Chapter 4
ISABELLE WAS ON HER hands and knees, a touch at her chin urging her to look up.
Henri knelt in front of her, nude and caressing her cheek with his thumb, his face plastered with a surreal smile that was much too large. Hands were gripping her waist, and she turned back to see Pierre with a similarly eerie grin, also nude and guiding his cock between her legs.
“What…” she began, but was interrupted by a hand at her neck, urging her forward again.
“Pretty girl,” Henri said, pressing his thumb to her lower lip before sliding it into her wet mouth and petting her tongue. “Our pretty little plaything.”
She sucked on instinct, circling her mouth around his finger, a tremor shuddering through her with the moan that left his lips.
He removed his thumb and replaced it with the tip of his cock, prodding at her pursed lips until she opened for him. In one brutal thrust, he was in her throat and she was gagging, barely able to contain the bile bubbling in her stomach as Pierre slipped into her from behind.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, her eyes burning from the strain in her throat and the tension in her cunt as Pierre started thrusting, fingers like knives as they gripped into her flesh.
It was all wrong, the strange smiles, the foul manner in which they used her, the fact that these two men were both here in the first place.
What had happened after the midnight confessional?
She grasped for Henri’s leg, but jerked her hand away, the flesh white hot and burning her fingers where she’d brushed him.
When she looked up, he was transformed, a beast where a man had once been.
He clutched the back of her head, bringing her harder down on his cock as sharp talons tore into her hips from behind.
His skin was an otherworldly blue, though his eyes were as white as the full moon, blank orbs which stared back at her without emotion.
When he smiled, it was as if his face were split in two, fangs glinting in the candlelight.
A jolt of fear burst through her as she tried to scramble away, but there was nowhere to run, the beast sliding out of her mouth and slamming back in, her head dizzying from the force of his thrusts.
Crooked horns burst from a mane of dark hair, and feathery black wings sent a gust of air over her, prickling her skin with goosebumps.
He gripped her head, sliding further down her throat until her breath was cut off, her eyes widening with realization. As the room faded to black, she heard an eerie laugh echoing through the space, her mind emptying until there was nothing left.
Isabelle awoke with a start, sweat beading on her brow as she stared at the ceiling. Her eyes darted around the room, certain there was an intruder, her heart rate only slowing slightly when she realized she was alone.
Alone and nude, sunlight streaming in through the window and revealing the swirls of reddish-brown still staining her body and sheets. As she swiped her hand over the dried blood, she tried to distinguish dream from reality, though much of it was blurred.
Pierre and Henri? No, they certainly had not been here, would not have done something like that.
The strange man, Jean-Phillipe? He had followed her home and done things that made her flush with shame. But had she been imagining all the peculiarities? The forked tongue? The tendrils of thorns?
They couldn’t possibly be real, and yet how could she explain the red marks encircling her wrists, the trail of pinpricks leading up her body?
She pushed her way out of bed, hurrying to the bath, eager to remove any memory of the evil man. As the tub filled with spring water, she wondered what she would do if she saw him again. She should go to the temple, certainly, and tell the faith warriors what had happened.
But the thought of sharing the vulgarity of the previous evening made her cheeks flush with embarrassment. What if they blamed her? She knew how people talked about her, living all alone outside of town. Improper for a woman to be isolated like that, without the protection of a man.
And what if she had invited the attention of that monster with her lustful thoughts?
Isabelle stepped into the water, trying to ignore the memories of Jean-Phillipe’s head between her legs, his tongues curling around her center in just the right way to make her squirm, the thorns pricking her skin so lusciously, better even than the cilice still chained around her thigh.
The helpless sensation which had ignited her body with arousal, even though she knew better than to succumb to it.
Goddess, what was she going to do?
As she sank into the tub, she tried to let the miasma of steam envelop her and wash away her worries, but it did little good. As she scrubbed at her belly, the dried blood turned the water pink, though there was a scar left in its wake.
