4. Roman #2
“That’s doable. Things like piping and power would take a long time, but we have that. We need furniture, some blinds in some of the rooms upstairs. Beds, bedding.” Cain shrugs at Mal. “Come on, we have more than enough money to throw a shit-ton of it at this and get it done fast.”
Mal blows out a breath but doesn’t argue.
I like the idea. “Maybe we can get them to create a space for her upstairs. Like a room that’s not got all of our shit in it. Something airy, light, and calming.”
“Yep, I wasn’t planning on asking them to fill it with herbs, bowls, and chicken’s feet.” Cain’s deadpan delivery makes me laugh despite the seriousness of the situation. “I’ll go make those calls. Try to sort us some backup security.”
I nod at him. I’ve not offered to call my own family and ask for help, because I don’t trust any of them. The old emotions threaten to stir in me, and I don’t want that now. I must focus on Ophelia, and making things right for her, not allow myself to wallow in my past.
She’s changed my life. The other two men have feelings for her, that’s clear, but mine are deep. Profound. She’s given me a gift and opened up a world I’d always thought would remain closed off.
Sex was a dirty secret. A bad thing. Yes, I sometimes took care of myself, but it always came with a hefty dose of guilt and self-hatred.
Now, she’s opened a door to a world of pleasure, and I’ve walked through it gladly.
For that, I owe her my life in many ways.
I’ll do all I can to get her back and then help make her whole, the way she’s helping me.
Cain takes his phone outside, and I hear the low murmur of him talking.
I wonder if he’s gotten hold of his father, or if he’s talking to someone from the mysterious fight club he’s been attending.
His admission didn’t surprise me. I’d thought he’d been going to bars and starting fights, but knowing he’s been doing something a little more regulated makes sense.
From the couch, Mal blows out a long breath and gets to his feet. “I’m going to go for a walk,” he says. “I’m fucking too jacked up on adrenaline. Need to burn some of it off.”
I let him go. I want some time to myself here, so it suits me.
Once they’re both out of the tower, I take the jar from the shelf with Ophelia’s hair and blood in it.
Walking into the alter room, I set it on the ground and strip naked.
I grab what I need: a small bowl, a stirring rod, a feather, and some dried clover flowers.
Then I take my already hard cock in hand and close my eyes, thinking of her.
I let my mind run through images of Ophelia walking in the woods, of her slim body outlined in one of her thin dresses.
I imagine myself stalking her. Just me, not the other two.
I like our dynamic, but sometimes I imagine it’s just her and me, and I’m not the civilized Roman she knows.
I’m the dark beating heart of my secrets and trauma.
The fucked-up part of myself that never sees the light, comes out to play in my deepest fantasies.
She’s innocently walking in the woods, and I’m following her, like a fucking predator.
I work my cock harder as I imagine the moment I catch her, wrapping my arms around her waist and yanking her hard against me.
She’ll try to scream, but I’ll cover her mouth with my hand and push her to the ground.
Fuck, the image is so hot, I can feel myself growing harder in my hand.
In my mind, I pull that dress up her pale thighs, and her eyes widen as she starts to panic.
I make quick work of tying her up, then drop to my knees on the forest floor, taking my position between her thighs.
I lower my face to her pussy and inhale her scent, before covering her with my mouth.
I lick and suck and tongue her, worshipping her right there on the ground.
My hand makes a thwacking sound on my cock as I beat myself harder and faster.
Not so long ago, touching myself like this would have been accompanied by me whipping myself as punishment.
There’s a part of me that misses it—that sting of pain to heighten the rush of pleasure.
If I were to do it again now, though, it wouldn’t be as punishment.
“Fuck,” I curse as I come with a suddenness that takes me by surprise.
I aim my cock into the bowl and watch, panting, my legs tensing and relaxing, over and over, as I spurt thick ropes. When it’s over, I sag for a moment, letting myself get my breath back.
I get to my feet and take my robe from a hook on the back of the door and wrap it around myself. Then I add the things I need to the bowl. Drops of the mixture of Ophelia’s blood and hair. The flowers. A sprinkling of sage. A few drops of spring water, and finally a pinch of salt.
The candles I use for practice are varied, and, for protection, I select a thick black candle. I drop to my knees and light it, loving the burned match smell that fills the room. As the candle crackles, the wooden wick makes a comforting sound. I watch the flame for a while.
Realizing I’m almost falling asleep, I roll my shoulders and focus on the task at hand.
With the candle lit, I gather the photos of the ancestors I want to call upon.
Laying them out carefully, I pick up my stirring rod as I begin to chant the incantation I need.
Stirring as I speak, I once more feel the strange trance-like tiredness wash over me.
I find my eyes drifting closed as I connect with those who came before me.
Then something changes and I sense them, a disturbance in the air around me, a whispering in my ears, the way the birds outside the window suddenly stop singing.
My ancestors. I welcome them. Their power fills me, warming me.
Letting the ancestors inside is risky—some say it’s a darker form of magic—but I welcome it because I need them to do something for me. Something of great importance. I begin to slow the chanting, and, finally, I stop.
“Ancestors,” I say, in English now. “You have a lock of hair, and a drop of blood of the woman I need you to protect. I offer you my seed and ask for help. Go to her, fill her with your power, your light, your collective wisdom and strength. I ask of you that you give her the comfort and determination she needs to survive this.”
As I listen, I am sure I hear them answering. It’s a whispered yeeeees on the wind, carrying through the open window. A rustling of the leaves that sounds very much like, it is so . A lone bird calling that seems to be saying, she will be safe .
Blowing out the candle, I stand and quietly ask the gods for wisdom and guidance in this task we have before us.
Please don’t let me fail her.