Page 42 of Storm

Stepping forward, he crowds my space. I am drowning in woodsy spice and whisky. My hands come up to stop his progress. As soon as the pads of my fingertips meet a warm, rigid chest, I squeal, falling back onto the softness of the mattress.

Melek smirks at my discomfort. “I’m a patient man, wife.” His consuming eyes travel the length of my body. The slit in my nightdress has risen to expose my inner thigh, and I am quick to cover my leg up, baring teeth at him.

“I hate you.” Hurriedly sitting, I have an eyeful of thick, veiny cock. My eyes bulge at the sight. He is hard, and I’ve done nothing to get him that way. Looking for a beat too long, Melek, having noticed my staring, skims his hand down his chest to squeeze the hardness, drops of pearly liquid releasing onto the floor beneath.

“Fuck you.” I scramble up the bed, ignoring the chuckle coming from the end, and hide under the covers. It is a childish move, but I can’t handle the tingling buzz that has found its way through my thighs and into the centre of me. It is hard to ignore. He is hard to ignore.

He’s still hard to ignore.

The bed dips beneath me, and I quickly shuffle to my end, away from the heated naked body under the sheets with me.

“Goodnight, wife.” His voice vibrates huskily through my veins.

I exhale loudly, begging my body to stop the building intensity tormenting my core.

As much as I want to indulge in the grunts I hear coming from the bathroom, the locket lying on the ground, under my vanity, comes first.

Trying my hardest to get out of bed quietly, I head for the closet, the water to the shower still running. My lungs draw inwards, the space between my bed and door further than usual.

I get there without pause. The water continues to run, and I snap up the closest robe to cover my naked body. Of course it’s Melek’s. The scent alone makes me look over my shoulder several times as I crouch to the ground, using the chair as leverage.

This second pregnancy has felt less taxing than my first, though with the extra weight around my midsection, I’m struggling with movements. She’s also quieter than Sunny ever was. Occasionally, I’ll feel the push of a foot or hand, like she’s letting me know she’s still there, waiting, watching. How I know she’s a girl, I can’t say, other than that she came to me in a dream. A flicker of light. Brilliant and blinding.

I want to be more for her. No daughter of mine will end up a breeding vessel for Halo. If she has grey eyes, maybe she’ll get to choose who she marries. I can’t risk that. The men of this world are brutal. Melek is not the norm. He is the exception that I saw in every hollow woman’s eyes at the party. The one they want. Not because they know him, but because, if they are going to be stuck in this hell, it may as well be with someone who screams walking orgasm. I don’t blame them for wanting that. It’s why I fell into his trap. The only hands he has ever laid on me in pain have always followed with pleasure. Any other hollow man would’ve taken my virginity from the beginning. No drawn-out waiting. No pleasure.

I can’t have that for my daughter.

The silver sticks out in contrast to the dark floor. “Thank fuck.” My heart retreats to a normal rhythm once I have the artefact in my hand. Sharp edges dig into my skin, the clasp to the worn paper inside opens. Yet when my hand rubs ‌the centre, it only finds cool metal, not the grainy texture of the paper Nix had used to write our pact.

Chest aching, I can’t lose the last piece I have of him. Not that. Anything but that.

Frantically, in the half moonlight streaming through the lone window, I push my hands around under the desk, praying I hit the slight note.

Solence pumping a deafening whoosh through my ears, my fingertips hit my target, and I exhale in relief. With the worn parchment in the centre of my palm, my eyes adjust to what is written. Hope. It should read hope. Opening and closing my eyes, I find the word has changed, moulding into another. One Nix constantly reminded me of, over and over. Fight. It’s wonky in parts, but even in the moonlight, I can make it out.

Flipping the paper over, I find hope still there. Solace washes over me. My brain is barely firing on all cylinders. He’s written two words instead of one. Two messages. “Oh, Nix.” I sob, placing a hand over my mouth to stop the noise.

Shakily putting back the mantra, I place fight facing out so I can see it upon opening the locket.

After witnessing the fairy, this feels like more than a coincidence. He’s telling me I have to keep going, keep fighting. I need to take whatever the fairy offers. For my children. For Nix. That much is clear.

“Wife?” Melek startles me, and I hastily open and close the drawer of my desk to secure the necklace. “What are you doing?”

Crouched on the floor in his oversized robe, I probably look irrational, untamed. “My hands were dry.” Clenched in my fist is a tube of vanilla-scented moisturiser I’d hastily secured while stashing the jewelry. Melek hates it when I use artificial scents on my body.

Even though I can barely make out his face in the lack of light, I can tell he’s scowling. Hopefully, the small lie is enough.

“Come.” He holds out a hand for me, body on full display. After twelve years, every muscle and line still floors me. My mouth is constantly dry when he flaunts himself in this way.

Standing, I lace my fingers around my husband’s. He pulls me near, holding my body firmly against his. It’s agony being this close. Those hollow irises showing depth, I hate to admit.

Fight. I’m leaving him.

My stomach twists.

Fight…

You hate him.