Had the man cut her last night? All she remembered was the euphoria of his metallic blood, the way his tongues tingled her nerves as he painted her body. But now the swirling spirals seemed etched into her skin, smooth pink scars surrounded by pale flesh.
She traced a coil with her finger, a baffling sense of peace overtaking her. She was disgusted with herself, enjoying the way that beast had marked her, claimed her, or so he had said.
But what did it mean? And moreover, how would she move on from here?
Isabelle wrapped her arms around herself, begging the moon mother for divine guidance as tears rolled down her cheeks.
As the days passed, a memory she had hoped would fade into obscurity was ever present in her mind. Vines of thorns caressing her skin, a forked tongue between her legs, the lust raging through her from one drop of sticky blood.
Isabelle saw him in every shadow, always in the corner of her eye, just out of sight. But for a week, he didn’t reappear.
Perhaps Jean-Phillipe had moved on, sent to torment another innocent woman in a different small town.
She wanted to forget him, purge the evening from her memory, but she caught herself hoping she would see him, getting disappointed when a dark-haired man ended up being a person from town and not the mysterious beast who had followed her home.
Foul thoughts, all of them, but despite her prayers to the moon mother, she was not granted clemency.
No, every waking moment was spent wondering where the beast had gone, every night filled with strange dreams. A dark forest, not unlike her own, but distinctly wrong.
Trees so large she couldn’t see the tops, a layer of mist like a ghostly apparition. Eerie wails echoing through the dark. And no matter how much she searched, she couldn’t find her cottage.
There was more, too, though her recollection was fuzzy, the dreams always fading quickly once she awoke.
Running through the woods, leaves and twigs crunching under her feet, her chest heaving with exertion. The thrill of fear racing up her spine. Claws at her waist, her neck, holding her down, pushing her into the dirt. A flurry of feathers, animalistic grunts, and searing pleasure.
Every morning, she awoke in a cold sweat, her cunt aching with need, though she dared not touch herself.
It was torturous trying to ignore the arousal twisting through her each day, but she begged the moon mother for strength.
The cilice did little good, though she still dutifully wore it, the sharp tines reminding her of the supernatural thorns that had circled her wrists and neck.
“Haven’t seen you at the temple in a while.”
Her illicit thoughts crumbled under the smooth voice of Henri, and she stood at attention behind the café’s counter.
“I’ve been busy,” she said quickly, perhaps too quickly, and Henri raised a dark brow.
“Will you be at the offering of light? I… may or may not be required to make a contribution.”
That dashing grin made her heart flutter, piercing blue eyes glimmering with mischief. She could only imagine what sins he’d admitted at midnight confessional, though the tender way he’d bedded her was so different from the feral fucking in her dreams.
“I’ll be there,” she said, knowing she could only avoid the moon mother’s ardent gaze for so long.
Hoping against hope that an offering would purge her of these thoughts.
“Good,” Henri said, putting on his best pout. “I miss seeing you.”
She flushed as she mixed his coffee with a cube of sugar and a dollop of fresh cream, his usual order. Her hand trembled as she stirred the concoction, trying to get a hold of herself.
Celeste encouraged marriage and procreation, but she’d seen what losing her mother had done to her father, the way he was a shell of a man, no longer whole.
He had cared for her, of course, but had always seemed to keep her at a distance, like his mind was far away in a world where he hadn’t lost his wife.
And she knew Henri wanted children, which was completely out of the question for her. After learning that her mother had passed on the day of her birth, she vowed never to put herself or a potential husband through that. She was cursed, and the bloodline would die with her.
Isabelle handed him the coffee, and he brushed her fingers, a touch which would once have sent a jolt through her. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe her pining had subsided; no, another was occupying her mind where Henri and Pierre had once been.
“Thank you,” Henri said, his voice a raspy whisper.
“Of course. I will see you tonight.”
She busied herself with cleaning the counter, trying not to grimace as Henri made his way to a seat.