Page 7 of Delectable Soul

Just as I’m about to come, he lifts his face and says, “Fiadh, look at me while you shatter, I want to see it. I want to see you fall apart knowing I did this to you.”

I look up, but instead of Hunter, I see the monster from the woods peering up at me. His face is shrouded in darkness, spare a malicious grin that glows as he continues to finger me, his digits feeling rough inside me.

My heart stops. I can’t breathe. It feels as if my entire body has frozen over with fear. I pull against my bindings, failing to free myself. He laughs at me.

“Oh Wild One, you want to get away?Liar.I smell your fear, your arousal,” he rumbles as he hits a tender spot and I moan. “You love having a monster’s fingers inside of you. Thethingfrom the woods controlling your pleasure–holding your mortal life in his hands–turns you on.” The squelching from my wetness mixed with his cruel, domineering laughter echoes around the room, humiliating me. My face heats, because he’s right—my entire body is throbbing with need.

I feel as if I’ll implode to exist if he doesn’t make me come.

He lowers his head again, and starts to lick and suck on my clit with his warm tongue. My thighs tremble, and right before I can fall apart, he grabs my throat with his free hand, squeezing it until my breath is almost completely cut off.

“Now be my good, scared little whore and come for me. I want to feel you soak my hand,” he demands.

He pinches my clit, and I detonate, drenching his hand in my arousal and turning my face to the side in shame. This dream has taken a turn for the worst, and like the ‘scared little whore’ he thinks I am, I played right into his hand.

“What are you? Why do you want me?” I ask, hating myself for sounding so weak and trembling on the mattress.

“I am the Bringer of Death and the taker of souls, Wild One.” His gravelly, matter-of-fact tone sends shivers down my spine.

“You’re a Sluagh—a d-dark faerie.” I audibly swallow, silently praying to whoever is listening that this is just a vivid hallucination or a dream.

“Pray to whatever God you think is listening. Call me whatever you want. But know that eventually, your soul is mine. Your fear, despair, and broken heart are mine.You are mine.”

He grabs my face, forcing it to the center again so he can kiss me. I hate how good it feels, how my body comes to life when his smirking lips touch mine. Tears roll down my face as his maniacal laughter assaults my ears.

* * *

I wake up, sitting upright and gasping for air. I feel myself spiraling out of control, freefalling further and further into a breakdown.How the feck do I stop it?! I choke on my sobs and can barely breathe out of my nose.

That thing, he can’t be real. Close your eyes. Breathe in for four seconds, hold for seven, exhale for eight. 4-7-8. 4-7-8. 4-7-8. Close your eyes and think about something comforting. Granda and I ate ice cream on the beach. We visited the shops and bought books to read while we enjoyed the weather.

After several minutes of pulling myself together, I finally open my eyes. The moonlight allows me to see that my bedroom is empty, spare myself. I feel my body up and down for injuries, but everything seems fine. Wetness coats the inside of my thighs, but I ignore it. I don’t want to think about how turned on I got from one of my vivid hallucinatory dreams. The room is so cold that my breath mists in front of my face. Pulling my quilt around me, I sigh in relief.

Thank God it was a dream.Across the room, my window is open. A sour feeling sinks to the pit of my stomach as I get out of bed and cross over to close it.I don’t remember leaving it open.

As I pull down the sill, a loud buffeting noise floats through the air. Huge, black wings beat against the night sky, carrying a human-like shape away from me. The moonlight illuminates slick black feathers and my heart stops. I quickly shut the sill and lock it as I watch the Sluagh fly away. As if he can feel me watching him, he turns around. His big red eyes glow against the inky night, leaving me with one more haunting reminder of how far my mental health has slipped.

* * *

Dreams of the Sluagh plague my sleep. I wake up throughout the night and falling back to sleep is difficult. I keep seeing his towering form, the shadows surrounding his pale, sharp face. His jagged, sharp teeth. His red eyes boring into me, as if he was exploring the dark, fecked up corners of my soul. Given what he wants me for, I’m sure he already has.

After waking up at noon, I greet Granda at the kitchen table. He’s plating up cheese toasties and tomato soup, my favorite lunch.

“You slept in late. Up all night reading were you?” he asks, chuckling as he hands me a drink.

“Yeah, it’s a good book. I was up super late reading,” I lie. I hate being dishonest with him, but I don’t want him to worry about me.

“When you pick another mystery, let me know and we’ll read it together; romances aren’t my cup of tea,” he comments. “What are your plans for today?”

“I need to shower and get dressed, then I’m meeting Hunter at three. We may have dinner together, so I’ll let you know.”

“I don’t want you out after dark tonight, Fiadh,” Granda warns. “It’s Samhain, and tonight will be a dangerous time to be out in the dark. The creatures and faeries will be out in full force because the veil between worlds is at its thinnest.”

I sigh, nodding along. His superstition has gotten worse in his old age. “Granda, none of that stuff is real. The woods have always been a safe place ever since I was a child. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll be home before dark. Promise.”

“Thank you. Make sure you keep your phone on you, and if you need me, or if he acts like an arse, you let me know,” he threatens. “I’m proud of you for getting back out there, even if it’s just meeting a friend.”

I hug Granda. Hearing he’s proud of me makes me feel worse for fibbing to him earlier, and I bury my face in his shoulder so he doesn’t see me tear up. Lunch is uneventful, and we spend most of it talking about this and that. Around 1:30, I go upstairs to get ready to see Hunter.

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