip of his claw digs in just enough to break the skin, a tiny droplet of blood welling up and sliding down my neck.

My body starts to tremble, but even then, he’s far from satisfied. Whatever is lacking from my reaction, makes him bare his teeth.

“Please, don’t,” I plead.

His eyes flick to the trail of blood that’s tickling my skin.

“I see you trembling below me, and I hear your voice. But why don’t I sense the same fear as before, hm? And why do you smell so sweet, despite everything?” He pulls back his claw, licking the tiny drop of blood from his finger. “You taste as sweet as you smell, too.”

I shudder.

“You’re not making any sense,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m more than scared. I’m…”

“Changing,“ he shuts me off.

“What?”

“You’re changing,” he says. “I don’t know how or why, and I’ve never seen anything like it before. But it’s undeniable. You even smell different.” He looms over me, his presence dark and suffocating. “Get up,” he orders, leaving no room for defiance. “We’re going to play a game.” With a swift motion, he leaps off the bed, landing beside it.

My heart skips a beat. I force myself to stand on shaky legs, feeling the cold, rough floor beneath my feet. “What kind of game?” I manage to ask once I’m up.

Before I can react, he darts to the corner of the cavern and opens a wardrobe that definitely wasn’t there last night. It’s a simple wooden piece, adorned with carvings that look straight out of the eighteenth century. He flings open the doors and pulls out a white fabric and another lacy white item.

“Take off those rags. They used to suit your poor, tormented little soul, but now they’re just dull,” he says with a twisted smile. “I want to see you in something more... macabre.”

I hesitate, staring at the garments in his hands. The smooth white dress, buttoned from the chest to the base of the neck, ends with a neat collar. The laced piece is unmistakably a corset. My fingers fumble with the tattered clothes I’ve been wearing, and my heart leaps into my throat.

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