Page 35
Story: Soul to Possess
“I’m fine,” I said, finally finding my voice.
He smiled again. Too easily.
“Good,” he said. “Then sit down. Eat something. We’ve got a big day.”
I sat down because I didn’t know what else to do.
The chair creaked beneath me. It felt too loud, like it had opinions about the night before. I tucked the robe tighter around myself and stared at the steam curling from the coffee cup. The smell alone made me nauseous. Or maybe that was just me.
Atticus moved around the kitchen like he belonged there. LikeIbelonged there. Whistling softly under his breath. Scooping eggs onto a chipped ceramic plate. Pouring orangejuice like he was in a commercial for Midwestern serenity. His jeans rode low on his hips, his shirt clinging in the back from where it hadn’t fully dried. His hair was still wet, curling at the ends.
He caught me looking. Grinned.
“Lucky me. You like to watch.”
I dropped my eyes to the table. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” he said, amusement curling around the words. “But I don’t mind. I like being looked at. Especially by someone who knows how to appreciate what she’s seeing.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. My hands curled around the mug like it was the only thing anchoring me.
A plate landed in front of me. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Perfectly ordinary. Too ordinary. He sat across from me and dug in like we were husband and wife and this was a cabin honeymoon and not… whatever the hell this actually was.
The silence stretched as I forced down a bite of toast I couldn’t taste.
“After breakfast,” he said between mouthfuls, “I’ll take you out to see the dogs. Maybe the horses, too. If you’re up for it.”
“Why are you acting like nothing happened?” My voice came out small. Brittle.
He didn’t even flinch.
“Because, Bluebell, nothingbadhappened.” He tilted his head, eyes steady. “You’re here. You’re safe. I made you breakfast. That’s a good morning where I come from.”
I stared at him. “You broke into my room.”
“You left the light on.” A shrug. “Felt like an invitation.”
“You had a key.”
“I have a key to every room. It’s my house.”
The words sat between us like poison. My stomach flipped. He reached out and brushed a crumb from my cheek. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”
But I was. Not in the way I had been at first—sharp and immediate—but in a quieter, deeper way now. The way you fear something that’s already under your skin. Something you mightmissif it left. I looked at him then—reallylooked—and I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the helplessness, or the calm way he was dismantling my sense of reality. Maybe it was the way my thighs still ached, and the way his voice made something in me clench even when I didn’t want it to. But the word slipped out before I could catch it. Soft. Automatic.
“…Yes, Master.”
He froze.
The scrape of his fork against the plate stilled. His eyes met mine—green, unreadable.
A beat passed. Then another.
“Say that again,” he said, voice low.
Shame burned through me. I looked down at my lap, unable to answer.
He stood slowly, came around the table, and crouched beside me. His hand brushed mine. Gentle. Patient.
“You can say anything to me, my pretty little Bluebell.” His voice was velvet. “But if you call me that again, just know—” he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear, “—you’ll never get to take it back.”
I shivered.
THE END (for now!)
He smiled again. Too easily.
“Good,” he said. “Then sit down. Eat something. We’ve got a big day.”
I sat down because I didn’t know what else to do.
The chair creaked beneath me. It felt too loud, like it had opinions about the night before. I tucked the robe tighter around myself and stared at the steam curling from the coffee cup. The smell alone made me nauseous. Or maybe that was just me.
Atticus moved around the kitchen like he belonged there. LikeIbelonged there. Whistling softly under his breath. Scooping eggs onto a chipped ceramic plate. Pouring orangejuice like he was in a commercial for Midwestern serenity. His jeans rode low on his hips, his shirt clinging in the back from where it hadn’t fully dried. His hair was still wet, curling at the ends.
He caught me looking. Grinned.
“Lucky me. You like to watch.”
I dropped my eyes to the table. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” he said, amusement curling around the words. “But I don’t mind. I like being looked at. Especially by someone who knows how to appreciate what she’s seeing.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. My hands curled around the mug like it was the only thing anchoring me.
A plate landed in front of me. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Perfectly ordinary. Too ordinary. He sat across from me and dug in like we were husband and wife and this was a cabin honeymoon and not… whatever the hell this actually was.
The silence stretched as I forced down a bite of toast I couldn’t taste.
“After breakfast,” he said between mouthfuls, “I’ll take you out to see the dogs. Maybe the horses, too. If you’re up for it.”
“Why are you acting like nothing happened?” My voice came out small. Brittle.
He didn’t even flinch.
“Because, Bluebell, nothingbadhappened.” He tilted his head, eyes steady. “You’re here. You’re safe. I made you breakfast. That’s a good morning where I come from.”
I stared at him. “You broke into my room.”
“You left the light on.” A shrug. “Felt like an invitation.”
“You had a key.”
“I have a key to every room. It’s my house.”
The words sat between us like poison. My stomach flipped. He reached out and brushed a crumb from my cheek. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”
But I was. Not in the way I had been at first—sharp and immediate—but in a quieter, deeper way now. The way you fear something that’s already under your skin. Something you mightmissif it left. I looked at him then—reallylooked—and I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was the helplessness, or the calm way he was dismantling my sense of reality. Maybe it was the way my thighs still ached, and the way his voice made something in me clench even when I didn’t want it to. But the word slipped out before I could catch it. Soft. Automatic.
“…Yes, Master.”
He froze.
The scrape of his fork against the plate stilled. His eyes met mine—green, unreadable.
A beat passed. Then another.
“Say that again,” he said, voice low.
Shame burned through me. I looked down at my lap, unable to answer.
He stood slowly, came around the table, and crouched beside me. His hand brushed mine. Gentle. Patient.
“You can say anything to me, my pretty little Bluebell.” His voice was velvet. “But if you call me that again, just know—” he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear, “—you’ll never get to take it back.”
I shivered.
THE END (for now!)