Chapter 11 Aurora #3
“Okay.” I lean over the table, so the entire restaurant doesn’t hear what I’m about to say.
Jameson leans in too, his deep brown eyes alive with curiosity.
“My whole life, until her death, my mother claimed she could speak to my Gram, who had been dead for twenty years. Gram would help her find things, chat with my mom late into the night, and send me messages that my mom would pass along, like, ‘Great job on that math test!’ or ‘I really enjoyed your piano recital tonight!’ Gram was a huge part of my life growing up. I just never physically saw her.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I shrug my shoulders. Now that I said it out loud, I wish I could shove every fucking word back into my mouth.
“I think that’s really nice, Aurora. Your mom must have loved you a lot to go to all that effort. Did that make things hard for you? Did you feel like an outcast?”
Whoa, buddy. That’s a little “pot calling the kettle black” for someone who grew up in a monster-hunting cult.
“No, I wasn’t an outcast. I had lots of friends growing up, and they all knew she talked to my gram. No one seemed to mind because they loved her so much.”
It’s moments like these when I really miss my mom.
She wasn’t just my mother—she was the gravity holding everything together.
And without her, I still don’t know which way is up.
Jameson nods his head as if he understands everything I’ve just said.
“Is that it?”
His head tilts, a too-wide smile plastered across his face.
“Come on, Aurora. There’s more, isn’t there?”
More? What the hell does he mean by that?
“Um, no. Nothing else comes to mind.”
“Seriously? You can’t think of anything else?”
His voice tightens, calm on the surface but carrying something darker underneath. It’s subtle, but it makes something slimy shift in my gut.
“Yes, Jameson. That’s it. Sorry, my mother’s silly little quirk isn’t enough for you.”
Well, fuck this guy, too!
I cross my arms and glare at him across the table. His features soften, and his body relaxes when he sighs.
“I’m sorry, Aurora. I’m not sure what came over me. I just thought if she was special in one way … she might be special in other ways.”
“She was special in every way.”
I don’t give him a smile. I don’t give him anything.
I fucking swear, my vibrators have better emotional intelligence than the men I’ve met lately.
“Right, of course,” he says, like he didn’t just lose his shit because my dead mother wasn’t magic enough for him. “Can we forget about this and talk about something else? Maybe you could tell me about a book you read recently.”
I’m well aware he’s trying to manipulate me, but my dates rarely ask about what I’m reading. So, I launch into a detailed description of a novel I read a few months back, a modern twist on the Hades and Persephone myth, determined to talk until he squirms.
Payback’s a bitch, pal.
An hour later, when I’m in the middle of describing the moment Hades whisks Persephone away from the gala, a server comes to our table to let us know the restaurant is closing.
It’s late and I’m more than ready to go home.
This night can officially go die in a fire.
“Is it okay if I use the restroom before we leave?”
I direct my question to the server, who can’t seem to stop staring at my date.
“Of course!” our cute server says, flashing a flirty smile at Jameson.
Girl, you can have him. No returns, though.
After finishing up, I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, and pat it dry with a paper towel. As I turn to leave, I catch my reflection in the mirror and freeze.
Holy hell, I look rough. There are deep shadows under my eyes, and my skin is dull and pale from stress.
I lean closer, rubbing my forehead. I need sleep. A break. Something.
A few hours ago, I felt like an Appalachian backwoods baddie. What the fuck happened?
Maybe I shouldn’t have moved to Lorewood. Three weeks here, and my life already feels upside down.
What will the next three weeks bring?
As I leave the bathroom, I wonder if Jameson caught on to my torture tactics.
I’m way too tired for this bullshit.
“I grabbed the check if that’s okay with you,” Jameson says when I return to our table.
He’s idly scrolling on his phone while one of his hands runs roughly up and down his thigh. He looks sweaty and unfocused.
“You had half a glass of wine left. I didn’t let them take it in case you wanted to finish it,” he says as he hands it to me.
I want to get out of here as much as the servers and cooks do, so bottoms up, I guess.
“Uh, thanks! I’ll just finish this up quick, and we can go.”
The cold, sweet wine makes me shiver as I swallow the last few sips. I’m going to need a little liquid courage to let Jameson down, anyway.
“We were chatting so much I think I forgot it was there.”
“Shit. Be right back. I gotta hit the bathroom.” His fingers drum against the table, his eyes flicking to my wine glass before he stands.
“Oh, okay.”
Why didn’t he go when I did? I took my purse with me.
I glance around the mostly empty restaurant.
The cute server—the one who kept eyeing Jameson—is gone too.
Did this asshole seriously just ditch me to get his dick wet?
