Chapter 34 #2
Oliver's fingers push inside me—two of them, slow and deliberate, like he's done this a thousand times and knows exactly what works.
Except I'm not turned on. I'm dry, uncomfortable, my body rejecting this intrusion on every level.
His fingers drag uncomfortably, the friction all wrong, painful in a way that has nothing to do with technique and everything to do with my complete lack of arousal.
I bite my lip and force out a moan, giving him the performance he expects while my muscles clench tight around the unwelcome invasion, trying to push him out.
He smiles against my neck, pleased with himself. "You like that?"
"Yeah." The lie burns worse than the discomfort.
His fingers move—in and out, curling, searching for something my body refuses to give him.
The dryness makes every movement uncomfortable, his fingers dragging against tissue that's tense and unwilling.
I'm not wet enough for this. It hurts in a way that has nothing to do with physical pain and everything to do with the wrongness of letting someone touch you when every cell is screaming for someone else.
"You're so tight," he murmurs, like it's a compliment. Like my body's resistance is desire and not rejection. "Fuck, Alena—"
The lights flicker. Once. Twice.
The shadows in the corner move—deliberate, angry, alive in ways shadows shouldn't be. They press forward, reaching toward Oliver like dark hands stretching across the room. The temperature plummets so fast my breath fogs between us, visible in the sudden cold.
Oliver pauses, fingers still inside me, and looks up. "That's weird."
The lights flicker again, longer this time. The cold intensifies, frost creeping across the windows in crystalline patterns. My breath comes out in white clouds.
"Is your wiring okay?" he asks, pulling his hand away and sitting up.
"It's fine."
"It's freezing in here." His breath fogs too now, confusion crossing his perfect features.
"Old house." The lie comes automatically.
The shadows reach closer, almost touching him now. I can feel their rage—protective, possessive, furious that this stranger dared touch what belongs to them. What belongs to him.
The lights flicker again and die completely, plunging us into absolute darkness.
The shadows are furious now. I can feel them pressing in, alive and angry, protective in their own twisted way. They've watched me bleed and cry and break for two years, and they won't let this stranger touch what belongs to them. What belongs to him.
"Fuck," Oliver mutters, standing. "Where's your breaker box?"
"Garage."
"I'll check—"
"No." I stand too, tightening my robe with shaking hands. "Maybe that's enough for today."
He reaches for me in the dark, finds my hand, holds it like he has the right. "Alena, I'm not leaving you in the dark—"
"I'm fine. I'll handle it."
"Let me help—"
"Oliver." I pull my hand away, step back, put space between us that the darkness makes feel like miles. "It's late. You should go."
Silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.
The lights flicker back on.
His face is confused, hurt, the perfect features arranged in an expression of wounded dignity. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No. I'm just… tired."
"Is it because of—"
"Please." I walk to the door, open it, let the cold night air rush in. "I need to be alone."
He follows slowly, like a man walking to his execution. Stops at the threshold and looks at me with those green eyes that probably break hearts without trying.
"Will you at least call me?" he asks. "Let me know you're okay?"
"Sure." Another lie to add to the collection.
"Alena—"
"Goodnight, Oliver."
He stares at me for a long moment, searching my face for something I can't give him. Then nods, defeated in a way that makes me feel like the villain.
"Goodnight."
He walks to his car—that beautiful, expensive car that probably drives like a dream—and I watch him go. Watch him climb in. Watch the taillights disappear down my quiet suburban street.
I close the door. Lock it. Lean against it.
The house settles into silence. Then the whispers start—low, satisfied, the sound of something ancient and pleased with itself. The shadows in the corner recede, content now that the intruder is gone.
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, robe falling open in ways I don't bother to fix.
The black rose sits on the coffee table. The wine. The evidence of a normal date with a normal man who wanted normal things.
And I cry.
Because I tried. I really, genuinely tried. But even his hands inside me couldn't make me feel anything except the absence of the ones I wanted.
Only ghosts and shadows and memories of a man who's been gone for two years. Only Drogo. Always Drogo.
"Fuck you," I whisper to the empty room. To the ghost that won't leave. To the man who ruined me for everyone else without even being here to see it.
The shadows don't answer. But I feel them watching, patient and knowing, like they've always known how this would end.
That I'm never getting out. That I'm his.
Even if he's gone. Even if he's never coming back. Even if I spend the rest of my life sleeping alone and faking orgasms with men who'll never be enough.
I'm still his.
And I always will be.
Even if he never comes back to claim me.