Chapter 16 Elowen
ELOWEN
The alarm won’t stop.
It echoes through the library in sharp, piercing waves, the disembodied woman’s voice rising and falling in furious repetition.
The sound seems to bounce off every surface—the white marble floors, the high vaulted ceilings, the endless rows of books and scrolls—until it feels like it’s inside my head as much as outside it.
I stand frozen in the middle of the room, my breath coming too fast, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. Oh Goddess–what am I going to do?
But beneath the terror I still feel the heat of desire.
It coils low in my body–thick and insistent, pulsing in time with the frantic rhythm of my pulse.
The witch’s curse is still working on me–stronger now, sharper, like a fire that’s been stoked.
Every movement makes me more aware of it—of the ache, the need, the terrible, growing hunger that refuses to be ignored.
I press my thighs together instinctively, trying to contain it, to quiet it but it doesn’t help–if anything, it makes things worse.
The alarm screams again and then the doors burst open.
Priestess-Sisters flood into the library in a rush of white robes and sharp voices, their soft-soled shoes whispering urgently over the moss-carpet as they hurry toward the center of the room.
Their presence brings with it the scent of crushed herbs and clean linen, but even that familiar comfort feels distant now–overpowered by the lingering acrid tang of the witch’s magic.
“Elowen!”
Sister Agatha’s voice cuts through everything—sharp as a blade.
I flinch. Oh Goddess, I’m trapped now. I’m sure I’ll be blamed for the missing Grimoire.
She pushes to the front of the others, her narrow face drawn tight with anger, her small eyes already searching the room. They land on me accusingly.
“What have you done?” she demands.
“I—” My voice catches in my throat. My thoughts are sluggish, tangled by the unwanted desire, as though I’m trying to think through a thick fog. “I didn’t—I mean, I was—”
Her gaze flicks past me…and stops.
I see where she’s looking–the space where the Forbidden Grimoire should be is empty.
The pedestal stands bare and the alarm rises to a shriek.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Then the room erupts into panicked chaos.
“It’s gone!”
“How is that possible?”
“The barrier—was the barrier breached?”
“Who touched it?”
Their voices overlap in a rising tide of outrage and disbelief. I can feel the tension in the air like a storm about to break, heavy and electric.
“Elowen.” Sister Agatha’s voice cuts through the chaos again, quieter now but far more dangerous. “Explain yourself. Immediately.”
All eyes turn to me, and my mouth goes dry.
The truth presses at the back of my throat—the full truth—but I can’t let it out. If I tell them everything…if I tell them what the witch did, what she said, what she made me feel…
If I let them know I’m under a lust curse, they’ll cast me out–or worse. The temple is the only home I’ve ever known–I can’t lose it!
“I—I came up here,” I manage, forcing the words past my lips. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought…reading might calm my mind.”
Even as I say it, I know how thin my excuse sounds.
Sister Agatha’s eyes narrow.
“And the Grimoire?” she asks.
“I didn’t touch it,” I say quickly—a blatant lie, told right in the temple–but it comes rolling off my tongue anyway. “I swear it. I was just standing here when—when she appeared.”
“She?” Sister Agatha demands. “She who?”
“The witch,” I whisper but at least this part is true. My voice trembles despite my best efforts. “Grizalyn. She was here. She…she knew me. She asked me questions and then—then she took it.”
A ripple of unease moves through the gathered Sisters.
“The witch entered the temple?” one of them breathes.
“That’s impossible,” another insists, though her voice lacks conviction. “The wards to keep out evil—”
“I saw her,” I say, a little more firmly this time. “She came out of the air itself. And when she left…” I swallow, remembering the choking smoke, the bitter smell. “She took the Grimoire with her.”
Sister Agatha studies me for a long moment.
I force myself to hold her gaze, even as the heat inside me pulses again–sharper this time–making it harder to focus. My body feels too tight, too aware–every nerve ending turned inward toward that one relentless need.
At last, she looks away.
“Seal the doors,” she orders crisply. “Double the wards. No one enters or leaves the temple until we understand how this breach occurred.”
The other Sisters move at once, their outrage shifting into controlled, purposeful motion. Some hurry toward the doors, others toward the windows, their hands already lifting to weave spells into the air.
“The Grimoire must be recovered,” one of them says. “Without it—”
“We will recover it,” Sister Agatha snaps. “But first, we ensure our own house is secure.”
Her gaze flicks back to me briefly.
“Return to your dormitory, Elowen,” she says coldly. “You will not leave it until I say otherwise.”
Relief and dread twist together in my chest.
“Yes, Sister,” I murmur.
I turn quickly, before anyone can stop me, and make my way out of the library. The sound of the alarm follows me down the corridor, fading only gradually as I descend the broad marble staircase.
The temple feels different now. The airy openness that once comforted me—the soft light filtering through high windows, the green of the trailing vines and flowering plants—now feels exposed. Too open. Too watchful. Every shadow seems deeper, every whisper louder.
And all the while, the heat inside me builds. By the time I reach the dormitory, I’m trembling.
The room is nearly empty. Only a few of the younger acolytes remain, huddled together and whispering anxiously about the alarm, about the missing book, about the witch who may or may not be real.
No one looks at me. Or if they do, they look away quickly.
I go to my cot and sit down, my hands gripping the edge of the thin mattress. The moment I’m still, the full force of it crashes over me.
The need.
It pulses through me in heavy, insistent waves, impossible to ignore now that I’m no longer surrounded by noise and questions and watchful eyes. My breath comes faster as I try to fight it, to push it down, to ignore it.
I can’t–it’s worse than before. So much worse.
It feels like a thirst–a terrible, unrelenting thirst that no amount of willpower can quench.
I press my thighs together, squeezing my eyes shut as I try to steady myself, but the sensation only intensifies. Every thought seems to circle back to it, drawn inescapably toward the same place…toward the same memory.
I can’t stop thinking about Theron. His hands…the way he looked at me—not with cruelty or hunger, but with something gentler. Something that made me feel…safe. The way he touched me…the way he sucked my nipples and stroked my pussy…the way he made me come harder than I ever have in my life…
A soft, broken sound escapes me before I can stop it. I press a hand to my mouth, glancing quickly around the room. No one seems to notice. Or if they do, they pretend not to.
I lie back on the cot, staring up at the ceiling, willing my body to calm down…it doesn’t. If anything, the stillness makes it worse.
I can almost feel him again—the warmth of him, the strength in his hands, the careful way he held himself back for my sake. His warm, spicy, masculine scent and the way he called me “good girl.” The memory burns through me, feeding the ache instead of easing it.
I turn onto my side, curling in on myself. I wish I could go to him–to ask him to help me again, but I know I can’t.
If I see him again…if I stand in front of him like this, feeling like this—I won’t be able to stop myself. I won’t be able to ask him to help me the way he did before.
I’ll beg him for more–for everything. And this time…I don’t think I would want him to stop. I’d beg him to fill me…to fuck me and shoot his seed deep in my pussy.
The realization sends a shudder through me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my fingers tangling in the thin blanket beneath me.
No, I definitely can’t go to him. I can’t–I don't trust myself. I’ll just have to grit my teeth and bear it.
I don’t know how I’m going to survive.