Page 78 of Lovely Violent Things

One reprieve where I kiss her slow and tenderly in maddening yearning, my appetite for her insatiable. Then I take her with ravenous hunger all over again.

I fuck her until she’s pliant in my arms and we’re a tangle of body parts, fighting to fuse closer, fading into one another. I let her shatter against me over and over, consuming her breathy cries, baring my soul to her and letting her fire cleanse me in a way no philosophical canon ever could.

I’m still inside her when exhaustion claims her body and she falls into a heavy sleep. I hold her to me for a while longer, memorizing the sensation of her skin against mine, the sound of her tiny breaths. Stroking the sigil on her thigh, unable to purge the desire for her from my mind.

This is my weakness.

I was never able to let her go.

Averse to remove my arm from around Halen and leave her like this, I place a gentle kiss to her forehead. But there’s unfinished dealings to address, and a holding cell I have to return to.

Using the dwindling candlelight, I stare into the mirror and reverently trace my fingers along the sigil she engraved in my flesh, a devilish smile twisting at my lips. My moon goddess branded me with her celestial crescent.

I blow out the flame and then toss the bloody cloth along with the rest of the used supplies in the fireplace, removing all traces from the mansion. Like the Harbinger never existed.

The darkest hour hovers on the horizon, a reminder that there are still things to handle before the light breaks. It’s always darkest before dawn—a summons to spark the blackest of magicks.

18

HERMETIC SEAL

HALEN

Daybreak over Hollow’s Row offers less clarity in the light. The town remains in an obscure shadow, its deeper truths hidden beneath a veil of murky marsh waters and masked faces.

The fire in the pit burned out after Kallum vanished into the night. I awoke to a cold and empty room, my body strangely rested and recovered after a short but intense sleep that I haven’t allowed myself to succumb to since before the accident.

The predominantly rational part of me attributes this to the drug I was dosed with—yet a truth I can no longer deny challenges that assertion. There’s another part of me that was unlocked last night with Kallum, a side where the deepest, darkest thoughts and desires were thrust into the light.

Letting go, losing myself to him…the surrender to not only trust him with my body but my mind, I’m changed. Irrevocably.

There’s not a place on my body that hasn’t suffered an injury to some degree. Bruised skin and muscles, cuts and scrapes—and most of the damage I welcomed from Kallum’s touch.

Which of his touches first set this course in motion? Was it the graze of his hand against mine in the courtroom? When his hand circled my wrist at the visitation table? Or is there another moment in time still locked away where the hellfire of his touch branded me as his.

The butterfly effect claims that one small, seemingly insignificant change can work as a catalyst for extreme outcomes. But the result is only possible if the starting conditions are sensitive enough to affect that change.

My starting conditions were more than fragile, presenting the perfect catalyst for a man of chaos to disrupt my course.

I may never unearth the full truth of the night Kallum believes we first collided. One of the questions afflicting me now is whether or not I can accept this.

As I try to peer through the stained-glass window of the library, I tuck the corner of the blanket beneath my arm, then touch the coarse threads stitched into my scar tissue, the only proof last night was real. Every article that bore any proof has disappeared, just as he did.

Kallum is the expert in his field. He’s an expert at many things, in fact. But his needlework skills for mending wounds is rather lacking.

No one person can be perfect in every area, no matter their level of perfectionism.

I continue to probe the unsightly crossed stitches on my arm, my mind following a trail of thought as I contend with a number of realities still to come.

A loud noise reverberates through the mansion announcing the arrival of federal agents before they infiltrate the library. I’m approached by one of the agents seemingly in charge, questioned on my condition, and urged to answer a barrage of questions.

By the time Agent Hernandez enters the library through a corridor behind the inlaid bookcase, I’m prepared to confront at least one of those realities.

“Dr. St. James, are you all right?” Hernandez asks, his features bracketed by deep lines, highlighting his lack of sleep and stressed state. His gaze drops to my neck, where faint red stripes from Kallum’s belt mark my skin.

Before I present an answer, Hernandez turns toward the questioning agent and says, “She’s to receive medical attention before undergoing any interviews.”

I hike an eyebrow at his authoritative tone. The other agent only nods once before he begins directing a team to sweep the library.

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