Page 93 of By the Fae

He wove his other hand, the one he’d been propping his head up on, into my hair, and gripped it tight, pulling my head back. This hair grabbing, I realised, was something he did when he was reaching the promise land. The point of no return. When there were only minutes — if we were lucky — left.

He pressed his mouth next to my ear. “Come for me, baby girl. Shatter for me.”

And I did. As simple as that. He bit down on my shoulder. Hard. My sex squeezed his. His swelled inside me, erupting with his hot release as he cried out. My thighs clenched, my stomach muscles went taut, and my orgasm tore through my entire body.

Afterwards, we stayed in the same position. Like two soldiers shot down on the battlefield.

Goldie kissed my shoulder, passed his hand over the bite, and removed the sting with his glamour.

It was brewing. The thing I had tried to stop myself from doing all weekend.

The words. Capable of destroying everything we had built up. Because whether he knew or liked it, we had built something pretty darn amazing. It would all come crashing down.

Don’t do it Holly.

“I don’t want to go to work,” he said. “I’d rather stay here inside you all day.”

Don’t ruin everything.

My emotions bypassed my brain altogether. The words spewed from my throat like dragon fire.

“I love you,” I said.

No, no, no, no. Take it back. Suck them back in.

Goldie was silent for the longest time. Had he even heard?

I prayed to the Gods he didn’t.

I couldn’t bear to turn and look at him.

“No,” he said eventually, barely audible. “No. Don’t say that. Please say you don’t love me.”

Shit, what have I done?

“Say you don’t love me Holly.”

“I . . . I can’t. I can’t say it.”

Goldie grabbed me by the shoulder and forced me onto my back. “Then lie!” he yelled. “You can lie, you’re human. Tell me you don’t love me.” He sat upright, the warmth from his body ripped from mine. “Say it, Holly.”

“I . . .”

“Fuck!” He was on his feet. “FUCK!” He placed his forehead against the wall, his arms came up to cradle the back of his head.

“Goldie,” I whispered, scooting towards the end of the bed, but not daring to leave its safety.

“I’m sorry, Holly. I’m so fucking sorry.” He paced to his wardrobe, pulled out another pair of grey sweatpants and yanked them on. “I never wanted it to be like this. I never should have . . .” He scrubbed a hand down his face and cried out.

I wanted to go to him, wrap my arms around his waist, push his head onto my shoulder. But I caused this. This was my fault. This was all my fault. Everything.

I forced Goldie into the deal. I learned things about him. Made him learn things about me. I didn’t walk away when I should have. When I realised I was developing feelings for him. I kept coming back, week after week, so I could press my body against his, and breathe in the smell of him, and watch his face as he came undone. I didn’t fuck off when he told me to. I’d become addicted to him.

My fault.

So I sat on the edge of the mattress, and watched him like a helpless child watching a parent have a breakdown.

From under the bed, almost right under my feet, Goldie dragged out a dusty navy holdall and began stuffing clothes into it. His clothes. T-shirts, more sweatpants, socks.

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