Page 31 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

I’ve been free of my chains for more than three months already.

Trauma is an odd beast, though. There are days where I can barely remember what it was like to be trapped in Arthur’s attic.

Other days, the memories of his sadism—all in the name of his next story, the pursuit of fame, forcing me to use my magic to inspire him and brutalizing me in the process—are viciously painful, and I remember the grip of his fingers on my flesh like it was yesterday.

The one constant, the one source of light in my life, is Sam.

A man millennia younger than I am who, in spite of the massive age gap, manages to understand me and my pain.

Maybe because of his own. Probably because he’s just that caring.

Possibly because our souls recognize something in each other.

Whatever the reason, he has become everything to me in the last few months.

I trust him in a way I’ve never trusted anyone before.

Nothing explicit has happened since our first kiss a few weeks ago. Not because we don’t want to. More because I know I’m not ready mentally, not after how I responded after kissing him.

Despite not having sex, we share little touches, quick, lingering brushes of flesh that are somehow as intimate as anything we could do naked. They almost mask how desperately I want more.

They don’t change the fact that knowing how Sam tastes haunts me; the fantasies of what could be—what will be, if I have any say about it—have become as much a part of my morning routine as saying good night to him.

I make us something that tastes and sometimes looks like food.

On nights he works, he comes home, checks on Arthur, showers, and eats whatever I put in front of him.

We talk about everything, no matter how important, and I fall for the sweet, intense, witty man sitting across from me a little more each day.

I shoo him away to sleep and clean up. Only once I’m done with all of that do I fall into my lonely bed—the one I want Sam in more than anything—and thumb my nipples with one hand while I slide the other between my legs, stroking my clit as I remember Sam’s taste and passion and wonder exactly how eager he’ll be to please me when we do finally take that step.

I come hard and fast, his name a throaty cry on my lips that I know he can hear through the floor.

Sometimes, I hear his own groans in return.

I wish I could be mentally ready for the next step. But I’m not. Not yet. Just like he promised, though, Sam doesn’t pressure me. He happily accepts whatever pace I’m willing to set.

I’ve taken precautions to ensure I don’t brutalize Arthur too badly.

After I realized how helpful Sam’s anatomy textbook was, I dove into the rest of his medical books to ensure I know what’s most likely to kill Arthur immediately outside of the obvious things.

When I have questions, I take them to Sam, whose face lights up with excitement.

Not because he’s happy I’m trying to save him work; it’s purely because he’s excited to share another part of his world with me.

As for me, I share everything with Sam. I want him to be happy, healthy, and well-rested.

So while I want to torture and maim—and yes, someday kill—Arthur, I don’t want Sam to have to work around the clock, first at the hospital, then when he gets home, to fix massive physical damage when I’m not ready to execute Arthur yet.

So I suppress the urge to dig my claws as deeply into Arthur as I want to, to rip out his throat with my fangs, because I know those would be fatal injuries Sam can’t heal. As much as I want Arthur dead, I want to make him hurt before then.

I’m not ready to end Arthur’s torture just yet.