Chapter 5
Emory
"Fear and longing often walk hand in hand through the shadows of our hearts
I am running. Why am I running? The darkness follows me in tandem with the resounding crash of each lamp.
The bulbs splitting into shards with the kiss of a pebble, going mock holly fuck.
I shouldn’t be okay with this, but my heart is more alive than ever, and adrenaline is feeding into it, giving my feet the ‘will power’ to sprint through this dim labyrinth of stone.
A brick wall appears a few feet ahead, and a quick glance to either side confirms the thought that instantly invaded my head before my eyes could come to the same conclusion—trapped, like the little mouse he has made of me.
Just when I thought I was in control, I find myself here, at the end of an alleyway. .. a strange man on my trail.
I twist on my heels, back against the cold material behind me.
The vision before me is both entrancing and terrifying.
He stands in the shadow as though he were avoiding the light like demons to a salt circle—a delicious cocktail of balefulness and forbidden desire.
The only light is above my head, and before its radiance is stamped out, the last thing touched by its beam.
.. glints—bright, silver, mysterious. Then, all is pitch black, and I feel the wind as he rushes forward.
Reaching out, I try to touch him, grasping nothing but air as he steps away from my touch.
Standing alone in this leaden alley, my sex is at war with my brain, a tornado forming from the circles my stalker is creating.
Stalker… the word brings me closer to reality, and I ask, “Are you going to hurt me?” When he answers, I become weak in the knees.
“Only in ways you'll be begging me for more.” A slight hunger hangs in his words.
Something about it is familiar, and so comforting…
but why? Why is it that his voice has such an effect on me?
Everything after that was a blur of pure ecstasy.
I can't see him—the moon doesn't provide me with that luxury.
Touching him is out of the question, but my lips—oh, how my hands are jealous.
Time slips by as his blade dances over my body, peppering goosebumps as the cold steel follows my veins.
I can hear iron scrape against something, before there is a firm grip around my wrists, slowly he corrals them above my head and entombs them beneath one of his massive hands.
Then I hear the sound again like the sound of a chef's knife on a sharpening block.
I clench my thighs in a failed attempt to hide my arousal, as the edge of the metal drags along my jawline—he pauses for a moment before he spins the knife in his palm again, this time grabbing it by the blade.
“It’s no use trying to hide your sweet scent, it will always double-cross you.
” His lips meet mine as the hilt collides with my clit, the fabric and seam adding the perfect amount of friction.
As he feathers kisses over every inch of skin that he can get his lips on, something about it feels off.
I can’t place it. Was it a beard or stubble?
It felt course against my flesh, like one of those silver Brillo pads used for specific dishes.
The texture wasn't enough to distract me from my denim being so wet that it may as well not even be there.
I melt into the mixture of his scorching lips and the solid object pressing into my pants—the heaviness of his massive hand enclosing my wrists causes me to stop and wonder about myself.
Is this really the kind of stuff I’m into?
He breaks away, drawing the pommel to his nose, as a seductive laugh escapes him, pushing past the cloth that covers his face.
“Fucking hell.” He snarls, and I catch wind of his breath, it is laced with a familiar scent that lingers between us—a subtle fragrance I knew I wouldn't forget.
Whiskey. Honey. Smoke.
“You!” I fight as the hard object between my legs starts to gain traction, making my limbs weak from its rhythmic motions.
Then, the sensation leaves me as he speaks, “I... what?” he sneers.
The knife handle returns, and he quickens his pace, causing my words to come out broken. “You-you were at... my house.” My voice is shaky with euphoria as my whole being defies the logic in my brain.
His face is iridescent beneath the night sky as he tilts his head to peer at me.
His brilliant blue eyes are hooded by his damn near perfect eyebrows.
The lower half of his face is still protected, coated in the shadows.
Something, like a tattoo or scar, peeks out from the mask so fastidiously placed, allowing him to move and talk freely, all the while keeping him hidden.
“Was I?” He teases as he canted toward me—his lips warm against my frozen neck.
How is it he can scare me yet make me need him at the same time?
He is planting feathery kisses from my collarbone to my earlobe, in a desperate attempt to try and hinder me from speaking.
“Y-yes, and you’ve been stalking me... since then. From the bus to the alley.”
Stopping at my ear, his words like a gentle lick. “Oh, darling,” he sighs between pecks, the warmth of his breath doing nothing to help the deception of my body in the argumentations of my brain. His dagger hilt, so firm against my sex, finds my clit again.
Why did I wear these thin ass skinny jeans?
