Page 18 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

Icould have hurt Sam.

It’s the only thought running through my mind as I sit on the floor, back pressed against the door, the opposite side of which, only half an hour ago, Sam had been resting against. I pull my legs to my chest, wrapping my arms around my shins and resting my head against my knees.

What if I injured him?

In the short time I’ve lived here, he has become everything to me. I could so easily see myself falling for him if I was someone different. Somebody so much better suited to him and not wrong for him in all the ways I’m wrong for him.

I’m older than him. Not by a few years. By millennia.

I chuckle, the smile that comes with it falling away quickly as I realize all the other things about me that make me not at all worthy of him.

There’s something inside me, a kernel of darkness that takes over when I’m in the basement with Arthur.

It’s corrupting me, changing me from the peaceful muse of epic poetry I once was into a new person.

Not bad, necessarily, but definitely not good or pure.

What if it corrupts Sam too?

Beyond the window tonight or my rage or general lack of control, any of it, I’m hungry beyond words.

Not for food. For sex. Desire is never far away, physical and emotional arousal close behind it.

Torturing Arthur stokes it, but Sam… Sam is what brings it to life.

I want him more desperately than I’ve ever wanted anyone before.

If I hadn’t experienced this kind of ravenous lust before the last four decades, how badly will I handle it now after Arthur broke me?

My breath catches in my chest.

What if I hurt him with all the ways I’m broken?

A squeaky sob rips from my chest. My hand shoots up to cover my mouth, smother the sound, before Sam can hear it.

He already has too much to do tonight and an early day tomorrow.

I don’t want him to feel like he has to babysit me because I’m crying.

Especially since he would have to do it from the other side of the door because I’m scared I can’t control myself around him right now.

Under my overalls and bralette—one of the complete wardrobe’s worth of outfits Sam got me for Christmas—I’m aching for him. A few weeks ago, it was simple wanting. It’s evolved since then into a deep-seated need, one that I can’t purge, no matter how hard I try.

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, but the noises from the basement tapered off a while ago, and the shower stopped running a little bit after that.

Across from me, the French doors to the back yard frame the full moon, its glow illuminating the room in a grey haze. Behind me, the hallway lights are off.

My stomach growls, a loud reminder that I haven’t eaten in almost a day.

No matter the panic and blinding arousal that have held me in a chokehold since Sam got home, I still need to eat something.

I groan, unclasping my arms from around my knees and pressing my hands against the floor to shove myself to a stand.

I press my ear to the door, listening for any sounds indicating that Sam is still puttering around the house or lingering in the hallway.

After a good minute, I finally cave and pull open the door, my eyes darting around to catch a hint of the handsome man who is ripping my control away with his unwavering support and care. He’s nowhere to be seen.

Despite this being a good thing—I can’t lose control and hurt him if he’s not around—my stomach clenches in sadness. I want to see him. And that’s more concerning than anything else.

I’ve been alone for so long. Caring for myself for longer than that.

Why does this man make it so I don’t feel like I can survive without him?

It would be concerning if he wasn’t so… Sam.

Never pressuring me. Never making me feel like I’m anything less than Lila, a woman he wants in his life enough to upend his own.

That thought brings me screeching to a halt in the hallway.

I’ve been here for less than two months. I can’t feel this strongly about someone I met less than eight weeks ago.

But you’ve known him for longer than that.

The silky, selfish voice inside my head that sounds like me but not purrs. You know he tried to save you when he was still a child. You know he came back for you so many times as an adult. You know he wants you, and you want—

I flap my hand desperately in a physical manifestation of my internal attempts to fling the thoughts away from me. I’m not ready to admit what the darkness inside me already knows and keeps prodding me to accept. “We’re friends,” I snap at myself in a whisper. “Nothing more.”

The voice laughs, rubbing velvety smooth across the expanse of my mind before disappearing like it was never there.

I know it’s only biding its time, waiting for the right moment to sneak out and snap me back into the version of me that sneaks out a little more each day.

The problem is I’m starting to think the voice is the real, unfiltered me.

The one I’ve suppressed for all these years.

