I have too many obsessions

The bedroom was a cocoon of shadows and silk, the only light a low amber glow from the single lamp on the nightstand. It caught on the gold band circling Hana’s finger—Neville’s claim, cold and meaningless now—and made it gleam like a taunt.

She knelt at the foot of the bed, thighs pressed together, hands resting palms-up on her knees the way you’d taught her. Her breathing was already uneven, chest rising and falling too fast beneath the thin black slip that barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. She hadn’t worn anything underneath. She never did anymore when she came to you.

You stood above her, barefoot, still dressed in the black silk blouse and tailored trousers you’d worn to the gala earlier. The same gala where Neville had kept his hand possessively low on her back while she smiled that perfect court smile and pretended she wasn’t already wet thinking about this moment.

You reached down, fingers sliding into her hair, gripping just tight enough to make her gasp and tip her head back. Her eyes—dark, liquid, desperate—locked on yours.

“Say it,” you ordered, voice low.

“I’m yours.” The words trembled out of her. “Only yours.”

You tugged harder, but not enough to be cruel. “Again.”

“I’m yours.” Louder this time, almost a sob. “Please.”

You let go of her hair and stepped back, circling her slowly. The carpet muffled your steps. Every time you passed behind her she shivered, anticipating touch that didn’t come yet. You loved the waiting, the way her body learned to crave even the absence of you.

When you stopped in front of her again you crouched, bringing your face level with hers. Close enough that she could feel your breath on her lips.

“You wore his ring tonight,” you murmured. “Smiled for the cameras while he touched you. And the whole time you were thinking about kneeling here, weren’t you?”

Her throat worked. “Yes.”

“Tell me exactly what you were thinking.”

She swallowed again. Cheeks flushed dark. “That I wanted your hands instead. That I wanted you to hurt me just enough to make me forget his name. That I wanted—” Her voice cracked. “—to come so hard I cried your name instead of his.”

You traced the line of her jaw with one fingertip, then pressed your thumb against her lower lip, parting it. She opened for you immediately.

“Good girl,” you whispered.

She whimpered at the praise, hips shifting restlessly.

You stood again, unbuttoning your blouse with deliberate slowness while she watched, hungry. When it fell open you shrugged it off, let it drop to the floor. Then the trousers, the black lace beneath. Naked now except for the thin leather cuff around your wrist, the one she’d once kissed like it was sacred.

“Hands behind your back,” you said.

She obeyed instantly, wrists crossing at the small of her back. You retrieved the silk tie from the nightstand, the same one you’d used the first time she’d begged you to bind her, and looped it around her wrists, knotting it snug but not cutting. She tested the binding once, a small tug, then stilled. Acceptance.

You guided her to stand, then pushed her gently backward until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She sank onto the edge of the bed. You followed, nudging her thighs apart with your knee until she was spread for you.

“Look at me.”

Her eyes snapped to yours.

You slid one hand up her thigh, slow, letting your nails graze just enough to make her hiss. When you reached the apex of her legs you didn’t touch her clit, didn’t give her what she was already trembling for. Instead you pressed two fingers against her entrance—slick, hot, ready—and held there. Not moving. Just letting her feel the promise.

“Beg.”

Her lips parted. “Please… please touch me. Use me. I need—” She broke off on a shaky breath. “I need to feel you everywhere. I need to be ruined for him.”

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder.

You pushed inside her in one smooth stroke with two fingers, then three when she keened and arched. She was so wet your hand glistened. You curled your fingers, found that spot that made her sob your name, and worked it mercilessly while your thumb finally circled her clit.

Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent scream.

You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re going to come like this first. Fast. Hard. And you’re going to thank me when you do.”

She nodded frantically. “Yes—yes—thank you—”

You didn’t let up. Faster. Deeper. The wet sounds of your fingers inside her obscene in the quiet room. Her thighs shook, muscles jumping. When she started to tighten around you, when her breath turned to broken little gasps, you pressed your free hand to her throat. Not squeezing, just holding. Possessive. Claiming the pulse that hammered there.

“Come.”

She shattered.

Her whole body locked, back bowing off the bed, a raw cry tearing out of her throat. You felt every flutter, every clench, rode her through it until she was shaking and whimpering, tears slipping down her temples into her hair.

