Page 19
Story: When Death Whispers
18
The feeling of being watched won’t go away. It clings to me like static. Crawling up the back of my neck. Nestling in the space between thoughts. Not terrifying, exactly. Just… constant. Like something’s waiting. Watching. Wanting.
Even with Hudson just feet away, rummaging through my cabinets like he’s the one that pays the rent, the air feels charged. Not in a bad way, more like a low thrum beneath my skin. I tell myself it’s exhaustion. Or adrenaline. Or maybe the afterglow of the most vivid fucking dream I’ve ever had.
But that doesn’t explain why my skin tingles every time Hudson brushes against me. Or why my heart picks up speed whenever he gets close.
We orbit each other in the kitchen—too close, too aware. I reach for the honey right as he reaches for a spoon, our arms brushing. A flash of heat rockets through me. My breath catches in my throat, but I try to play it cool. He mutters something about how I own more types of tea than actual food, and I try to laugh, but it comes out breathy.
Not because I’m nervous.
Because I remember.
I would be a damn liar if I kept telling myself that having Hudson here in my space isn’t affecting me. I thought at first that I was doing him a disservice, that he’d be better out there, taking his chances without me, because the longer he stays the more danger he’ll have to deal with. But he came back, and he seems more at ease in my kitchen than at the bakery, which is saying something considering the guy usually oozes self-confidence when working.
This is different though. I’m seeing a different side of Hudson, one I feel he may reserve for only the few he trusts. He’s letting me see his vulnerability, and his loyalty, and I can’t help but feel honored that he thinks I’m worthy. Even if he was forced into that position by my volatile situation.
And dammit, now I want to know if he feels as good as he did in my dream. For real. It’s been too long since I’ve had any type of human connection, allowed myself to even think of having one.
Still lost in my musings, I stretch up to reach a tin on the highest shelf and?—
Hudson steps in behind me.
His chest presses against my back, steady and warm. One arm lifts past mine, close enough that the scent of him—clean, citrusy with a hint of vanilla—fills my lungs. My stomach flips. His breath ghosts along the side of my neck.
I swear my knees almost buckle.
When I glance over my shoulder, he’s right there . Ocean-blue eyes locked on mine. His gaze dips to my lips, then back up again—lazy, heated. Familiar.
A memory flashes like lightning behind my eyes. His mouth on mine. His hands everywhere. My body arching into his, desperate for more.
The way he looked at me in that dream like I was his.
Would the real Hudson look at me like that too?
Does he feel the same pull I do?
He seemed interested enough before. I was the one running away from the very idea. Would he still want… more knowing what he knows now?
His other hand tentatively slips under the hem of my hoodie, the tips of his fingers lazily brushing the skin of my stomach, making heat coil low and fast like it had in my naughty fantasy.
He presses closer, his head leaning just a bit more, his eyes flashing like he’s having a debate with himself on whether to go all in or not.
Kiss me. I dare him with one gaze, one thought.
But he doesn’t inch closer, now moving his hand slowly to my hip, then my ass, retracing spots that are still strangely tender but shouldn’t be. As if the Hudson behind me is a mirror of my dream one.
Why does it feel so real even when I know it couldn’t have been? Why does it feel like he was there too, not just as a figment of my imagination?
But no. It was just a dream. A really vivid, really inappropriate dream.
Still, the flush rising in my cheeks doesn’t care what’s real and what isn’t. My fingers clench around the tin, heart hammering.
I decide to go for playful and light to break some of the tension I swear I can taste on my tongue in the hopes that the real-life Hudson may be willing to go for more. Later. When our lives don’t feel like they’re in danger and I don’t have the ever-constant feeling of something watching my every move.
“Damn, Hudson. Having a taller roommate is going to come in handy around here.”
I feel his chuckle from the base of my spine all the way to my neck and some of the lingering feelings of unease dissipate a bit.
“You know, I can be useful for other things too.” He punctuates his double meaning with a squeeze of my ass, then steps back, giving me room to turn around and look up at him.
Fuck. I want to know what else he’s good at. I bet a lot of things. The man clearly has some skills with his hands when it comes to cake decorating.
“Oh yeah? Like what? Other than making toast and coffee, I mean.”
He shoots me a smirk that speaks of all kinds of naughty things, then grabs the tin out of my hands and turns around to pour hot water in a mug.
“Well, I’m also good at making PB&J sandwiches, and I’ve recently learned how to make a pretty dirty cup of tea.”
His eyes sparkle with mischief when he says the word dirty. Maintaining eye contact, he grabs a tea bag sachet and slowly, very slowly, rips it open with his sexy-as-sin mouth, holding the corner with his teeth.
My imagination instantly runs completely wild about other little packets he can rip open like that, in very different situations.
And fuck me, my pussy weeps at the sight.
I need a cold shower, or a vibrator, or my vibrator in the cold shower. “I, uh… just remembered I left my phone in my room,” I blurt, barely stringing the words together.
Hudson doesn’t call me on it. Doesn’t laugh. Just leans casually against the counter and smirks like he is fully aware of what’s going on in my head. “Don’t take too long, or I’m eating the last of your peanut butter.”
