Page 61 of Ghoul Me, Maybe
Her eyes widen. “The moon,” she whispers. “It’s almost full.”
Lyle glances up. “Yeah. So?”
Her voice turns sharp. Urgent. “No—listen. The veil’s thinning. That’swhythe relic’s pulsing louder. It’s not just memory—it’s a door.”
A beat.
Then Mira swears under her breath. “She’s right.”
I lean forward. “What door?”
Sienna looks at me. And I see the truth hit her as she says it.
“It’s a bridge. Betweenrealms.The relic’s not just a binding tool—it’s akey.And Grey doesn’t want to control it... He wants toopenit.”
I go still.
Lyle mutters, “Open what?”
“Whatever the fae buried,” Mira answers darkly. “And if theyburiedit, it wasn’t meant to be found.”
Sienna grabs my hand, eyes locked on mine. “We have to get it back. Before the moon hits full.”
“You can barely stand,” I say.
“I’llcrawlif I have to.”
Outside, the sea howls like it heard her.
The veil isn’t just thinning.
It’swatching.
And time is running out.
CHAPTER 22
SIENNA
The salt-stained sheets scratch my bare thighs as I straddle him. Elias’s hands float up my sides like he’s mapping driftwood—reverent, aching. Everywhere his fingers brush leaves trails of goosebumps beneath my skin.
“You fade more when you touch me,” I whisper.
His thumb skims my bottom lip. “Do I?”
I bite his finger just to feel the sharp hitch of his breath. His cock twitches against my inner thigh, solid as betrayal.
“Less talking, Thorn.”
His laugh is sea breeze through rigging. “Ever the commander.” His hips tilt upward, heat brushing my damp folds. “But you’ll need to open for me, darling.”
I sink down slowly onto his cock, stealing the air between us. My nails carve half-moons into his shoulders as he stretches my pussy—a burn edged with saltwater sweetness. His mouth finds the pulse at my throat, sucking dark promises into my skin.
“Saints,” he groans when I clench around him. “You’d undo me twice.”
“Once more,” I correct, rocking deeper. “For symmetry.”
He surges up, rolling us in a sweep of stolen momentum. The night air licks my sweat-slick back as he braces above me, hairfalling like a storm curtain. Moonlight gleams through his torso where the ritual’s grip weakens.