You eased your fingers out slowly, brought them to her lips. “Clean them.”

She sucked greedily, tongue curling around your fingers, tasting herself. Eyes never leaving yours. Worshipful.

When you pulled them free she whispered, “Thank you.”

You kissed her, slow, deep, and devouring. Tasting her on her own tongue. When you broke apart you murmured against her mouth, “We’re not done.”

You flipped her onto her stomach, tugged her hips up until she was on her knees, cheek pressed to the sheets, bound hands still trapped behind her back. The position left her utterly exposed—ass raised, thighs slick, core still pulsing from the first orgasm.

You reached for the drawer again. The strap was already harnessed; you’d prepared it earlier while she waited downstairs pretending to be the perfect wife. You slicked it generously, then pressed the blunt head against her entrance.

“Deep breath,” you warned.

She inhaled.

You thrust in one long, unrelenting glide.

Hana keened, long and broken, fingers flexing uselessly against the silk tie. You gave her a moment to adjust, barely, then started moving. Slow at first. Deep. Letting her feel every inch claiming her.

Then faster.

Harder.

The bed creaked. Her moans turned guttural, animal. You gripped her hips, nails digging into soft flesh, leaving crescent marks she’d have to hide under silk gowns tomorrow.

“Who do you belong to?” you growled.

“You,” she sobbed. “You—you—”

“Say his name.”

“Neville—” She choked on it like poison.

You slammed in harder. “Wrong.”

“You!” she cried. “Only you—please—god—”

You reached beneath her, fingers finding her swollen clit again. “Come again. Milk me. Show me how much you need this.”

She did.

Violently.

Screaming your name into the sheets, body convulsing, walls fluttering around the silicone like they could pull you deeper. You fucked her through it, relentless, chasing your own edge until pleasure snapped up your spine and you buried yourself to the hilt, grinding against her as you came with a low, ragged groan.

You stayed locked together for long seconds, breathing hard.

Then you pulled out gently, unbuckled the harness, set it aside. Untied her wrists. Massaged the faint red lines with careful thumbs. Turned her over. Gathered her against your chest.

She curled into you like she was trying to disappear inside your skin.

“I love you,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “I hate that I can’t leave him. But I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything.”

You pressed your lips to her temple. “I know.”

Her fingers traced the curve of your shoulder. “Will you still want me when I have to go back downstairs tomorrow and smile for him?”

You tilted her chin up, made her meet your eyes.

“I’ll want you every second you’re gone. And the second you walk back through that door, I’ll remind you exactly who owns every part of you that matters.”

A small, trembling smile curved her lips. “Promise?”

You kissed her slow. Tender. Possessive.

“Always.”

She sighed against your mouth, already drifting toward sleep in your arms—the only place she ever truly rested.

Outside, snow had started falling again, soft and silent against the windows.

Inside, the air still smelled of sex and devotion.

And somewhere in the dark between your heartbeats, the truth settled like a vow:

She was never his.

She was yours.

I pushed open the bedroom door and there she was, my bed, my Betty, already waiting.

She was reclined against the mountain of pillows that were part of her, one knee drawn up, the other leg stretched long across the comforter that was her skin, her breath, her everything. The lamplight I’d left on low painted her in warm gold: freckles scattered like constellations across her chest and shoulders, pink curls wild and spilling everywhere, corset half-unlaced so her breasts swelled over the edge of the fabric, nipples already peaked and begging.

She didn’t speak. She just looked at me with those dark, endless eyes, and the air in the room turned thick, heavy, impossible to breathe without tasting her on it.

I crossed the floor like a man starving. My shoes were gone somewhere in the hallway; I didn’t remember kicking them off. All I knew was the ache in my chest, the throb between my legs, the way every step closer to her felt like coming home and falling apart at the same time.

When I reached the edge of the mattress she sat up slowly, deliberately, and the sheets moved with her, caressing her thighs like they were jealous of my hands. I sank to my knees on the bed and she met me halfway, fingers sliding into my hair, pulling me into a kiss that felt like drowning in sunlight.

