Page 21 of A Study of Blood and Ichor

My fingers were threaded through a head of dark hair between my legs, a moan trapped in my throat as he flicked his tongue out over me as he drew me closer to the edge. But when his eyes slid up to meet mine, orbs of onyx looked back, heady and reverent.

Faster, I ground my hips. It shouldn’t have felt so good. Nothing about imagining either of them should have spurred my carnal and twisted desires. And no matter how hard I tried to shove them down, they continued to resurface and swarm my mind like a virus until my body went rigid as the tension crested before shattering every last shred of dignity I had left.

My release left me panting, dazed, and just as confused as I’d been before. I sank underneath the water with my arms wrapped around my torso, wishing I could drown.

I had the same nightmare again.

Smoke and sulfur coat my tongue.

From below, it feels like the broken and uneven chalk lines of the pentagram drawn on the warped floorboards are mocking me.

The demon peers up at me, black eyes haloed by a curtain of copper curls. It draws my sister’s lips back, curling them up into a sharp smile.

I whimper. The demon laughs.

“Such a weak mind,” it says, twisting her small voice into something sinister and dark. “I fear I may have broken her.”

A bone snaps, and I scream. Sascha’s already awkward and gangly limbs suddenly contort. They jut out into wrong and unnatural angles as her bones continue to crack under the demon’s perverted control.

Banish it, my thoughts scream. Send it back!

But I am hollow with fear. Dread. Guilt. Let them all consume me. For I’d rather be dead.

I shot out of bed in a cold sweat with my hand clawing at my throat as if to contain the scream lodged there that held the last of my resolve.

Before I fully understood what I was doing, I pulled on my sweats and padded through the empty halls of the estate until I was standing outside the doors of the Hull. The stone floor felt like ice underneath my bare feet, and I placed my palms against the smooth iron for what felt like minutes.

This was a bad idea. A really fucking bad one.

But in my gut, I knew it was the right one. At least that’s what I tried to convince myself.

I eased the doors open and then pressed them shut with nothing more than a soft whine, one that I begged wouldn’t alert anyone to my presence in the Hull at this hour.

I’d expected to find Vain standing there, waiting for me with a haughty expression. Instead, the demon sat on the floor, blood splattered across its bare chest and down at its feet. Crimson, mortal blood.

Deep purple and red welts marred Rory’s cheekbones, the skin puffed up and pink. A half-crusted line of blood trailed from one corner of his mouth. But the wounds on his face were nothing compared to the long, jagged lashes across his torso and his back.

Rory's T-shirt had been shrugged off and hung around the end of his arms while Vain held a damp cloth in one scarred hand and dabbed at the raw flesh of Rory’s wrists, the skin blistering and raw from the manacles around them.

Lena had mentioned that she had attempted more “unsavory methods” to try and exorcise Vain. But I hadn’t thought she would ever resort to this level of torture.

The sight of Rory’s blood spilled carelessly across the stones undid something in me. He was still a man, even with a demon wearing his skin. The slick distaste settling in my gut told me Lena had gone too far.

Witches were supposed to be the protectors—guardians. We were supposed to fight against the injustices and terrors demons brought to our realm, not stoop to their level.

Vain glanced up at my approach, nostrils flaring, then went back to tending to Rory’s wounds with an almost motherly affection.

“You look flushed,” the demon said playfully. “Did you think of me when you pleasured yourself earlier?”

I swallowed my retort and squared my shoulders as heat flooded my face.

“Is your offer still on the table?”

Vain perked up, black eyes flicking upwards and raking over my body in that sensual, lustful way I had grown accustomed to.

“It is.”

“Then I’ve come to make a deal.”

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