And the fucker scoops a spoonful straight from the jar and slowly licks it with the flat of his tongue.
I run into the counter in my haste to escape. And then he laughs. A joyful, carefree sound that makes my heart squeeze and my insides turn as warm as liquid honey.
“Touch my peanut butter and die,” I yell over my shoulder as I head toward the hall.
His laughter follows me and I flee.
Sort of.
In my room, the heat follows. Lingers. Sticks to my skin like a second layer. I press a hand to my chest, trying to slow my pounding heart. I’m not even sure if it’s Hudson’s closeness, his cheeky innuendos, or the memory of him inside me—of that dream, that forest, the shadows.
The wind picks up outside, whistling low against the windows like a warning. It’s subtle at first—a quiet hush pressing against the house in the night, then a soft tap-tap-tap at the glass like someone’s fingers dragging slowly across it.
I freeze.
Something’s off…
The usual background noise—the hum of the fridge, the creak of the floorboards where Hudson moves—it’s still there. But distant. Muted.
Then my bedside lamp flickers.
Once.
Twice.
The bulb flares unnaturally bright… then goes out.
Darkness rushes in like a held breath finally exhaled. But it’s not the whole house—light still spills faintly from beneath the door. So, just my room. Just me. Fantastic.
A prickle of unease spreads across my skin.
The silence presses in, heavy and thick, like the walls themselves are closing in around me. Like I’ve been tucked into some hidden seam of space, pulled from the fabric of the house and folded somewhere else entirely.
And then I hear something. A moan. Quiet, drawn-out. Familiar.
Because… It’s mine.
The same sound I made in the shower when the shadows first touched me. The same breathless cry from my dream—when Hudson was deep inside me, and those same shadows wrapped around us both.
A wave of lust crashes through me, pulsing low in my belly. My legs squeeze together involuntarily, like they’re trying to contain something already unraveling. I feel Hudson’s warmth inside me, like an echo. The imprint of his hands. His mouth.
The stretch. The sting. The need.
I’m not imagining it.
And I’m not alone.
The air thickens, crackling with his energy. He’s here. Watching. Waiting. Always waiting.
“ My sweet Snow Pea,” he rasps against my ear, impossibly close.
I spin, stumbling back. My heel catches on the edge of the rug, and I stagger until the backs of my knees hit the mattress. I reach behind me for balance—fingers clutching the sheets—just as something brushes against my thigh.
Not harsh. Not painful. Just deliberate.
I gasp.
A shadow coils around my calf, slowly, like it’s tasting me. Another tendril slips beneath the hem of my pajama pants, spiraling up, curious. Possessive.
I fall onto the bed, heart crashing in my chest. The darkness gathers around me—thick, alive—curling around my legs, slinking up my sides.
It doesn’t hurt. It lingers. It learns.
The tendrils spiral along my hips and thighs. Cold, then warm. Barely there, then all-consuming. The sensation is impossible to describe—like it’s bypassing my skin entirely and feeding straight into my nervous system.
My breath shudders out of me, and I know I should scream. I know I should fight.
But I don’t.
Because a sick, twisted, fucked up part of me wants to know what happens if I don’t.
A teasing stroke glides over the inside of my thigh. I feel it through my clothes like the fabric isn’t even there. My head falls back as a shiver races through me, and a whimper—traitorous, soft, hungry—escapes.
The shadows pause as if they’re listening.
The air trembles, like they’re waiting for permission.
Then they press in again—hungrier now. Bolder. The darkness slides along my ribs, my waist, curling around my neck like a hand. I clutch the edge of the mattress, hips arching forward like my body’s been waiting for this specific sensation. Like it knows exactly where I need to be touched.
My knees part. My hips rock, chasing the sensation I shouldn’t want but do anyway.
And that’s what ruins me. The honesty of it. The sheer, helpless need.
I hate how good it feels.
I hate that I don’t want it to stop.
A pulse ripples through the air, and something inside me pulls. Not just physical—but soul deep. Like a string tethered to something ancient and dangerous is being drawn taut, stretched until it hurts.
And just before it can snap?—
An explosion of light.
My bedside lamp flares to life, bright and sudden and wrong, like the room is trying to pretend it was never dark at all. The shadows vanish so fast it sucks the air out of the room with them.
I stand up too fast and immediately crumple forward onto my hands and knees, gasping. My skin still tingles where he touched me. Phantom pressure lingers across my thighs, between my legs, along my throat. I can still feel the outline of where the shadows had wrapped around me. Owned me.
My body hums. Not just with fear.
With want.
That’s the most terrifying part. The need that coils tighter with every beat of my racing heart.
I’m still on the floor—knees pressed into the rug, fingers curled into the carpet like it’s the only thing anchoring me to this reality. My body hums with aftershocks. The shadows. The touch. The ache that refuses to leave.
And then?—
Something shifts. Not a sound. Not exactly. Just a change in the air. It grows dense. Warmer. Thicker. The scent of brimstone hits next—sharp, smoky, edged with something ancient. My breath stutters, chest tight. The hairs on my arms lift, and I look up?—
A voice, low and sharp and distinctly not human, cuts through the silence.
“No one touches what’s mine.”
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19 (Reading here)
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 65