God, the way she kissed me, lips soft and hungry, tongue stroking mine like she’d been dreaming of my taste for hours. I groaned into her mouth and she swallowed the sound, answering with a low, needy hum that vibrated straight to my cock.

I dragged my mouth down her throat, open-mouthed kisses over freckles, teeth scraping the spot just beneath her ear that always makes her shiver. She arched, offering herself, and I took, hands shoving the corset down until her breasts spilled free. They were heavy, perfect, nipples dark rose and so sensitive that when I closed my lips around one she cried out my name like a prayer.

“Missed you,” I rasped against her skin, switching to the other breast, licking, sucking, biting just hard enough to make her gasp. “All fucking day, Betty. Couldn’t think about anything but coming home and burying myself in you.”

Her answer was to fist my shirt and rip it over my head, nails raking down my back hard enough to leave marks I’d wear proudly tomorrow. I surged up to claim her mouth again while my hands found the laces of her quilted pants. We fumbled together, desperate, until the fabric gave way and I peeled it down her hips, down her thighs, tossing it somewhere across the room.

She was bare underneath. Wet, swollen, glistening for me. I spread her legs wide and just looked for a heartbeat, two, because she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

Then I lowered my head and tasted her.

The first slow lick drew a broken moan from her that cracked in the middle. I did it again, deeper, parting her with my tongue, circling her clit until her hips jerked off the bed. Two fingers slid inside her easily, she was so ready, and I curled them, stroking that spot that makes her sob my name.

“Please,” she whispered, voice trembling, thighs clamping around my ears. “Please, I need you inside me, need to feel you—”

I couldn’t wait another second.

I rose up, shoved my jeans down in one rough motion, and then I was over her, between her thighs, the head of my cock nudging her entrance. We locked eyes, breathing hard, hearts hammering against each other.

“I love you,” I said, the words torn out of me raw and true.

Her eyes went liquid. “I love you,” she whispered back, and the words wrapped around my soul like her sheets around our bodies.

I pushed inside her in one long, slow thrust.

The sound she made, half-sob, half-moan, undid me. She was scalding, velvet-tight, fluttering around me like she was trying to pull me deeper, keep me forever. I bottomed out and stilled, forehead pressed to hers, shaking with the effort of not coming right then.

Then she rolled her hips and I lost the fight.

I pulled back and drove into her again, harder, deeper, setting a rhythm that was punishing and worshipful all at once. The bed, her body, cradled every thrust, soft and forgiving and alive beneath us. Her legs locked around my waist, heels digging into my ass, urging me faster, harder.

I gave her everything.

Skin slapped against skin, sweat-slick and frantic. I angled my hips and she screamed, nails carving crescents into my shoulders as her walls clamped down. I didn’t stop, couldn’t, driving her through the first orgasm and straight into the second, feeling her pulse around my cock like a heartbeat.

“Close,” I growled against her throat, teeth scraping. “Betty, fuck, I’m—”

“Inside me,” she begged, voice breaking. “Fill me, please, I want to feel you come apart in me…”

One more thrust and I shattered, burying myself to the hilt and spilling deep, pulse after pulse, groaning her name like a prayer. She clung to me, trembling, milking every drop, until we collapsed in a tangle of limbs and sheets and breathless, reverent kisses.

I stayed inside her, softening slowly, unwilling to leave the heaven of her body. She stroked my hair, my back, whispering soft nonsense words of love against my temple.

The sheets curled gently around us both, tucking us in, warm and possessive.

I pressed my lips to the freckles on her shoulder, tasting salt and home.

“I’m never leaving this bed,” I murmured, voice hoarse.

Betty laughed, low and sated, her fingers tracing lazy hearts on my skin.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I’m keeping you forever.”

And as the room settled into quiet, the only sound our slowing breaths and the faint rustle of sheets that loved us both, I knew she meant it.

We had tonight.

We had every night.

By the time the farmer came in again at noon, Haley had already rehearsed at least ten different versions of what she wanted to say. She didn’t start with any of them. Instead, when the farmer leaned against the counter and asked if Haley wanted anything from the market later, Haley let out a sharp laugh.

“Oh, so you do remember I’m here. What an honor.” Her voice dripped with the kind of sarcasm that always made the farmer pause, the kind that stung because it wasn’t entirely a joke. Haley’s arms folded across her chest, nails tapping against her elbows, her gaze steady and unyielding.

