Page 8 of Hunted By the Headless Horseman
The latter, Belle.
“Oh, good lord, no. Your name can’t really be Jack, can it?” She scoffs again, but in disbelief, while attempting to pull her chin away, which I, of course, do not permit.
Jackson is my full name. Jackson Elias Moore.
“It’s a good name, truly,” she says in earnest sincerity.
Such a sweet girl. Spunky. Spirited. But sweet.None of which describes my fiery late wife. I acknowledge the blessing in disguise, resolved not to compare her unjustly.
“Belle Holloway. I go by my grandmother’s last name. She passed away last year.”
The melancholy in her voice is unmistakable. I brush my knuckles along the side of her face, wondering if she is shedding a tear.My deepest sympathies for your loss.
“Thank you,” her voice cracks. “She was the one person in this world who understood me and accepted me.”
That is a grievance indeed. And the miserable loss of such individuals who chose not to accept such a remarkable young woman.
“The way you speak, you sound like dark poetry. It’s beautiful.”
I do not deny how my blood grows warmer, surging more to my member at her compliment. What whimsical charm and passion this girl possesses.
What other questions do you have?
She shakes her head. “Not a question. But it’s my turn to say something important.”
I crave your words, Belle.I make it known with another touch of her lower lip with my gloved finger.
“Do you mind if I pace? I promise I won’t run away.”
Pace to your heart’s content.
Her question for permission is a confirmation of her respect. And perhaps, her inner understanding of how I have no intention of letting her escape. Regardless, her submission is addictive.
Belle rises, rubbing against me before moving about the floor. I sense her nervous state and hear her perturbed pulse. I love the sound of her bare feet on my hardwood floor. And the subtle swish of that nightgown.
Taking a deep breath, Belle declares, “Look, for normal human beings, this is already a huge step. And fortunately, for you, I’ve never been normal, which is something I love about myself because I’ve learned to love myself.”
She pauses. And if I truly had breath, I would hold it, bated.
“Now, I sympathize with your situation. And I’m not in denial about it because that would only waste precious time.Plus, I’m not the type to deny something this…extraordinary. Obviously, I am not the one without a head here. Or under a curse. So, I figure the least I can do is be polite and help, however I can. Research. Or if you need me to dig up a body or do some blood ritual or hell, dance naked around a bonfire, I’m sure I could do that too. But absolutelynohunting. Stalk me and haunt me all you want. But hunting is not conducive to heart conditions.”
Ahh, your heart is weak?
She hisses, “My heart is plenty strong. But my PTSD makes my heart rate and blood levels have less respect for the havoc they wreak on my heart.”
PTSD?
“Post-traumatic stress disorder. Something else I will explain later.”
Be that as it may, I regret to inform you that I have no choice but to hunt you. You summoned me. I must pursue.
I don’t mention how much I would enjoy her dancing in naught but her skin around a roaring fire. But I prefer it would be in the safety of my manor…before my eyes alone—a possibility if she agrees to certainrequirementsof the curse.
She pauses before me, the heat of her flesh doing no favors to my hardness. I feel her breath on my neck as she asks, “Could you maybe hunt me while I walk at a leisurely pace like I’m taking a stroll in the woods?”
Your fear is required.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she huffs.
