Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My Sunday is spent unblocking the sink in my bathroom and then trying to write up some more from my talks with Valdemar. By eight, I throw in the towel and pack my laptop away, knowing I’m never going to be able to write an objective piece on Valdemar Montresor.
After a long bath and rereading the same page of a trashy thriller I’ve been attempting to finish for well over two weeks, I give in and climb into bed.
The sheets are cold, and the smell of lavender and ylang-ylang oil is already attacking my nose, my latest effort at trying to send myself off into a dreamless sleep and rid myself of the rising stress the last few weeks have evoked. Despite my bedroom smelling like an apothecary, the dreams have still come, Valdemar’s hands upon my skin, his breath on the back of my neck. Although I’ve never seen his face in my dreams, I know it’s him.
After slipping the knife under my pillow, I turn the light off and close my eyes. It’s not much of a plan, but I’m hoping the prick of the blade against my palm will be enough to wake me and release me from his touch.
It’s crazy, I know, but after enduring night after night of the same dream, I’m ready to try anything to make it stop.
Settling on my front, I slide my hand under the pillow and curl my fingers around the handle of the blade. My eyes close, the familiar pull of the night gripping me with both hands as reality ceases.
Swathes of silver silk wrap themselves around my calves as I run down the long corridor of the old mansion. Paintings adorn the walls, the light of the moon slipping in through the large windows and kissing the gilded frames.
My bare feet are silent upon the hardwood floor, my hair whipping my shoulders as I race against the night. Something squawks outside, and I see the black wings of a bird beating against the glass.
Running harder, I notice a large oak-panelled door ahead of me, yet no matter how fast I run, no matter how much distance I cover, I don’t seem to get any closer to it.
Then I hear it, just over my shoulder—the whisper of his husky voice.
“Who are you running from, angel?”
Feet pounding the boards, I sprint for the door, fear and adrenaline coursing through my veins, pushing my body to its limit.
“There’s no point in running, angel.”
His words bounce off the high ceiling, making it impossible to tell where they’re coming from.
“Because eventually, angel, you will stop.”
As soon as I hear the word stop , my body freezes as if I’m on a leash and he’s pulled at the slack.
The corridor lengthens, the oak door shrinking, seeming the furthest away it’s ever been.
There’s a large window to my left, the moonlight casting a spotlight upon the floor where I stand.
Something niggles at my brain—something I should be looking for. There are no pockets in my dress, the thin material barely covering me.
What is it I’m looking for?
I flex my fingers, wondering what I should be holding in my hand.
“Looking for this?”
I feel it first, the cold metal pressed against the side of my arm.
Sucking air in through my teeth, I glance down and see the glint of the blade as it runs over my skin and up to my shoulder.
“Hold still, angel.” His breath is hot against the back of my neck as the knife travels over my collarbone and then down onto my chest.
Holding my breath, I try not to move.
The urge to flee has gone, the need to stay overwhelming.
His fingers trail over my shoulder and pull at the thin strap of my dress. A shiver runs down my spine even though I’m hot. He slides the knife underneath the strap and cuts it with ease. He then repeats the process on the other side, the flimsy dress falling, leaving me naked, the moonlight, his hand, and the knife the only things upon my skin.
“That’s better,” he says as he smooths the weapon over my abdomen, goose bumps rising as I shudder against the chill of the metal. It travels up my side, the tip of the blade kissing the underside of my arm as he brings it up to my breast.
He teases the knifepoint over my nipple, his other hand flat on my hip.
“I told you there was no point in running,” he says as he moves the blade up to my throat.
The beat of my pulse pounds my ears, my heart drumming against my ribcage that I’m sure is going to crack.
Holding the knife steady, he slips his hand between my legs.
“Keep perfectly still, angel. Perfectly still.”
I find myself leaning against him, his solid frame holding me up, my head resting on his chest, his breath caressing my hair.
His fingers brush tentatively over my sensitive spot, the electricity surging through my body making the command to stay still nearly impossible. Biting my lip, I close my eyes as I try not to grind my crotch against his hand.
“That’s it, angel.” As he dips his fingers inside me, I feel the nip of the knife against my throat, the thrill surpassing the fear of the blade. “You’re so wet, angel, so pliant.”
I twist my hands behind me, and they find him, gripping his shirt, steadying the mounting pleasure threatening to topple me.
“I’ve got you.” His fingers pulse as his thumb massages me, and the moan escapes the confines of my head. “I want to hear you. I want to hear what I do to you.”
“Oh God.” Pressure mounts, the buzz building, gaining momentum until I can’t keep it at bay. “Yes,” I cry as Valdemar’s fingers fuck me, my throat exposed to the knife’s edge.
“Let it go, angel. I’ve got you. Come for me.”
Hard and ferociously, my orgasm rips through my body, shattering the moonlight, my cry piercing the night.
My breath catches in the back of my throat as my eyes spring open, the tail end of the orgasm still rolling through my body.
But it isn’t the pleasure that shocks me, or that the dream has changed, but the fact that in my right hand, I’m holding the knife.