I’m telling Eve everything. Every fucking detail. And her friend? The one who thought Jameson was “sweet”? They’re getting an earful, too.
I sit. I seethe. But something’s wrong.
My body sinks.
Not tipsy, not warm, just … wrong.
My arms go slack against the table. They’re so heavy.
My thoughts slip, slow and syrupy, like I’m wading through molasses.
I blink, and Jameson’s back in his seat like nothing happened.
When the fuck did he get here?
His shirt’s crooked. His hair’s a mess. And that smirk.
Lazy. Self-satisfied.
The kind of grin a man gives after getting blown by a stranger in the bathroom.
The kind of smile that makes me want to sink my teeth into his goddamn face.
The waitress’s perfume clings to him, making my stomach twist and burn. The last bit of clarity I have boils with rage.
You pathetic, fucking coward.
Can’t handle rejection, so you crawl between someone else’s legs to cosplay as a man?
Fuck you.
But the rage sinks, drowning under the fog creeping through my skull.
“Didja have fun innere?”
My voice slurs, the words collapsing into each other. That wasn’t how I meant to say it.
My tongue … heavy.
My lips … barely cooperating.
What the fuck?
Jameson chuckles. Not awkward. Not nervous. Amused. Like I just said something cute.
“Now, now, baby girl.” He leans in, voice mock-sweet. “I think you had a little too much to drink.”
My rage spikes briefly, then vanishes. Pressure clamps around my skull. My vision tilts. The table warps. My fingers twitch, fucking useless.
Oh. No. No, no, no.
The edges blur. My bones go slack. And he just smiles.
Something is wrong.
The smug son of a bitch watches me like the final piece just fell into place.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just waits.
His eyes light up. Too fucking pleased.
I try to move. To run. My brain screams, but my body just … folds.
This wasn’t a date. It was a trap.
The charm. The wine. That fucking soulless smile.
He looks at me like I’m already his. Like drugging me isn’t a crime—it’s consent.
I try to snarl. To spit. To fight.
Nothing.
Jameson better pray to his cult gods that he fucking kills me.
Because if I survive this, I’m going to rip his jaw off with my bare hands and make him fucking choke on it.
“Up we go.”
His voice is soft, a thin, satisfied sound that makes bile burn at the back of my throat. He’s enjoying every fucking second of this.
“Guess I should’ve cut you off earlier, huh?”
I want to dig my nails into his throat and rip until something gives. I want to whisper “baby girl” in his ear as I skin him with a dull steak knife.
Instead, I slump into him. Limp. Raging. Just how he wants me.
My mouth opens. The words are there, screaming in my head, but my lips won’t shape them. When we step outside, the night air claws into my lungs, like I’m inhaling metal and fiberglass.
I try to shake the dizziness off, but it only makes things worse. My pulse pounds sluggishly in my ears. My chest is too heavy. My arms won’t lift. My voice is gone.
Jameson lingers, savoring every second it takes to reduce me to nothing. And I swear, if my body worked, I’d snap one of his fucking fingers for every second he thinks I belong to him.
His breath ghosts along my cheek just before his teeth sink into my earlobe, hard enough to break skin. I flinch, but I barely feel the pain, just the pop of my flesh giving way beneath his teeth.
“Mmm,” Jameson hums, drunk on stolen power.
His tongue flicks over the bite before he pulls back.
“Damn. You taste good, baby girl.”
Fuck, I’m going to throw up.
I try to yank my arm free. Nothing. My muscles refuse. My body won’t fucking listen.
I’m not drunk. I didn’t drink that much.
Jameson drags me toward the truck.
My last clear thought?
Run.
But the world fractures. Seconds collapse.
I blink and we’re moving.
The ride home comes in short, blurry flashes—dark treetops, streetlights, the moon. My breath fogs the window, loud and uneven, each exhale dragging.
The seatbelt digs into my ribs. Is it too tight? Or am I just too weak to sit upright?
Jameson hums along to the radio, his voice thick with amusement.
He’s fucking loving this.
When the sign for Nodens’s Used & Rare Books flashes past the window, I shudder.
Something strange pulls just behind my ribs.
I feel fucking sick.
The truck finally lurches to a stop, the world swaying even as it settles.
I pry my eyes open, breath shaky.
Home.
I just need to get inside.
But my thoughts won’t line up. Won’t stick. Won’t work.
The asshole switches off the truck, releases his seatbelt, then places his hands on his lap.
Fuck, everything is so foggy.
If I can just get inside, sleep this off, I’ll be fine.
I fumble for my purse, then reach for the door handle.
When I turn to ask for help, Jameson grabs my arm, driving something sharp into my neck.