7. Demons in Disguise
Selene
I light the third and final white candle. The match hisses, releasing that familiar sulfur smell that always helps me draw the line between the real world and the one in my head.
I sit at my desk in front of the window. Outside, the full moon is so bright it casts long skeletal shadows across my bedroom floor.
I reach for my laptop, pull up my Gothic a landscape of shadows and savage power that steals my breath.
His face is a dark, covered abyss. Is he wearing a mask? Or is there no face at all beneath that shadow? I don't even know if he's human. But the ruthless force he possesses me with, the things he does to me—there's nothing mortal about them.
Another flash. Another blinding glare.
The dark brim of his cowboy hat is closer. The sharp scent of burnt leather and thunderstorms saturates my nostrils. I'm running until I can't breathe, but it's not enough.
It's never enough.
An invisible force, as powerful as the snap of a lasso, wraps around my waist and violently yanks me backward. A scream dies in my throat as my back slams against his hot, bare chest. His fingers, surreal and yet so fiercely tangible, clamp down around my throat.
"You run so well, little sinner," his voice rasps. A dark sound that doesn't come from the air, but echoes directly inside my skull, thick with lust. He lifts me entirely off the ground with one arm, spinning me around to crush me against the rough trunk of a dead tree.
His free hand slides without preamble beneath the hem of my rain-soaked skirt. He finds me already drenched, trembling, and ready for him. Two long, calloused fingers sink deep inside me with a violence that rips a desperate moan from my lips.
The rough friction of his hips grinding against mine drives me crazy. He grinds his rock-hard erection against me, while the freezing, inhuman surface of his mask drags against the sensitive skin of my neck.
"But you already know how the hunt ends," the shadow whispers, increasing the lethal rhythm of his fingers inside me, making me arch my back in an involuntary spasm. "Now... beg your ghost to fill you.”
Well, at least I wrote five hundred words.
A massive leap, considering that for the past few months I've only done one thing: write a miserable line, stare at it in disgust, and delete it. Delete, write, delete, write. A torture of wasted keystrokes.
But... are these five hundred words actually any good?
I reread the passage. There's tension, sure. But isn't it too similar to The Shadow Hunter? Doesn't the setting feel a little too much like my second novel?
The questions start multiplying, crawling out from the dark corners of my mind.
What about the plot? How the hell did this chick end up out on the prairie at night?
There are massive plot holes already. Am I going to be able to carry the story from here, or am I just going to get stuck on the very next scene?
And then, inevitably, that nasty feeling starts creeping in.
I start hating every single word I just typed.
I start thinking that he is a caricature, that she is pathetic, that the whole scene is ridiculous.
My brain is already projecting the negative reviews, the disappointed readers, the scathing comments from people who think I've lost my touch, that I'm just churning out scraps from my past hits.
Ugh.
Okay, breathe, Selene.
I bring my hands to the sides of my head, closing my eyes.
What happened to the confident Selene Dusk, the one who used to churn out ideas effortlessly?
Did she get lost in the ocean, tangled in the sea tentacles of the King of the Abyss, or is she wandering desperately through the halls of the Phantom Duke’s castle?
I open my eyes. I stare at my phone sitting abandoned on the desk.
As much as Jessica is an insufferable, lethal thorn in my side, and as mad as I still am at her… she’s terrifyingly good at her job.
I need her opinion before I lose my mind completely.
Me: [Attachment]
Me: Lay it on me.
I lock the screen and go back to staring at the laptop monitor like I’m in a trance, illuminated only by the sterile glare of the display.
Possible scenarios try to form in my head, plot fragments colliding, but none of them really satisfy me.
They’re all blurry. Incomplete. Wrong.
And then… the darkness of the room starts to feel heavier.
A tightness rises in my chest, a physical, stinging weight that spreads, pressing against my sternum.
It feels like my lungs have suddenly shrunk.
The air is thin, stale, and every breath takes an immense effort.
I feel my heart racing, but it’s not the euphoric pounding from an hour ago; it’s a dull, terrified buzzing.
God… what am I doing? Where am I going with my life, with my career? Am I really washed up? What if I’ve already written all the good stuff I had in me? What if this book never sees the light of day?
The spiral drags me down, a cold vortex tightening around my throat, leaving me frozen in this chair, drained and unable to react.
My breathing turns short and heavy.
It feels like a tangle of thorny brambles tightening around the walls of my stomach, threatening to suffocate me. The spiral drags me down, fast and lethal, until a sudden vibration shatters the agonizing silence of the room.
Buzz. Buzz.