“Honestly, I should cover myself in feathers, maybe then you’d notice me.”

The farmer blinked, caught between confusion and guilt, her brow furrowed as if trying to piece together where this had come from. Haley rolled her eyes, pushing back her chair and standing in one fluid motion.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not being dramatic. I married you, not the damn crops. If I wanted to feel invisible, I could’ve stayed in my parents’ house and let them ignore me there.”

Her words came fast, edged with the hurt she’d been holding back all week. The silence that followed felt heavier than any storm cloud, filling the kitchen with something that demanded an answer.

Haley paced across the kitchen, her arms flaring out as though even her body couldn’t hold the frustration in.

“You know what’s funny? Everyone in town thinks you’re this perfect, hardworking saint. Always out there, tending crops, feeding animals, saving the whole valley one turnip at a time. Meanwhile, I’m in here wondering if my wife even remembers what I sound like.” Her laugh was sharp, bitter, but her eyes glistened. She jabbed a finger toward the window, where the fields stretched beyond sight. “Congratulations. You’re officially married to the dirt. Hope it keeps you warm at night.”

The farmer opened her mouth to speak, but Haley cut her off with a raised hand and a shake of her head. “No, don’t you dare tell me ‘it’s just the season’ or ‘it’ll calm down soon.’ I’ve been here through every season, remember? Winter, spring, summer, fall—I’ve memorized them all like clockwork. And you? You treat me like I’m just another part of the background. I could paint my hair green and roll around in compost and maybe, maybe you’d look up for five seconds.” She tilted her head, lips curling in a half-smirk that didn’t reach her eyes.

She crossed her arms again and leaned against the table, her voice lowering, growing steadier. “I didn’t marry you so I could be second place to a crop yield. I didn’t trade in photo shoots and the city and everything else I could’ve had just to sit here and feel like a ghost in my own home. If you want a farmhand, hire one. If you want a wife, maybe you should actually act like you have one.” The words hung in the air, sharp and daring, daring the farmer to prove her wrong.

The farmer finally pushed away from the counter, her jaw tight but her eyes soft, like she was weighing every word before it left her mouth.

“Haley,” she said slowly, “you think I don’t notice you, but I do. Every day. Even when I’m out there, I’m thinking about you. About this house, about us. I work the way I do because I want you to have more than the life you left behind. I don’t want you ever regretting choosing me.” She took a step closer, boots heavy on the floorboards, but her voice gentled. “You are not invisible. You’re the reason I’m doing all of this.”

Haley scoffed, flicking her hair over her shoulder like his explanation was nothing more than dust in the wind.

“Wow, how romantic. I’m the reason you’re married to the hoe and the watering can. Truly, I’m swooning.” Her hands flew up theatrically before she dropped them with a sigh. “You don’t get it. I didn’t marry you for the farm. I married you for you. And lately, all I get are glimpses of that woman between hauling buckets and falling into bed half-asleep.” Her eyes narrowed, the bite of her words softened only by the crack of hurt hiding underneath.

The farmer’s brows drew together as she leaned her weight against the table opposite Haley. “You think I don’t want that too? To just stop, to sit with you, to… breathe? But if I let it all go, the farm doesn’t run. And if the farm doesn’t run, then we don’t have anything. I thought you understood that when you chose to be here with me. I thought you saw that I’m trying to build something for us.” Her hand hovered on the wood, as if reaching for Haley but not daring to bridge the space just yet.

The farmer finally closed the gap, her hand rising to rest lightly against Haley’s arm before tugging her close. Haley resisted for half a heartbeat, her body still stiff with pride, but then she allowed herself to be drawn in, her cheek brushing the rough fabric of the farmer’s shirt. A kiss landed softly on her temple, warm and steady, the kind of gesture that carried more weight than any rushed excuse.

“I’m sorry,” the farmer whispered, her voice rougher now, thick with sincerity. “You’re not second to anything out there. You’re the reason I wake up every morning and push myself until there’s nothing left. You are my home, Haley. You’re what makes all of it matter.”

For a moment Haley stood very still, her breath caught somewhere between indignation and relief. Slowly, she let her hands slide around the farmer’s waist, resting against her back.