With a confused sigh, I continue my trek to the kitchen on tiptoe, so I won’t wake Sam.

He works so hard at the hospital, then he comes home and has more work to do because of me; he hasn’t ever asked me to contribute in any way or done anything besides lightly coaching me on how to avoid bodily areas that increase risk of death and require more immediate time and effort to patch up.

I can help. I can contribute, even if it’s only in some small way. Maybe I can make us dinner? That would be good. Sam needs to eat more than cereal during work days. Yeah. I can do that.

Decided, I nod emphatically as I slip into the kitchen, flipping on the under-cabinet lighting as I go. I turn to the fridge and pull it open, grabbing the turkey and cheese before shutting it gently with my foot and pivoting to the counter with my collection of sandwich fixings.

Things already look so much less bleak knowing I have a plan to help around the house, and I find myself humming, dancing in place like I used to do so many years ago. My feet turn me towards the living room, and I barely contain a shriek when I see a huddled mass shifting on the couch.

The surprise turns quickly to rage that someone would break into our house.

Where Sam is.

My fangs drop and claws extend, a hiss exploding out of my mouth as I abandon the kitchen, prepared to destroy the intruder.

How dare they come anywhere near my Sam.

In the back of my mind, there’s something about this demanding my attention, telling me it’s not what I think it is, but the darkness has taken over. I’m seeing through a scarlet haze as I close in on the couch, ready to defend what’s mine, when I see Sam’s prosthesis lying on its side.

I blink. Tilt my head. Blink some more. It can’t be anyone else’s, not with the custom 3-D print job his friend, Dillon, did to make the shaft look like a dark forest rather than a standard prosthesis. But why would it be down here?

The uncontrollable protectiveness recedes, allowing me to take in all the small details I missed before, including the blankets spread over a vaguely human shape and, above it all, barely visible above the fabric, a face more familiar to me than my own and disheveled dark hair.

I swallow around the lump building in my throat as I step closer to the couch, staring at Sam’s sleeping form.

He slept downstairs. For some reason, that seems monumental for him to do, even though, in reality, it’s such a little gesture of caring.

Especially since, if I hadn’t come out of my room for food, I never would have known he had done it.

Without thinking, I reach out to brush his hair away from his forehead, stroking the silky strands gently as I do. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” I ask his sleeping form. I can’t think of anything that I’ve done in my life that has made me worthy of this man.

I want him.

And, for the first time since the dark voice started talking to me all those weeks ago, I don’t interrupt the thought or ignore it because, scary though it may be, it’s true.

The blankets shift before sleepy hazel eyes open.

“Lila?” Sam rasps. “What time is it?” He scrunches up his face and presses his palms against his eyes, rubbing at them for a second before dropping his hands. His gaze snaps back to me. “Are you okay?”

I must take a second too long to respond because he’s throwing the blankets over the couch back, pushing himself up and pivoting on the couch, one hand skittering across the floor towards where his prosthesis fell. Heart clenching in my chest at his sweetness, I touch his shoulder.

His attention comes back to me immediately. “What happened?”

“Nothing, nothing, my darling,” I reassure him, pushing him back to the couch gently. “Nothing’s wrong. Go back to sleep.”

“Are you sure?” He searches my face, his body telling the lie of his alertness as he slumps to the soft velvet cushions beneath him.

“Of course,” I murmur as his eyes slide shut. “Go to sleep.”

He’s drifting back to sleep so quickly I might be concerned if he hadn’t once told me it was a skill he perfected during med school. I’m about to turn away when he mumbles, “Wanted to be close in case you needed me.”

And in that moment, standing over Sam as he dozes off, I fall a little bit in love with him.

The realization is so jarring that I wander ghost-like through the house for hours, unaware of what I’m doing until I’m standing next to the bed with one of Sam’s medical textbooks in my hand and no memory of how I got the book or back to my room.

I can’t even say with any certainty whether I put the deli meats away.

The only clear thing is the budding feelings I have for him.

When I crawl into bed, accompanied by emotions that scare me beyond any fear I’ve felt before in my long life, I expect to toss and turn. Instead, I fall into a deep sleep.