Chapter 10
C h a p t e r T e n
K i a n G r i m m
I stare up at the repaired black house. A place that screams middle class, a place my little swan belongs.
I’ve found myself following her everyday. My footsteps replacing hers and my brain remembering every light that goes off in her house after dark.
Her first day at the academy didn’t surprise me since I’d seen her in town, but knowing she tried to sneak past me disturbed me.
I’d noticed the look she’d given me across the hall, one full of interest but also some weird anger she’d created for me.
I assume Alistair told her to avoid me and she is, but that only makes me do more to see her.
She’s been carrying around newspaper clippings, ones dated to a town far from here.
Folded, creased and sometimes with annotations in the margins that didn’t belong to her.
I know her hand writing, it’s sloppy, the markings on those papers are precise.
Everyday she leaves town, usually by train and always alone.
Every time she returns she has that same tight look in her jaw like she’d seen something she couldn’t afford to forget.
That’s when my fondness for her crept in. What mystery does this delectable little swan hold?
The house is dark, her father’s car is parked in the driveway but I’ve known from my times here before he isn't waking up.
Even when I fell off her terrace for the first time and my knee knocked into the wood, the sound barely stirred either of them.
Which could be dangerous for them but good for me.
I walk to the side of the house until I’m met with the black trim of her terrace.
I climb it, better than the first time around, watching for weak spots in the stained wood.
I’ve done it enough times now my body thinks ahead of my mind.
When I reach the top I stop at her glass sliding doors like I always do.
Her thick black hair is splayed across the silk pillow case and the fire in the hearth lights her face in a soft yellow.
I watch, stopping myself from misbehaving like I promised myself before coming here.
The more I watch the more my cock jerks alive in my pants.
Especially from the soft, vulnerable look on her face.
I inch forward, my hand bracing itself on the glass door, ready to slide it open.
She stirs, but doesn’t wake and I grip the handle harder. I deserve something for coming this far so late. I slide the door open slowly and her smell engulfs me; lavender, berries, and ink from her drawings.
I move towards her, keeping my steps soft and avoiding any areas that look weak. Her cat is curled around her legs and I'm surprised he hasn’t woken from my entry.
Her beauty is something I’ve tried to ignore but it’s too hard.
Her features are too striking to be gentle, sharp cheekbones, plump lips that sit in a straight line, and eyes that turn downward with sharp precision.
Each freckle across her nose is faint and the silver jewelry in her nose shines in the faint light.
She looks like a haunted painting, smothered in black and skin a pale white.
Grief lingers in her and makes her features heavier, darker and that’s what makes her exquisite.
A woman who is painted with impossible care.
I carefully reach towards her hair, hoping to feel the soft strands below my finger but stop.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen myself tremble and fear the outcome of something.
My demeanor shifts every time I get this close.
Everything in me breaks open, I’m left breathless and irresistibly hoping for more.
Instead I lean closer, letting my nose get buried in the tendrils of her hair and breathing in lavender. Her presence clouds my vision and my throat tightens. For a moment I lose the careful edge I rely on, it's disorienting.
Beyond intimate in a way I didn’t know existed.
I straighten with annoyance. Her presence is turning from annoying to comforting and I hate that.
I let my attention slip to her room. Stacks of newspapers sit atop her desk along with several books from the academy. Her favorite fur lined coat rests on the back of her desk chair like she might reach for it in her sleep and leave town again.
I move around slowly, observing it all. Objects that I’m not used to catch my gaze and I shift to something different until my gaze lands on her opened sketchpad.
I lift it into my hand, carefully, I know how much she cares for her drawings. I flip through the pages, so many of them are of the town or some woman. Her face is so detailed I can decipher the dead look in her eyes. A chill runs down my spine and I flip the page again but my breath catches.
The sketch is of a male who resembles me. It’s not finished, just half a sketch, but his jaw is unmistakable, as well as the angle of his eyes. The mouth is set in a straight line, not cruel or sinister but guarded. The tattoo on the neck makes me swallow.
It’s me.
She drew me like she sees me. The real me.
Heat coils in my chest and I study the sketch trying to decipher the sudden feeling.
My fingers curl around the edge of the drawing as I battle with ripping it off and keeping it or leaving it.
I know she’ll notice if I take it so I decide to leave it.
I don’t want her to know I'm haunting her yet.
I close the sketchpad and place it back where I found it but the warmth of finding it doesn’t go with it.
I glance at her one last time before I slip through the door. She’s still asleep and unaware. Her breathing is soft and I throw another piece of firewood in the hearth before I go.
I wish I could leave behind whatever this feeling is.