Chapter 6 Aurora
Aurora
I stumble outside, tension still humming under my skin. My fingertips tingle, desperate to grip anything that might anchor me back to reality.
The strange presence may be gone, but the ache between my legs sure as hell isn’t.
It’s a perfect night for a walk, and I desperately need fresh air. The moon hangs high, it’s soft glow turning the cracked sidewalk into a patchwork of light and shadow. The hills roll beneath the distant mountains, layered like a protective wall.
The stars shimmer overhead, creating a hypnotic display I’m still not used to. I exhale, watching my breath form a delicate mist in the chilly air.
Zipping my hoodie, I follow Main Street toward the edge of the town.
I’ll get my car tomorrow. Right now, I need to burn off some of this anxiety because I’m fucking crawling out of my skin. My body thrums with something wild and restless—temptation dressed in teeth, chewing through me, begging to be set loose.
Thankfully, my little cottage is only a mile away from work. In fifteen minutes, I’ll be home, snuggled up with Louie, trying to convince myself I’m not losing my damn mind.
The strange sensations from the bar still cling to me as I walk.
I know what I felt. What I heard.
When my fingers skim over my collarbone, a sharp shiver runs through me, not from the cold, but from the lingering memory of … something.
That ghost of a sensation. Fingertips I can’t see but still feel pressed into me.
My stomach tightens, and a slow, electric pulse flares sharply between my legs.
What kind of reaction is that? I should be terrified.
Instead, I’m slick with want, my body begging for something it doesn’t even understand.
Did the fear turn me on? The danger? Or the way it felt like I belonged to something I couldn’t see?
Right now, two feminists wage war inside me.
The self-righteous warrior practically combusts. “This is shameful! No one has the right to touch you without your permission!”
The logical, intersectional mama bear sighs, sinking into her invisible throne made of unpaid mental load invoices.
“Actually, babe, you’re allowed to process your body’s reaction however the hell you want.
And fuck anyone, especially that judgy bitch over there, who makes you feel guilty about enjoying something a little different. ”
The warrior gasps. “You’re disgusting.”
The mama bear shrugs. “You’re repressed.”
My brain is so fucking exhausting.
Thanks, ladies. Super helpful.
A slow breath slides from my lips, fogging in the cold air as I fight the pull of my own thoughts. But my mind, traitorous bitch that it is, imagines that touch again.
A feather-light brush along the curve of my shoulder, teasing lower.
A hand I can’t see tilting my chin, exposing my throat, commanding without words.
The heat that hits me this time?
Yeah, that’s not fear.
Not even close.
How the hell do you admit to yourself that something like that turns you on? That you’d welcome the hands of something unseen, something unknowable, something that could destroy you if it wanted to?
I groan in frustration, throwing my hands into the air as I stomp up the driveway.
When I step inside, I slam the door behind me and throw the locks twice before giving the handle a sharp tug.
Just to make sure.
Not that locked doors would do shit against invisible predators.
Leaning back against the wood, I stare into the darkness of my cozy cottage and mutter, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Aurora?”
I mean, on a normal day, there’s a lot wrong with me, but this is next-level fucked up.
With a sigh, I shrug off my hoodie and head into the kitchen. Louie follows at my heels, letting out a small whine—her way of reminding me it’s dinnertime.
When I set her food down, she doesn’t eat. She just stares at me. One deep chocolate eye. One unsettling, half-pale-blue, half-black eye. Unblinking and fixed.
Something cold and shapeless gnaws its way through my nerves, leaving a gut-slick, clammy smear across my insides. What now?
“What’s going on, Lou? You don’t like this food anymore?”
Louie lets out a soft woof, her fur bristling faintly as she tracks my every move.
I crouch beside her, running my fingers through the soft fur between her peaked ears. “Hey, everything’s okay, Lulu. Just a weird fucking night.”
She watches me for another long moment, then trots to her bowl and scarfs down her food.
Louie and I have been inseparable since I brought her home as a puppy. I’ve always talked to her, and even though she never answers, for obvious reasons, she listens.
She always listens.
When I’m sad, she curls up against me. When I’m happy, she yips and bounces. When I’m pissed, she bristles and growls, ready to carry the anger for me.
It’s almost like she understands me. Not just my emotions. Me.
But that’s crazy. She’s just a dog.
A really fucking smart dog.
Right?
