Page 32 of Grim

Storm.Coming.

I trail my fingers across the spines of the books lining my home’s built-in bookshelves, the whisper of leather and paper grounding me in a way my body no longer can.

Two tall columns flank the doorway, the top shelf stretching across like a crown above the entry.

Sometimes, I take as much solace in the spines as I do the stories contained therein.

I don’t just love reading books; I love looking at them, almost as if the titles etched down the sides contain the full knowledge of the pages bound within.

It’s as though I can absorb the full dramatic weight and entirety of the exploration of the human condition within each of these books simply by reading the title.

Even the books I have yet to read fill me with a power and a wonder by the mere fact of their existence.

There’s something sacred about unread books.

The promise of them, the reminder that there is always another story out there, waiting to be shared.

And I need that comfort right now. My mind races, and I feel myself beginning to spiral again. The thoughts begin to hit, subtle as a pinprick and just as sharp. My heart stutters. A dull, familiar ache flares beneath my ribs, a reminder that I’m a ticking clock, wound too tight and worn too long.

What about my story? Mere days remain, and I feel the staggering weight of that knowledge pressing down so relentlessly that it steals my breath.

Death is a certainty. Fate comes for us all.

But the when remains a mystery so we can live free in our moments without fear or foreboding.

Kane might have saved me, but he doomed me in the same breath.

Gave me back time in such an exacting way that it makes enjoying the seconds of it nearly unthinkable.

“Nearly,” I repeat to myself, voicing the weak affirmation out loud.

I don’t remember walking, but I’ve somehow drifted to my couch like I’m already a ghost in my home. My body moves without command now, like it’s trying to conserve what little energy I have left for the things that matter.

I crack open the spine of my leather-bound notebook, my private collection of musings and poems, opening to a fresh page. Is there anything as daunting as staring at a blank page? Death perhaps.

Only one thing for it: time for me to make the most of all the words that come before The End .

I grab my pen and begin to furiously scribble out a new sonnet.

Measured rhymes and structured meter give a shape to my imaginings and form to my dreams. The stressed/unstressed rhythm of the syllables of each line celebrates the constancy of a beating heart.

The imagery and metaphor celebrate the truths found all around us.

The words pour forth, surrounded by a sea of asides, crossed-out attempts at brilliance, and naked stabs at saying something worth saying.

The stanzas begin to take shape on the page as a slowly lumbering Esther makes her way toward the couch.

I pause to watch her eye the distance from the floor to the couch, steel her constitution, and make the graceful, if labored, effort in a split second.

Her back curls as she preens in satisfaction at having made her mark, even with all her mass.

She promptly walks from the cushion to my lap, tickles my thighs with her protracted nails, curls up, and lies down. Within seconds, she is asleep.

I smile wanly at her gently pulsing belly as she breathes steadily.

Her sleeping form brings me great comfort.

The way her body gently vibrates as she snores calms me.

The finitude of my time, the erratic beating of my broken heart, the impossibility of it all melts away when this loyal feline perches on top of my thighs and rests.

I jot down a closing couplet in my notebook.

My vision softens as I feel fatigue overtake me while reviewing my words.

I haven’t been awake long enough to already be tired.

I close the worn book, wrapping the string around the catch while letting out a yawn.

My head slumps back against the cushion as my pen slips from my fingers.

My eyes close of their own volition, and I feel myself fall.

The atmosphere hums like static against my skin—warm, electric. I’m standing in pitch darkness, jagged earth beneath my feet. The air filling my lungs feels thin and cold here. I look up, or what feels like up to me in this dark place, and see no light source in the sky. No sun. No moon.

I try to move, but I cannot feel the ground underfoot in any direction. I feel trapped, and my pulse quickens.

Just then, a pinprick of light appears before my eyes.

It swims and swirls in tiny arcs around me, and I follow it closely.

It lands on a figure standing in the distance.

Her curvaceous outline speaks of a soft femininity.

Her auburn hair pours in waves over her shoulders.

The small light dances in front of and around the unknown figure who looks statuesque in her stillness and her grace.

“Lead with love,” she whispers, and the light races away from her, casting her back into the pitch black.