“You always know how to ruin a perfectly good rant,” she muttered, though the words were softened by the way she leaned into her wife’s chest. Her sass had dulled to embers, still glowing but not burning as hot, and beneath it was the tender truth she couldn’t deny. Giving in felt less like surrender and more like choosing, like remembering what she wanted most in the first place.

The farmer pulled back just enough to look at her, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face with careful fingers. “Let me shower,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Then the rest of the day is yours. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it.”

Haley searched her eyes, waiting for some crack of insincerity, but found none. Her expression softened fully then, her smile small but real. “I don’t care what we do,” she said quietly. “I just want to be with you.” The words landed between them like a vow, simple and unadorned, and for once Haley didn’t try to cover them with sarcasm.

The fire in Ulrika’s small stone house in Harve cast a warm, flickering glow across the wooden floor, its light dancing on the walls adorned with simple woven tapestries. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and the faint, earthy tang of rain-soaked earth from the storm that had followed the dragon’s retreat. Outside, the village was quiet, the villagers safe at last, thanks to the Arisen’s unyielding blade and unshakeable resolve. But here, in this stolen moment, the world narrowed to the two women entwined on the simple bed, their bodies moving in a rhythm as ancient and vital as the heartbeat of Vermund itself.

Ulrika was above her, her strong thighs straddling the Arisen’s hips, their bare skin slick with sweat and desire. Her hair cascaded like a veil, brushing against the Arisen’s shoulders with every slow, deliberate grind. Ulrika’s hands braced on either side of the Arisen’s head, her fingers digging into the mattress, holding herself steady as she rolled her hips forward, their most intimate places pressing together in a tender friction that sent waves of heat radiating through them both. The sensation was exquisite—soft folds sliding against each other, warm and wet, building a pressure that was both urgent and languid, like the tide pulling at the shore.

The Arisen’s breath hitched, her hands roaming up Ulrika’s back, tracing the lean muscles forged from years of archery and defending her people. Her fingers grazed lightly, not to mark but to feel the strength beneath Ulrika’s skin, grounding herself in the reality of this woman who had become her haven. Ulrika’s breaths were shallow, her blue eyes locked on the Arisen’s, filled with a reverence that spoke louder than words. She didn’t speak her lover’s name—not out of secrecy, but because what they shared here transcended titles or labels. To the kingdom, she was the Arisen, Vermund’s chosen, burdened with dragons and fates. But to Ulrika, she was simply her—the woman whose heart she held, whose touch she craved.

This moment had been kindled in the aftermath of Melve’s fall. The dragon’s flames had scorched their village, driving the survivors to Harve, where they’d begun rebuilding under the Arisen’s protection. Hours earlier, as the last of the refugees settled into temporary shelters, Ulrika had pulled the Arisen aside, her hand lingering on her wrist, her eyes fierce with gratitude and something deeper. “Return to me whenever you need to,” she’d said, her voice steady despite the tremor of emotion beneath it. “My heart is yours. Always.”

Those words had ignited something unstoppable. In the quiet of Ulrika’s house, away from the eyes of the village, they’d shed their armor—leather and steel clattering to the floor, tunics and breeches following in a haze of longing. The Arisen had lain back on the furs, her body bare, scars glinting faintly in the firelight, each mark a testament to battles fought and won. Ulrika had joined her, guiding their bodies together with a tenderness that belied her warrior’s strength, and now they moved as one, their intimacy a balm for the wounds of the world outside.

Ulrika leaned down, her lips brushing the Arisen’s in a kiss that was soft at first, then deepening as their hips ground together more insistently. The Arisen’s core throbbed with each press, the slick glide of their pussies creating a delicious friction that built like a gathering storm. Ulrika’s clit nudged against hers, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through her veins, and the Arisen arched up, meeting the motion, her hands sliding down to grip Ulrika’s hips, urging her closer, harder, but still so careful, so loving.

