38. Petra
PETRA
It’s hot. Too hot.
I toss and turn in bed, shoving the sheets off my body in search of some sliver of coolness in the thick, oppressive night. But instead of relief, I’m met with more warmth—arms sliding around my waist, breath hot against the back of my neck.
And there he is. As if haunting my every waking thought wasn’t enough, now he’s invading my dreams.
“What are you doing?” I murmur, still half-asleep.
“Did you really think you could get rid of me that easily, sweet Petra?” he whispers into my ear.
“We shouldn’t . . . this isn’t right,” I mumble.
“How can something that feels so good be wrong?” he says, his lips ghosting down my neck.
I turn to face him, and suddenly the room glows with a soft, otherworldly light. Everything feels hazy and surreal, like the air itself is soaked in moonlight. And yet I can see him perfectly—his face illuminated, his eyes gleaming a brilliant blue as they meet mine.
“Sin,” I whisper.
“My sweet, sweet Petra,” he murmurs.
He leans in, lips brushing mine in a kiss so light it barely lands before he’s trailing lower, kissing his way down my body. I realize then that I’m only in my nightgown, the fabric barely shielding me from the heat of him.
He undoes the buttons at my bodice slowly, deliberately, and where his fingers linger, his mouth soon follows—kissing, licking, sucking the skin beneath.
A soft gasp escapes my throat.
I want to tell him to stop. To stop haunting me. To stop living in my thoughts like some lingering fever. But the moment he closes his mouth around one nipple, a wave of sensation pulses through my body—and the words vanish.
This is just a dream, right?
Dreams can’t hurt.
It’s not real. It’s not real.
He continues teasing, touching me with the same hunger that fills my own thoughts. His hands slide down to my ankles, fingers curling around them as he pushes the hem of my nightgown higher, over my hips, until I’m bare to him.
He kisses the inside of my thigh, slow and reverent.
And suddenly, I realize . . . this is my mind reimagining what happened last time. Reconstructing the way he made me feel. Trying to recapture something I haven’t been able to reach on my own since. But instead of touching me with his fingers . . .
He does something entirely unexpected.
He puts his mouth on me.
I jerk in surprise, hips lifting off the bed.
He laughs softly against my skin, breath fanning over my most intimate place. “Easy,” he breathes, “just one taste. Give me one taste.”
I don’t know how my mind could dream this. I’ve never even imagined something like it. But since it is a dream, since nothing is real, I let it happen.
I open my legs for him, welcoming him between them. His shoulders press against my thighs, anchoring me as he kisses me again—deeper this time.
And then his tongue slides over me.
I cry out softly, my hands tangling in his hair. The sensations are sharper, deeper than last time. Every soft flick and slow swirl makes my body tremble. He kisses me like he kissed my mouth—hungry, aching, wild.
His tongue presses deeper, finding that sweet, secret place, and then he sucks.
I moan loudly.
“Good girl,” he whispers, his voice ragged, his lips wet against my flesh. He kisses me again, everywhere, as if worshipping my body. “You feel it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “You feel how only I can make you feel.”
I cling to his hair, trying not to lose myself completely, but every flick of his tongue sends me spiraling. I rise, then fall, crashing into release so hard I gasp for air, knowing in my bones that no one else—not even myself—could ever do this to me.
It’s not just the act. It’s him. His presence. His warmth. The way my body responds to him.
He chuckles again. “So sweet,” he says. “You’re so damn sweet, Petra. Like nothing I ever dreamed before.”
My body trembles in the aftermath. Still tangled in the sheets, I feel the aftershocks coursing through me—and yet he doesn’t stop. He continues kissing me, giving me everything, until I come undone all over again.
It’s startling. And yet . . . I want more.
The more he touches me, the more I crave him. It’s as if he knows my body better than I do.
When he finally slows, he kisses a trail up my stomach, sucking the skin just below my navel and leaving a tender red mark in its place. Then he rises over me, looking down with eyes that seem to glow.
“My darling girl,” he whispers. “You feel it?”
He takes my hand and places it against the front of his trousers.
“Do you feel what you do to me? What only you have ever done to me?”
I make a low sound, unsure of how to respond.
He doesn’t wait.
Instead, he leans down and kisses me. Soft, deep, and unrelenting. I’m briefly scandalized by the taste of myself on his tongue, but the heat of it only stokes my anticipation.
What will he do next?
I shouldn’t have dared to wonder.
With a final kiss to my lips, he moves down again. This time to my chest. And just above my right breast, he sinks his teeth into me.
Hard.
I gasp, body arching in shock.
There’s a flash of pain—but beneath it, something deeper. Something darker. Something that scares me more than the blood or the bite: my own feelings.
He bites down hard enough to break skin. When he lifts his head, I see the evidence—drops of red staining his teeth, trailing down his chin.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice dazed.
“What do you think, Petra?” he says, smiling. “I’m claiming you. You’re it for me. Don’t you know that? This—” he gestures to the wound, to the blood, to us— “this will make sure we’re together. In this life, the next . . . and beyond.”