While Louie finishes her food, I head to my bedroom and change into a pair of loose flannel pajama bottoms and my favorite sweatshirt. It belonged to my mother, who bought it during a trip to Las Vegas when I was in middle school.
I remember her huge, dark eyes catching the neon glow, soaking in everything the Strip had to offer. I’ve worn it so much since she passed that it’s practically threadbare.
Once I’m dressed and done smearing things on my face in the name of self-care, I lead Louie to the front door for her nightly romp.
Since I got home later than usual, I’m hoping she doesn’t stay out too long. Snuggling up with her would be nice after such a weird night. But when I open the door, Louie shies away, plopping herself down with a huff several feet away.
Seriously? Okay, this is even more strange than the food thing.
“What is going on tonight?” I groan, tilting my head back in frustration. “Do you need me to go out with you? Well, come on, ya big dummy.”
I step out onto the front porch, and Louie is immediately at my feet, nearly tripping me.
“Lou, at least go to the bathroom so I can sleep through the night. Please?”
I ruffle the space between her pointed ears again, forcing a smile. She glances up at me, then scans the shadows before vanishing into the woods.
Something about the way she left sits wrong.
I don’t move, watching the trees, half-expecting her to reappear.
But the night stays quiet.
I lean against the porch railing and stare at the stars through the trees. The crisp air is exactly what I need. It’s clearing the fog in my brain, pulling me back to reality.
Really, it all makes sense.
I was overstimulated.
The crowd, the alcohol, the smutty daydream, and my dumbass imagination? Yeah, I’m lucky I didn’t try to make out with the jukebox. Or Flannel and his boyfriend. Or, hell, maybe all three of them.
It’s not the first time. And let’s be real, it won’t be the last.
I sigh, letting the comforting logic settle over me. But just as I begin to relax—believe the lies I’m selling myself—icy fingers of fear dart up my spine, scaring the shit out of me.
I can’t blame a loud bar or my imagination this time.
There’s someone—or something—out there in the woods, using the shadows as cover.
I feel them watching with eyes I can’t see, their gaze dragging over me like teeth on skin.
A violent shiver rolls through me. Something sharp catches at my jaw and fear tightens my throat, locking me in place.
It’s too fucking heavy. Too aware. Too real.
And then—SNAP! My entire body pivots toward the sound before I can think.
It’s probably a deer or a fox or some other animal settling in for the night.
That’s all.
Shit, I’m really honing the art of self-deception.
The pressure of the unseen gaze doesn’t lift. If anything, it grows heavier.
If the perv in the woods wants to watch, fine.
As long as they don’t trespass, they can enjoy the show.
“Louie, let’s go!” I call out.
She barks happily in the distance, so I step back inside and lock the door. If my overprotective mutt isn’t worried, I shouldn’t be either.
Still, there’s no harm in double-checking the windows and locks.
When I’m pretty sure I’m safe, I light my wood stove, letting the warmth wash over me.
Settling into my reading chair, I throw a blanket over my lap and sigh. But instead of picking up a book or turning on the TV, I stare into the space in front of me, thoughtfully chewing on my bottom lip.
The whisper of a touch.
The sensation of being claimed.
The way my body responded.
The thoughts I can’t shake.
Eventually, in a fit of frustration, I jump from my chair and grab my laptop. I need a bigger screen, a keyboard, and the ability to jump between browser tabs at the speed of my racing thoughts.
Okay, so what did that deliciously dark voice say to me?
I can’t remember exactly, but it was something about lupines.
Opening my browser, I type “lupines” into the search bar. Instantly, my screen fills with cheerful images of bright-colored, tapered flowers, the same frost-bitten blooms wilting in the patchy beds outside my house.
Could the voice know where I live? Or was that my subconscious inventing something to make sense of an unexplained moment?
I scroll further, reading more about the flower.
Apparently, lupines are native to this area and considered an invasive species by some.
Their seeds can be toxic to animals, and the name is Latin for “wolf” because someone, somewhere, thought they were responsible for draining minerals from the soil.
Hm. Not exactly flattering.
Why would I—or, to indulge my imagination, this invisible thing—refer to myself as something invasive, toxic, or wolfish?
My self-esteem’s not that fucked.
But my mind flickers back to my mom’s old book on flowers and their meanings.
Refining my search to “lupine symbolism,” the results are much more positive: imagination, admiration, and inner strength. Some sites also mention recovery from trauma, but that seems dramatic for a flower.
“That’s much better,” I say to myself with a soft laugh.