I follow the light source as it travels in front of me and lands on another figure. This form is hard, sharper, and angled. The broad shoulders and trim waist could belong to only one man.

Kane.

I know it’s a dream. But I don’t care.

He stands an unknown distance away, the light bouncing off him in stark relief. His hooded eyes stare at me hungrily. Not the usual dark resignation he wears like armor. This is something rawer. Looser. Dangerous in a way that makes my knees tremble .

The small, floating light zips toward me, resting near my feet and lighting a path to tread toward Kane. I move cautiously and intentionally closer. When the light pulls us within inches of each other, I look up at him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice hoarse. “This isn’t safe.”

“Then why are you?” I counter, barely above a whisper.

His jaw tics. “Because I can’t stay away.”

My pulse stutters.

He moves toward me fractionally, and that’s all it takes.

I’m in his arms in a rush of breath and reckless motion, fists curled in his shirt, mouth crashing into his.

His kiss is fire. Heat, chaos wrapped in reverence.

He drinks me in like he’s been dying of thirst and I’m the last drop of water left in the world.

His hands roam—slow at first, almost worshipful, then more desperate. One slides up to cup my jaw, and the other presses low against my back, pulling me flush against the hard line of his body. I can feel him—every inch of him. And it’s not enough.

“I dream of this,” he groans against my mouth. “Of you.”

My fingers tangle in his hair. “Then stop holding back.”

“Rue,” he growls—an actual, low sound in his throat—and his lips trail to my neck, my collarbone.

His teeth graze skin, and my knees nearly buckle. I feel him smile there, unrepentant and wicked. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

His mouth moves lower, dragging the strap of my dress down with agonizing patience, exposing my shoulder. He kisses the spot reverently, his breath hot. “This isn’t real.”

“I know,” I say on a pant. “But let me feel something while I can.”

My words break him. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The friction between us draws a soft, involuntary moan from my throat, and his gaze darkens.

His mouth is back on mine—rougher now, urgent.

One hand grips my thigh; the other cradles my skull like I’m breakable. And maybe I am.

“You haunt me, Mayday,” he murmurs, his mouth against the shell of my ear. “Every fucking second.”

And then he’s gone.

I choke on a broken exhale as my eyes come into focus on the space around me. The room has not changed since my eyes closed, save for the outline of a small child sitting—or rather, sort of floating—in the chair opposite the couch, his legs swinging lackadaisically.

“’Ello,” Seek sings in his soft Cockney accent.

“Hi, friend,” I rasp, my throat feeling dry. “What are you doing?”

“Watching you. Kane’s orders. No mischief, he said.”

I laugh humorlessly. “That figures. Wondered why I wasn’t chained to the refrigerator or something.”

“He said I’m your responsibility until he gets back from seeing his boss. Wait, no, said that backward. You’re my responsibility until he gets back.”

“You probably weren’t supposed to say anything at all, Seek. But I appreciate your honesty.”

“Oh, well, I hope I’m not in trouble then.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell the Big Bad Reaper you told me. And I won’t get into any ‘mischief,’” I say with air quotes, “while he’s gone.”

“Great. What do you want to do until he returns then?”

I smile softly at his excitement.

“I was writing before I dozed off, but I’m not feeling particularly inspired right now. How about we do some reading?” I suggest while gesturing to my bookshelves.

His brows pinch together as his head falls to one side. “I don’t know how to read.”

“What?” I ask with more incredulity in my voice than I intended.

I hope I didn’t sound hurtful. By the look on Seek’s young face, I might have .

“Never learned,” he says simply. “Not much use for an orphaned chimney sweep to learn how to read. Who would have taught me anyway?”

Pursing my lips, I shake my head. “I don’t care for that one bit. Would you like it if I read to you?”

Seek’s face lights up as if I gave him a gift. “I would love that!”

“Can you pick the book? Esther has me rooted to the spot here, I’m afraid.” I motion to the still-slumbering cat on my lap.

“Of course.” Seek bounds over to the bookcase behind me. “But which one? I can’t read the words on the sides of any of these.”