I don’t understand what he means. Not really. But I’m too far gone to question it.
He strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, revealing the hard lines of his chest. Then he pulls a knife from his pocket.
The silver gleams briefly before he presses the tip just above his right breast—right where he bit me.
With one precise movement, he slices. The cut is clean. The blood surfaces immediately.
I frown, confused, but not repulsed.
When he pulls me closer, his hand firm against the back of my neck, guiding my mouth to his wound, I don’t resist. I don’t even flinch. I press my lips to the cut. I lap at his blood—greedily, instinctively—like he did mine.
And then something strange happens.
A new kind of euphoria overtakes me. It’s not unlike what I felt when he kissed me there, but it’s also more. It’s everything. My body hums with him, fills with him, as if his blood has become part of me.
We don’t need to do anything else. Not even that final act. Because this, this exchange, this makes us one.
I drink from him like it’s something holy, something forbidden and divine. When the bleeding slows, I watch as his skin knits back together, smooth and unmarked.
And then I feel it.
A sharp cry tears from my throat as pain blooms at the spot where he bit me. A searing heat spreads over my chest, like someone is branding me from the inside out.
He grimaces, too, his features mirroring mine.
We’re sharing it. The pain. The transformation. I watch, wide-eyed, as a black stain appears on his chest—and then on mine. But it isn’t just a blot of ink.
It’s a design.
A symbol.
A swirling, complex array of shapes, intricate and arcane—identical on both of us.
I recognize it. It’s just like the sigils he once showed me.
Mysterious. Sacred. Marking us.
“What is this? What’s happening to me?” I ask in wonder.
He only smiles. “What should have happened all along,” he murmurs.
Before I can demand more, he surprises me again. He picks up the knife and presses it directly against the center of the sigil on my chest.
The blade carves a letter—an S.
But this time, the pain barely registers. Compared to the burn from before, it’s nothing. I can only stare at his face, so focused, so calm.
“There,” he says, satisfied. “Now you’ll carry me with you. Always.”
Then he places the knife in my hand and brings it to his own chest.
“Do it,” he urges.
He doesn’t have to explain. I already know. The knowledge is inside me now.
I press the tip of the blade into his skin and carve the letter P.
It feels ritualistic. Profane. Depraved.
And yet I don’t hesitate. I can’t. It’s like he’s feeding a part of me I’ve always kept hidden. A part I never dared to show anyone else. A part I’ve tried to save.
As the blood wells from the fresh wounds, the letters begin to shift. They don’t stay as cuts—they darken, solidify, transform. Inked lines take root beneath our skin, fusing with the earlier sigils.
The result is permanent. Binding. Marked.
“You’re mine,” he says. “And I’m yours.”
He kisses me, lips soft, almost reverent.
“You can never run from me, Petra. Never.”
Suddenly, I jolt awake.
My heart races. My chest heaves with panic. Morning light spills across the room.
I’m alone.
I turn toward the bed.
There’s nothing. No trace of anyone else.
No blood. No stains. No knife. No one.
I breathe in—then out. Over and over, trying to steady the tremble in my limbs.
It was a dream.
Just a dream.
So why doesn’t it feel like one?
There’s only one way to know for sure.
I walk to the mirror and pull down the neckline of my dressing gown. I expect to see something. Anything. That twisted, arcane symbol inked into my chest. A mark. A scar. A letter.
But there’s nothing.
My skin is smooth. Untouched.
I stare. Waiting for relief to settle in. For my mind to make peace with the idea that it was all in my head.
But it doesn’t.
Instead, all I feel is an unexpected pang of disappointment.
A knock at the door startles me out of my reverie.
“Come in,” I call out, hastily buttoning up my nightgown.
My mother enters, her expression as cold and unreadable as ever. “Your father says we are expected at someone’s house for dinner this evening. You must wear your best ensemble.”
“Oh? Who are we going to see?”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, her gaze drifts around the room with a vacant, far-off look. Then she mutters, almost to herself, “What are we going to do? Poor thing . . .” And then, more clearly: “Do not put your veil on.”
That shocks me into stillness. “What?” I blink. “How am I supposed to leave the house without it? You know I’m not allowed to go anywhere unveiled.”
“A carriage will arrive to take us directly to the house. No one will see you,” she replies flatly. “Remember—you must not anger your father. This is a very important dinner.”
With that, she turns and leaves.
I stare at the closed door, my thoughts a whirlwind of confusion.
What friend? Who are we visiting?
As far as I know, no one in our congregation would allow a woman to enter their home unveiled—unless she were a wife or a daughter. No stranger would be granted such liberties.
And yet, my father, so unyielding about appearances and rules, is the one making this exception?
It’s preposterous. Suspicious. Which only begs the question: What purpose does this dinner serve? Why is it so important?
Of course, my mother offers no clues. She has the best poker face I’ve ever seen. If she weren’t trapped in this life, I sometimes think she could have been the best player in the entire nation. No one can read her; if there’s anything left to read, that is.
I sit with the unease for a moment, turning the possibilities over in my mind.
What could this dinner mean for me? For our family?