My phone screen lights up. I feel a surge of acid rising in my throat. It’s Jessica. Of course it’s her. She’s probably texting me to tell me the draft is garbage, that it’s a mess of senseless clichés, or worse, that I’m losing my dark touch.
I don’t want to look.
And yet, defying my own survival instinct, I glance down. I do it with one eye squeezed shut, bracing myself for the fatal blow to my pride.
I read the name on the screen.
Ron.
A second later, completely beyond my control, I feel the muscles in my face relax. My lips, tense just a moment ago, curve up into an imperceptible smile.
God.
Why the hell am I smiling? I haven’t even read the text yet.
New-cowboy: Just so you know, Ollie just woke up and he’s really upset that you left.
Me: Oh really? Ollie, or you?
New-cowboy: Are you flirting with me, Queen of Darkness?
My traitorous smile grows wider. No. Fuck, no. I am not flirting. This is not flirting. It’s… strategic sarcasm.
Me: In your dreams.
New-cowboy: We already talked about this, Selene… my dreams might make you blush.
Pfft. If only he knew mine. But he absolutely must never, ever find that out.
Me: I’m the smut writer here, babe.
New-cowboy: Hmm… then I strongly believe you should go out with me. You know, for research purposes.
Me: Has that line ever actually worked on a woman?
New-cowboy: You tell me… this is my first time trying it. So?
Ron’s chat vanishes abruptly.
The screen goes black, then flashes with Jessica’s name. Incoming call.
Dammit.
The weight in my chest hits me again like an anvil. The brambles in my stomach tighten.
I take a deep breath. Okay. Time to face the music.
“Hello,” I huff. Yeah, I’m still really mad at her for trapping me in this damn reality show.
“Hey! What an explosive amount of joy for someone who finally wrote something new!”
Her voice is, as always, a high-pitched trill full of vibrant energy. We are the sun and the moon.
I think she’d be great with Ron.
A perfect match. Two human golden retrievers.
Just the thought of it sends a dull pang of irritation to the pit of my stomach. Why is that bothering me? I shake my head, chasing the image away.
“Well?” I ask, standing up from my chair. There is an unwritten, unbreakable rule in my life: when I’m on the phone, I have to walk. Preferably pacing back and forth. “Is there anything usable?”
“Anything usable? Did you even reread it?!”
Here we go. Now she’s going to tell me I’m a hopeless, lost cause. Then she’ll launch right back into her rant about my asshole ex Jim, and how that narcissistic bastard destroyed my creativity and drained me emotionally. I brace for impact.
“IT’S AMAZING, SEL! I THINK THIS MIGHT BE THE BEST THING YOU’VE EVER WRITTEN!”
I stop mid-stride, nearly tripping over my dark rug. “W-what?”
“Did I not yell loud enough for you?”
I pull the phone away from my ear, just to be safe and avoid permanent hearing damage.
“No, I heard you loud and clear.”
“Good! Then keep writing it! Spending time with this cowboy is doing wonders for you… I’d say I told you so, but the show hasn’t even started yet!”
Her tone is infuriatingly smug. Even though I can only hear her, I can clearly picture her winking at me, looking far too pleased with herself.
“There’s no…”
Fuck. I stop myself.
The hat.
The mask in the shadows.
Those sweat-slicked abs.
Ron.
I inhale, running a hand through my hair, fighting not to give myself away.
“Mhm-hm?” she singsongs through the phone. She knows she caught me.
I let out a long, defeated sigh.
“Listen, cut it out,” she continues, her voice suddenly much softer and sincere. “Enjoy the moment, Selene. Soak up as much inspiration as you can. Feel alive again. Not all men are certified assholes out to screw you over, you know?”
Here we go again. Could she have spared me the psychological monologue? Of course not.
I don’t answer. I just let a low, annoyed groan slip from my throat, pacing the room again.
“Anyway, all jokes aside, what you wrote is really, really good. The atmosphere is insanely thick. It totally brings back your Lord Duke, Take My Soul era. Something truly great could come out of this if you keep going like this.”
Well… at least that’s something.
As I process the compliment, I suddenly feel my shoulders relax. I stop in front of the window, only now realizing how tense they’d been.
I thank her, promise to send her more material as soon as I write it, and hang up, collapsing heavily onto my bed.
I wake my phone back up. There’s a notification waiting in my chat with Ron.
It’s a video.
I open it, and the shaky image of Ollie pops up on the screen. The Labrador is sitting on the floor, wagging his tail. And clamped firmly in his mouth is his walking harness, offering it up to the camera with a look of pure canine adoration.
New-cowboy: See? He misses you.
I can’t remember the last time someone managed to cheer me up. Is it really any wonder that this damn new-cowboy and his relentless optimism can actually make me smile?