Rotating the blade at a nectarous pace, he pushes me to the edge, my eyes close, savoring the pleasure. A small tear slips down my face, as my brain signals its defeat, then the feeling and stimulation vanish, and I gasp in its absence.
“It’s been much longer than that.” His panting is mere wisps over my skin. “You’re going to miss your bus,” he pauses, and I feel him brush the tear away. “Dove.”
My eyes spring open, the phantasmagoria a brilliant display as they try to adjust. Once my eyes become aware of my surroundings, I find I’m standing alone in the alley, discombobulated and cold.
I barely made it in time to catch my last bus.
I do a quick comb over the terrain, finding that he was nowhere in sight.
I would have thought I had dreamed of the whole thing—if it weren't for the damp spot on my jeans. I didn’t even catch his name, but flashes of what happened exploded in my mind. What did he mean by ‘longer’?
How long has he been watching me? The taste of his lips still lingers on mine.
Clearly, I’ve read too many books. I was too willing and accepting of what just happened.
Still, how could anyone resist those cobalt blue eyes?
The way they transmogrified into more of an electric blue… can eyes be electric?
∞∞∞
This time I didn't fall asleep. I spent the entire ride watching everyone board, hoping to see him, to feel the burning his haunted stare gives me.
My stop comes quicker than I expected, and I feel it is for the best, since I need to get back to thinking of Evelyn, and the reason I even ventured out like this.
The bus screeches to a halt, and I step off, it's just a short walk now to the address my father left me. As I follow my GPS, I realize it’s morning and my battery is low.
Fuck I didn't pack a charger. "I hope this place has one, and a place to sleep, or even if I’ll have the chance to...” My voice falls flat as I stop at the clad wrought iron gates.
One of them is ajar just enough for me to slide through.
Once inside the compound, the image before me is dreamy and not of this earth.
A mansion stands erect, the epitome of an old Victorian castle.
A few shops form a semicircle around the main structure, as it stands tall in the center, the smaller buildings ring below it with the semblance of a personal mall.
A single store stands bright amongst the husks of the other buildings.
Faint lights battle to shine through the few opaque windows in the manor.
The streetlamps offer a feeble gleam where they stand by the gate, adding to the ambiance of this Ghost Town.
I approach the window of the well-lit shop and squint through the mosaic stained-glass to see inside.
Shelves stand from ceiling to floor and are lined with books.
An elderly lady with alabaster hair is scurrying around, working to get the place ready to open.
I rest my hand on the handle, applying minimal force.
My hand drops, and the door squeaks open.
The lady looks up, her heterochronic eyes finding mine, and she smiles.
Not just any smile, the kind of smile that warms your soul, the kind no one in their right mind wouldn’t ‘respond in kind’ to.
“Can I help you love?” she says, in a slightly off Jersey accent, like she may have lived in Europe when she was younger then moved here. “Are you lost?” Her brows furrow as she steps toward me.
“I’m, um, looking for Alfred Selby.” Her aged eyes widen as I say my father's name. “My name is Emory, I’m his daughter.” I continue.
Her hands fly to her mouth as the cup she was holding crashes to the floor, and what looks like tea coats the stone in amber.
Tears well in her eyes. “He told me you’d show.
I didn’t believe him, I am...” She pauses, thinking about what to say next.
“I am Niven. It is such a pleasure to meet you.” I give her a half smile.
“You must be extremely exhausted, please come with me? I have a cot upstairs you can use.” Walking towards me, the volume of her voice imperceptible as she proceeds. “Then, after you’ve rested, I will answer all your questions. Does that sound good?”
Sluggishly, I nod. “Yes, ma’am, thank you.”
She escorts me up the stairs to a little room in the back. It’s cozy with a small bed, an end table, and bookshelves. I grin at the sight of there even being shelves lined with books in the room. Stepping in, I turn to look at Niven. “Is this your room?”
“No,” She shakes her head gently, “This was my son's room.” Melancholy befalls her face, pain radiating from her like she’s been struck by a whip.
“What happened? I’m sorry, I didn't mean-” I stop short, seeing how my babbled apology isn't fixing anything. She brushes a solitary tear from her porcelain cheek.
“All is well, dear. I'll be fine.”
“Thank you, Ms. Niven.” I call back with a weary smile.
“Oh, please. Niven is fine.” Niven lingers at the threshold for a moment before she closes the door behind her.
Looking around, I find no photos, nor are there any personal items. Fatigue hits me like a freight train, leaving me no choice but to fall into bed, slipping into sleep as I wonder what might transpire when I wake.