Atlas
I CANNOT COUNT THE number of harsh, red scratches that cover my chest. A few small, purple bruises litter my hips and remind me of just how rough the incubus was last night.
I’m used to being marked; it always scratches me at least a little. But lately… It’s been especially intense. It also spoke to me for the second time. I can still hear it, low and distorted in my ear.
“Totus meus es, dulcis angelus.”
I wish I could understand what it was saying, or that I could figure out how to write it down or speak it into a translator. But instead, all I have is the broken, fragmented syllables in my memory.
I feel hot. As I stare at my own body, soft and abused in the light of my bedroom, I consider the possibility that I might be entering a flare-up soon. I’m never able to predict them, but this heat that is rolling through me is almost as bad as one.
My fingertips tingle, my skin reacting to every gush of wind that passes by. I want to dump a bucket of cold water over my head; I want to return to the altar room, to Julian.
Last night, as the incubus took me just hours after Julian came down my throat, I wondered briefly if it could sense it. And then, because I am a horrible, sick little thing, I imagined that the pleasure I was receiving was being dealt by another. By someone warm and kind in words.
I liked it. Tasting Julian, I mean. The feel of him heavy and hot against my tongue, his sweet voice, and the way he spoke so viciously yet so softly, marinates in my mind like a drug ready to take out a new brain cell with every passing moment.
I like him so much. I like his body and his smell; I like his kindness and his generosity. I want to know more of him—his thoughts and his desires. His dreams and beliefs. I want all of these things that do not belong to me, that I am not entitled to.
And I want to tell him. To get back on my knees in front of his large, toned body and tell him just how much I like him, and how scared I am that this like might soon be love. But I know it’s not fair; it’s not right.
Julian is helping me out of pure kindness, out of self-preservation, and lust. He’s helping himself out of a terrible situation as much as he’s helping me.
Some small part of me believes that if I were to confess, Julian would agree to being with me strictly out of guilt and a sick sense of responsibility. I would rather never touch him again than face that or force him into something that would end in his discontentment.
Julian is too nice for his own good.
I got my wish from so long ago, to see him without his kindness. I saw it when he fucked my face, and when he slammed into me so many nights ago.
But no amount of rough sex will ever deplete him of his true nature: Julian is a protector, a savior without even trying. I will not use that against him.
Nor can I tell him just how much the incubus has changed recently. I fear that if I do, he’ll demand that I sleep in his bed, or vice versa, so that he can protect me.
I am terrified of what will happen to Julian if he involves himself beyond what he has already done. If it has already begun to grow more aggressive every time it touches me, I’m unwilling to experiment and see what it will do to Julian if it finds out what we’ve been doing.
If it knew about last night, or that we slept together many nights ago, it would have appeared to him again. I just know it. And the next time it appears to Julian, it might do something worse than scratch his face and frighten him.
With this thought in mind, I realize just how much danger I’m putting him in. That by letting Julian touch me, I’m opening the door for the incubus to learn of it and retaliate.
That settles it. As I watch my own face morph into depressed disappointment, the decision is made.
From now on, our relationship is research only. I will not risk his life just to get off. To expel this heat. We can meet in the altar room and continue our studying, but past that, no more.
Even as I feel like I’m being gutted from the inside out, I know I’m making the right decision. Things are changing, and not for the better.
I find that I’m growing scared of this incubus, and I will not unleash it onto Julian.
Taking a deep breath, I walk to my closet and grab my clothes before returning to my mirror.
As I reenter the room, I startle, spotting Atticus sitting on my bed.
“W-when did you come in?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious of the amount of time I spent staring at myself in silence.
“Just now, while you were grabbing clothes,” he replies.
I guess I would have seen him in the mirror if he had entered any sooner.
I nod. “Okay. Good morning, then.”
“Good morning.” He watches me steadily, eyes tracing my chest as I slip my briefs and pants on. “Those look pretty bad.”
I just shrug, pulling my blouse over my head. I’m opting out of sheer material today—no need to advertise my abuse.
“I want to help,” Atticus adds, his voice desperate.
“Don’t worry, Atticus,” I answer nonchalantly. “Everything will work out.”
My brother raises a brow before narrowing his hazel eyes, leaning forward slightly from where he sits.
“Why are you so calm?” he asks. “You’re normally more depressed when we talk about this.”
My face flushes, our eyes connecting through the mirror. I feel as if he’s ripping me open, reading me like a children’s book. I want to tell him to leave but fear it’ll make me appear more suspicious.
“Atticus,” I begin, but can’t find the right words.
“When was the last time you prayed?” he continues, and I turn away from his gaze.
I refuse to outright lie to his face, but as I consider my answer, I realize I haven’t directly prayed for forgiveness since Julian and I started our adventure. I just… didn’t feel that desperate need like I normally do.
I can’t very well say all of that, so instead, I shrug once more and head for my bathroom to fix my hair.
“You worry too much, Atticus. I have it handled,” I call.
I hear no response, and by the time I’m done fidgeting with my curls and head back into my room, I see my brother staring at me with a new kind of sadness. One I’ve never seen before.
As if he’s just caught me lying to him. As if he feels betrayed, like he can see I’m keeping secrets. And maybe he can—Atticus has always been very in tune with me.
“Darling,” he starts, moving to stand in front of me. “You know I love you, right? That I would die for you.”
I nod, my gaze falling to stare at his loafers. I can’t look at him when he watches me like this, like I’m hurting him.
“I know,” I agree.
“And you also know that I would never judge you or be mad at you? That no one will ever love you as deeply and as strongly as I do?” His voice wavers slightly, as if this fact overwhelms him.
Atticus has always been doting on both Abigail and me. But now, it appears that that love is crushing him. The weight of it is suffocating my brother one moment at a time. I feel awful.
