Death's Obsession

I shift my hips and try to dispel the imagery and feelings as wetness pools between my legs. I tear another page out of my notebook and scribble:

Then let me see you.

I fold the note into an origami crane and place it where his letter sat, then pack away the leftovers while nursing another glass of wine. There’s enough left for me not to worry about food for the next couple of days. Thank you, Faceless Man.

When the bench is completely cleared and the candle snuffed out, I pad drowsily over to my bedroom, slip into my robe, then crawl beneath the sheets.

Just before sleep takes me, I realize three things: I didn’t take my medication, I’m still wearing his necklace, and my paper crane wasn’t on the bench when I went to bed.

Chapter four

Lilith

Darkness swirls above, a pool of ink and charcoal. I swear I can see faces in the shadows, ascending into the beyond.

I’ve heard that black holes are stars that have collapsed in on themselves and when they do, shockwaves ripple into space, never to be complete again. From then on, a once shining star becomes a waste of space, living dead, pulling gravity so that not even light can escape.

My fingers twitch, wanting to reach for it, wanting to be pulled into the bowels of obsidian so that maybe when I close my eyes, I finally won’t open them again.

Light reaches for the edges of the darkness, like murky waters clawing at the sand. The orange light of a hundred candles flickers and dances across the trees, casting skeletal shadows from the leaves. It smells like an extension of the Faceless Man, the sinister side that will only come out at night. Despite the ominous place, I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere before.

My heart skips a beat when I actually feel my surroundings. Instead of a damp forest floor, I’m splayed across a bed of the softest velvet. The chill of the air doesn’t bite my skin. Insects hum all around, and at once, the orchestra stops.

“You look beautiful in your bed. But you are utterly breathtaking in mine.”

I gasp as I jolt upright to see him leaning against a tree, and I’m winded by the sight of him. His face is still concealed beneath his hood, but his sleeveless cloak parts to reveal a gallery of moving tattoos along his skin, and pants that hang dangerously low on his hips. Everything about him is deadly, and pure sin. Each shadow cast across each muscle on his stomach is another nail in my coffin, pushing me deeper and deeper into the bed.

I track each swirling tattoo across his chest and down his arms. In the flickering candlelight, shadows dance along his forearms and hands, making each protruding vein seem intimidating and mouth-watering. I wonder what those hands would look like wrapped around my neck. Would his tattoos mock me as he takes me to within an inch of my life, squeezing tighter and tighter while light dances behind my vision?

I suck my bottom lip as I follow the line going down his stomach, then the deep V leading to a place that I have only ever seen in my imagination. Though, I guess a dream constitutes my imagination. But I swear the bulge of his pants moves when I lock my sight on the large dent.

I look down at myself and immediately become self-conscious. I’m in nothing but his necklace and a thin white linen robe that splits just below the area that should be kept hidden, and the top dips low to my navel, a hint of my scar peaking through. I scramble to right the gown, but it does nothing to hide my nipples that can be seen through the fabric.

The fact that I can’t tell where he’s looking only makes me more self-conscious, like maybe he doesn’t like what he sees, or maybe he’s about to go in for the kill.

“Why are you here? What is this place? Where am I?” I pester him with questions, hoping he’ll answer.

I take the time to properly look around. The bed that I’m on is in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by a hundred candles of varying sizes, forming the shape of the Faceless Man’s symbol. Only this time, I’m in the middle of it.

It’s like I’m being offered up to a higher power, a sacrificial lamb here for the slaughter. Would I say no, or would I let him have his way with me?

It doesn’t really matter what I do, I realize, because this is just a dream. I’ll wake up tomorrow feeling even more guilty and no less lonely. I’ll be back to having contact and co

I run my fingers through the soft red velvet blankets and matching cushions. Grabbing the blanket, I try to pull it up to cover myself so he doesn’t see how hard I’m squeezing my legs together or just how obvious my nipples are at the sight of him like that or any trace of my scars.

Just beyond the line of candles, the Faceless Man says, “When my dark storm summons me with the promise of letting me taste her, I come.”

The space between my legs grows damp, and it only gets worse when he pushes off the tree and stalks toward me. A predator that has finally cornered his prey. A demon that has finally found a soul.

When he steps over the candles, they blaze even brighter. Goosebumps pebble along my skin, but not from the cold.

Even though I can’t see his face, he’s walking toward me like he’s going to devour me, lick and bite every inch and not leave a single crumb.

“I didn’t summon you,” I whisper, foolishly crawling as far back from him as possible.

He stops and cocks his head. “No?”

I blink, momentarily transfixed at the sight of his body from his nearness. I shake my head. “I never did that.” I have to tear my eyes away from the hard muscles of his body and to the forestry around. There’s almost an otherworldly hue to it. “Is this a dream?”

“No.”

He’s lying. This must be a dream.

He starts walking again, his steps slower than before like he wants to drag out his hunt until he reaches the end of the bed. I pull my knees to my chest and cross my ankles to hide myself from him.

The bed dips when he leans forward, placing his weight on his hands pressed flat on either side of the bed. Every inch of him is hypnotic, not just because of the smoke dancing on his skin, but because he’s sculpted like a Greek god.

“I told you that I will be tasting you.” I scream when he darts his hand out to grab my ankle and pull me to the edge of the bed, so that I’m at his mercy. “And I am not a liar, Lilith.”

I squirm beneath him when the cold air caresses my center, and I try to shift my hips to tug the robe down, but he grabs my wrists and holds them above my head with a single hand. The combination of the two moves has a whimper escaping my throat. I swear somehow the shadows beneath his hood darken.

“This is just a dream,” I say to myself, rather than him.

“Tell me, my love.” He drags his free hand from my ankle, up my thigh and to my hip, slowly, ever so slowly, holding it down when I try to shift away from him. Then he moves his hand between my legs. I buckle when a whisper of a touch slithers over my lips, making me feel like this is definitely real.

“Do you often dream of me between your legs?”

As if his soul is pulling away from his body, a dark shadow forms behind him, growing in size and unfurling like a true creature of the night. The shadow has to be eight feet tall at least. It mimics the Faceless Man’s every move like it’s an extension of himself. Even though I can barely see the shadow’s silhouette, I can just make out the barrel chest and the width of his arms that are bigger than the size of my head. Still, this form is identical to the Faceless Man’s.

I try to move away as the shadow develops a mind of its own, reaching for my throat and wrapping its cool fingers around it. The pressure doesn’t hurt, but it starts a deep pulse between my legs as it—he—steals my breath.