Page 34 of Fear No Hell

Calliope

Four hours since I woke up from a dream of a mystical Sam that was so real I couldn’t fall back asleep.

Four hours of racing thoughts and arousal, both from the dream that lurched me into waking with an orgasm and the intimate way Sam wrapped one finger in a strand of my hair while he was eating and wouldn’t let go.

My hair is still tingling—an unexpected experience after two millennia of life where my hair had never felt anything before—from Sam’s touch.

Even before Arthur abducted me, I wasn’t a virgin.

Early in my life, I married a Thracian prince and bore him a son.

I took lovers over the years. My hair remained stubbornly unfeeling through all of it.

After Arthur, I thought I would never want another man to lay a hand on me.

What I didn’t expect is the rampant lust that tangles through me every time I allow my fury to take control of me in that basement.

The sharp desire and skin-tingling arousal that flood me as I drag my claws down Arthur’s limbs and peel long strips of flesh from his chest. The mind-melting pleasure of destroying his mind with inspiration.

It’s not generalized arousal. Honestly, it would be easier if it was.

All of my lust is focused on Sam. My sweet doctor who comes home from long nights at the hospital and patches up Arthur so I can rip him apart the next day.

I want Sam.

It has taken months for me to feel truly comfortable with how desperately I want him.

All of that has been me coming to terms with what happened to me and has absolutely nothing to do with Sam.

He’s beautiful, inside and out, and absolutely nothing like his monster of a father who imprisoned and raped me for decades.

Although I may have been virtuous and worthy of Sam before my time in the attic, I’m changing now, becoming more monstrous with each passing day.

The darkness that lingers inside of me is slowly taking over, luxuriating in the pain I dole out nightly.

Forcing me to accept this new violence and vengeance-loving version of myself.

Incredibly enough, I’m not scared. What I am is thrilled and so aroused at the end of every session with Arthur that I’m barely able to keep myself from jumping Sam when he walks through the door.

I'm seeing long-term physical changes too. My claws don’t recede anymore.

I have fangs that were never there before.

My features are becoming more angular, my cheekbones razor sharp.

In the right light, my eyes appear almost serpentine.

Something is happening to me that I don’t understand, and, especially after this morning’s dream, I’m worried that it might infect Sam too.

Or that I’ve already infected him with whatever’s transforming me.

He deserves better than what I’m becoming. My stomach hollows at the thought, a wave of nausea washing over me at the idea of Sam not being a part of my life anymore. As selfish as it sounds, I’m not sure I can bring myself to let him go.

Another bolt of lust rakes through me, settling between my legs, so intense I can’t stop the cry that slips out.

I’ve spent most of today in some state of arousal, worse than it usually is.

With a growl, I make myself stay, nestled under soft sheets that feel like sandpaper against my overly sensitive skin.

All I want is to walk up the stairs and crawl into bed with Sam. It would be so easy.

But I’m not sure I’m ready.

Not to mention, I’m not certain he’s ready for me to join him in bed.

Even though I know he wants me the same way I want him, I don’t want to pressure him into something he’s not comfortable with.

Especially since, with enough emotion and magic, my inspiration can become persuasion.

I've watched it happen with creatives in the past. I won't allow myself to harm Sam in that—or any other—way.

The fan spins lazily overhead, its rotation interrupted by a click halfway through each circle, while I whimper beneath it at the way my skin feels two sizes too tight, ill-fitting and painful because of it.

My thoughts are hazy and indistinct, always circling back to the beautiful man upstairs who’s sleeping in a guest bedroom in his own house so I won’t feel trapped.

I throw back the sheets and lower my feet to the floor, toes curling against the chilly wood.

The next blink, I’m standing by the door, clad only in Sam’s soft shirt.

Seconds later, I’m down the hallway, staring up the staircase to where Sam sleeps.

Everything feels dream-like, the world syrupy and slow around me, each blink leading me closer to Sam without any memory of actually moving.

I’m upstairs before I know it, standing in Sam’s open doorway.

In sleep, he looks relaxed, at ease and peaceful.

Before long, my eyes sneak away from his face, tracking down the length of his body.

The comforter slipped down sometime during the day, showcasing the muscular lines of his torso, the slight dusting of hair starting beneath his navel, the sizable looking bulge below where the bedding has gathered at his hips.

My mouth goes dry. I want to see all of him. I want to lick him from head to toe and use him for my pleasure. My stomach cramps with another surge of desire, and the growl I didn't even realize I was making tapers off into a pathetic whine.

Across the room, Sam twitches in his sleep before his eyelids open, those caramel irises bright in the dim light let in from beneath the curtains. “Lila?” The word is rusty, cloaked in drowsiness that doesn't quite hide the note of concern underneath it. “What’s wrong?”

I whimper again as he sits up, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand while he searches for the iWalk crutch he keeps next to the bed with the other.

“Lila, what’s wrong, sweetness?” The pet name, one he has called me hundreds of times before, makes me melt for him. “Are you okay?” Still not fully awake, he slides the crutch connection over his right leg and stands, walking quickly towards me once the iWalk is secure. “Hey, what’s up?"

I stare into those stunning eyes, narrowed on my face as he takes me in.

“I need you to talk to me.” He drops into his firm, commanding doctor voice. “You need to tell me what’s wrong.”

I’m shaking when I take the final step that brings my body against his, my hand resting on his chest as I glance up at him pleadingly.

He sucks in a deep breath at my touch. “Lila… ” The ragged way he says my name sends fire through me.

“Sam,” I say. “Please help me.”