“You don’t need to die for me,” I tell him. “I’m a grown-up who can figure life out on my own.”
His warm palm rests on the side of my face, but I shove him away. I can’t handle the physical contact, not when I’m this hot.
He winces. “Sorry. I just… I don’t care if you’re grown. You’re still my baby.”
“Atticus.” I crack a smile. “You sound like Mother.”
Atticus does not return my humor, nor does he retreat. Instead, he sighs heavily as he looks around the room.
“Just promise to come to me if things get bad. Okay?”
“I promise,” I assure him.
And with that, Atticus leaves me be.
As I step off the steep staircase that leads into the altar room, I spot Julian standing by the altar, holding the Black Book. He has it flipped open to a specific page about a third of the way through, his phone in his other hand as he translates.
Dark hair falls onto his forehead, his brown eyes tracing over the lines of the page. He’s wearing his pajamas again, his arms thick in the plain grey t-shirt. Julian, as always, looks so delicious that I can’t help but recall the way he felt in my mouth, inside of me, or whispering in my ear.
Will I ever be able to look at him again and not see or feel it?
Will he look at me and see the longing, the affection I wrongfully hold?
As if sensing the question, Julian peers over the pages, his eyes connecting with mine. Almost immediately, his pupils dilate, and his back straightens as he takes me in.
The slow drag of his gaze over my body has me shivering, fiddling with my fingers to keep from reaching out.
I want him so badly. Especially now, with this building heat torching my insides. There is an itch buried so deeply inside of myself that I cannot reach it.
“Hey,” Julian greets softly, his eyes tracing my face, searching for something.
“Hi,” I respond, taking up the space behind the podium where I left a book lying last night.
Just twenty-four hours ago, I was in this exact same spot, on my knees, coming all over myself as I swallowed Julian whole.
I shiver.
“I’m still reading the Black Book,” he says. “It’s definitely some kind of dark magic.”
An uneasy feeling rattles in my stomach and chest. I hate the idea of him reading that book, of it being in my home in general. I’m not sure who built this room or found that book, but it must have been someone who lost their way. Most likely a servant with bad intentions from some time long ago.
The Chastains have always been God-fearing, good people. There is no way my ancestors practiced black magic.
But Julian believes he can find answers in it, and I don’t have the heart to rip it away and disappoint him, so I say nothing. As long as he’s not practicing the dark magic, it shouldn’t hurt us anyway.
Before I can think of a response, Julian is standing next to me, lifting a hand to cup my cheek. What for, I do not know. But what I do know is that I’m far too warm, too sensitive, to handle his touch and not beg him to fuck me right now.
I flinch away, unprepared to explain to him in this moment that we can’t continue our late-night touching.
The absolute devastation and obvious hurt on Julian’s face make me feel immediately horrendous. As if I have just slapped him or called him something nasty and cruel.
He steps back slowly, returning to the other side of the room where the Black Book rests on the altar.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“No! I didn’t mean… I just… I’m sorry too.” I fumble, searching for the right thing to say.
Julian lifts his gaze and eyes me again, curious and cautious.
Then, he asks, “Do you need any… assistance? You look very flushed.”
Oh.
He thinks I’m in a flare-up; he thinks it’s time to fuck me and help relieve me of this heat. And to be fair, though I’m not in a full-fledged flare-up, I am still so warm and dying to come.
He reads me too well. But how am I meant to explain to Julian in this moment that he isn’t allowed to touch me anymore? How can I say it without hurting him?
“Uh, no,” I start gently. “I don’t need any help. The incubus should visit me again soon, anyway, so I’ll be taken care of.”
This was, in fact, the wrong thing to say.
Julian’s eyes darken, then narrow significantly. He drops the page he was fiddling with and stands even straighter, squaring his shoulders.
“Are you… You’re serious right now?” he asks, and when I say nothing, he scoffs. “So you’ll let that disgusting ass fucker touch you but not—you know what? Never mind. I understand. I’m just gonna…” he waves loosely at the book, then diverts his attention.
I can feel the anger radiating off of him in violent waves. But what am I to do? Tell him I don’t want that thing touching me, not now that I’ve felt him, but I don’t have a choice? No. That would make him feel guilty and miserable. I’d rather him be angry than in danger.
So I focus on my own text, pulling my phone out to decipher the pages. It’s nothing interesting: a book covering the beginning of Christianity. All information I already know, and nothing relating to the incubus.
I’m not paying much attention anyway. My eyes flicker back to Julian every few minutes, watching as he angrily shifts through pages, translating, sighing, and starting again.
It seems he isn’t having much luck either. Not that I want answers from that book.
We stay this way for a long while. With me softly digging through my book and hardly reading a word, and Julian huffing and puffing against his.
Then, in a loud voice that startles me, Julian speaks again.
“I’m done for the night. Have a good one.” And with that, he closes the book, leaves it on the altar, and heads up the stairs without ever sparing me a glance.
Julian must be very angry. I’m unsure as to why, considering he was only doing all of this to help me. He’s not suffering under emotion the way I am, so I can’t find the reason why not letting him touch me is affecting him like this.
I guess it’s not my place to understand Julian’s emotions, as much as I want to.
After he disappears and I hear his footsteps retreat from the chapel above, I sigh. I could stay a bit longer, get through a good portion of this book, but I feel no motivation to. That, and my body is heating up more and more with each passing second.
So instead, I close the book and make my way upstairs.
I don’t bother showering—if the incubus comes, there will have been no point. I get into my pajamas and lie in bed, sweating against the duvet, as the moon trickles in from the skylight above.
Now that I’ve upset Julian and crushed my own heart, all that’s left is to wait for the incubus to come and take me. Will it be rougher than even the last time? Will it speak again?
I close my eyes, terrified yet prepared to receive the answers.