Finding the chain, I flick it on noting only a small bit of redness at the tip. I wriggle it around to be sure it’s not broken and sigh, as the pulsing swell begins to calm.
An object beneath the nightstand draws my attention there, a welcomed diversion from my throbbing toe.
I bend forward and slip my fingers below the elaborate carved wood, and slide out a picture. Turning it to the side, I study the family, who’re standing in a colorful garden with a stone fountain in the background. A woman with short blonde hair. A small boy with sandy blond tufts, who stands alongside Sampson, the beast I met earlier. But my eyes linger on the man. He’s strikingly handsome. Golden eyes and dark chestnut hair. Broad shoulders stretching the casual polo shirt that shows off toned biceps. His lips pressed to a hard line.
Lucian.
Without the scars.
It’s strange to see him this way, as if I’m looking at a forbidden memory. A forgotten moment in time.
In spite of the slight smile of the woman, the beaming smile on the boy on the verge of laughter, Lucian’s solemn eyes don’t match the sunny disposition of everyone else. The way he stares back at me from the image, it’s as if he’s trying to say something. Plead with his unknowing observer.
For the next couple minutes, I study the image a bit more, running my finger over his flawless face, its perfect symmetry, and focus on the darkness behind those bright eyes. They could be any color, and just as intense, but gold is fitting for him. Exotic, almost. Yes, that’s it. In the image, he looks like an exotic animal that’s been captured as a pet. Caged.
I open the drawer of the nightstand and set the image inside the empty space where one might typically find a Bible.
Clicking off the lamp, I cover up and turn to face the tall windows, beyond which the moon sits high. Winds howl, just as Giulia warned earlier, like angry whispers of night against the glass. The phantom tickle at my arm returns, as I lie scratching at it again. But the image lingers inside my head, distracting me from the eerie undercurrent in this room, this haunted place where Amelia once slept. The sight of Lucian’s painfully handsome face now ruined by whatever happened to him, and I wonder:
What did happen to him?
Chapter 9
Lucian
Sixteen years ago …
Ripples chase my hand as I stir the bathwater and test its temperature. Only a couple years ago, I couldn’t so much as look at water so deep without my chest turning cold and my palms sweating. That was before my father demanded I join swim team, and somehow, my competitive nature overrode my fears enough that I won meets and earned medals.
But then, Griffin Blackthorne’s main objective was never really about helping me overcome my fears, as much as I’d like to believe that.
My teammate’s father owned one of the largest chains of grocery stores in the country, with whom my father eventually partnered, and he used the occasional meet as a means of talking business, while he pretended to watch me swim.
I close my eyes, recalling the moments in the cave with Solange, when my chest burned for air, my muscles stiff with fear and excitement. I focus on the memory of her hand gliding up and down my cock, and the way my body tingled with a rush of what I suppose must’ve been adrenaline. I’ve thought about those moments a number of times since then.
Fully unclothed, I step into the tub, much warmer than the cold and salty ocean water, and my body hardens with a thrill of what’s to come. Jacking off in water is nothing new for me. I’ve done it a number of times in the shower, but never like this.
Like giving my fear a big fuck you, and coming while I do it.
I draw the curtains that surround the enormous, circular sunken tub, leaving only a crack of light.
Warmth engulfs me as I settle into the water until it sits at my shoulders, and I run-through some diaphragmatic breathing, in and out, like we did before practice. I’ve grown accustomed to holding my breath for long periods of time, and this time, I intend to put that skill to good use.
I slip below the water’s surface, where the world is muted and I’m alone, and stare up at the distorted constellations painted across the circular ceiling that mirrors the diameter of the tub. My own dark world.
The strokes begin light and teasing. This time, I intend to draw it out. Maximize the climax. It doesn’t take long for my balls to tighten, though, while the first rush of adrenaline pulses through me.
Fuck, yes.
I imagine Solange straddling me, holding me underwater as she rides my cock. Every muscle turns rigid, the burn inside my chest intensifying. I can practically feel the tiny electric shocks inside my brain, the warning signals demanding I take a sip of air.
I don’t.
Blood rushes to my dick as I stroke hard, the water furious and agitated, echoing the chaos inside my body right now. Tunnel vision sets in. I’m preparing to pass out.
I need air. Every cell in my body is desperate for the oxygen that I intentionally withhold.
Muscles wind tighter. Tighter. So fucking tight. I arch with the impending climax, the cool air on where my groin sticks up out of the water while I continue to pump my slick erection.
A flash of light behind my eyes hits at the same time as a blast of heat rushes through my body, and jets of hot fluid pulse from the head of my cock.
I jolt upright on a gasp of breath. I can’t get enough air, and I lean over the edge of the tub, digging my nails into the cold tiles. Through rapid shallow breaths, my body does its best to fill my lungs, until each inhale is no longer labored, but long and easy.
Not an ounce of strength left in me. I’m so fucking relaxed right now, I can’t even fathom moving from this spot. A chuckle escapes while I lie with my head pressed against the tiles.
Solange was right.
Nothing will ever compare now.
Chapter 10
Isadora
Present day …
Heat falls on my face, the intense light piercing through the void. I frown and shield my eyes, turning away from the open window through which sunlight streams. The clock beside me reads ten minutes to seven, and I groan at the small bit of missed sleep, yet I don’t feel exhausted, the way I typically do when I wake up at home. My neck isn’t stiff, nor is my back the way it sometimes feels after sleeping on the cardboard-like mattress at Aunt Midge’s.
I feel like I’ve slept on clouds all night.
Yawning and stretching, I turn over in the bed and flip off the alarm, which hasn’t yet gone off. I can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed waking up. Probably the time I slipped on the wharf and landed on my shoulder. The doc gave Aunt Midge some heavy Tylenols that knocked me out for a few hours, and when I woke up, I felt like I’d slept for days.
I climb out of bed and gather up clean clothes, then make my way to the bathroom. After shutting myself inside, I flip on the water for the shower, letting it heat up while I brush my teeth and floss. Standing before the mirror, I cross my arms to lift my shirt over my head, tossing it to the floor beside me. Perhaps it’s the light of the bathroom, but the scars on my forearms seem to stick out even more than before. Thin, tiny lines, unevenly spaced, where I spent months cutting myself. Of course, that was after what happened. I wouldn’t have resorted to this level of self-mutilation before then. Maybe the occasional cut every so often, just to take the pressure off when things got stressful at school, but nothing like this.