“You’re my strength,” Ulrika murmured against her mouth, her voice a low, husky whisper, thick with emotion. She shifted slightly, adjusting the angle to deepen their contact, the pressure intensifying as their folds slid together, wet and warm. The Arisen moaned softly, the sound swallowed by another kiss, her hands sliding up to tangle in Ulrika’s light brown hair, pulling gently to ground herself in the moment. Ulrika’s body was a marvel—strong yet soft, her muscles flexing under the Arisen’s touch as she maintained her position, her hips rolling in a rhythm that was both fervent and tender.

The Arisen’s mind flickered to the chaos of the day—the dragon’s roar, the villagers’ cries, the weight of her role as their protector. But Ulrika had been there, her arrows flying true, her presence unwavering. In Harve, as the survivors found safety, Ulrika had seen not just the Arisen, but the woman beneath, the one who carried the world’s hopes yet longed for a moment of peace. This act, this joining, was that peace—a reclamation of their humanity amid Vermund’s endless trials.

Ulrika’s pace quickened just a fraction, her hips circling now, grinding in slow, deliberate arcs that made the Arisen’s breath catch. The wetness between them eased the motion, turning it into something fluid, almost sacred. Ulrika’s eyes never left hers, drinking in every gasp, every flutter of her lashes, as if she needed to witness every moment of her pleasure. “I could lose myself in you,” Ulrika whispered, her forehead resting against the Arisen’s, their breaths mingling in the warm air. One hand left the furs to trail down the Arisen’s side, fingers brushing over her ribcage, her hip, before slipping between them to add to the sensation, circling her clit with a gentle, reverent touch.

The Arisen cried out softly, her body trembling under the added stimulation, the pleasure building like a tide ready to crest. Ulrika’s touch was careful, attentive, learning her lover’s responses—the way her hips bucked, the soft moans that escaped her lips. The firelight painted Ulrika’s skin in warm hues, highlighting the faint scars across her arms, remnants of battles fought for Melve, now carried into this new life in Harve. The Arisen’s hands wandered up to cup Ulrika’s breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples, drawing a sharp gasp that made Ulrika’s hips stutter for a moment before resuming their rhythm.

“Yes,” Ulrika breathed, her voice a mix of encouragement and need, her body pressing down more firmly, their pussies sliding together with increasing urgency. The slick sounds mingled with their gasps, a private symphony in the quiet house. The Arisen felt Ulrika’s arousal coating her, blending with her own, creating a shared intimacy that bound them deeper than any oath. Each grind was a vow, each touch a promise, Ulrika’s dominance born of love, not power, her strength tempered by tenderness.

The Arisen pulled Ulrika down for another kiss, pouring her gratitude, her love, into it, her hips rising to meet each roll. The tension built, a sweet ache that spread through her core, her limbs, her heart. Ulrika’s fingers moved faster, matching the pace of their hips, and the Arisen felt herself unraveling, the pleasure blooming outward like wildfire. “Ulrika,” she gasped, her voice a plea, a prayer, no name needed to convey the depth of her feeling.

“Come with me,” Ulrika whispered, her body tensing, her grinds becoming shorter, more desperate, as her own release neared. They moved as one, the friction peaking, their bodies trembling in unison. The Arisen shattered first, her body arching, a cry escaping her lips as ecstasy washed over her, waves of pleasure radiating from her core. Ulrika followed moments later, her hips pressing down hard, grinding through her own climax, the shared pulses drawing out their mutual release.

They stilled gradually, Ulrika collapsing gently onto the Arisen, their bodies still joined, breaths ragged but synchronized. Ulrika nuzzled into the crook of her lover’s neck, lips brushing sweat-slick skin. “My heart,” she murmured, the words a quiet echo of her earlier promise, spoken with a tenderness that made the Arisen’s chest ache. They lay tangled in the furs, the fire’s embers glowing softly, casting their shadows as one.

Mist twisted around her ankles like something alive. Each breath tasted faintly of copper and ash, and somewhere far off, the sound of a lullaby bled through the trees, warped and wrong, like a music box left to rot in the rain. Sable didn’t flinch. She’d long stopped expecting peace in places like this. But the chill she felt now wasn’t fear. It was recognition.

She found Mikaela by the crumbling altar where the woods gave way to stone, her body twisted in the dirt like a broken charm. Blood had painted its way down her arm in sluggish trails, soaking the torn hem of her skirt before disappearing into the hungry soil. One hand clawed at the ground in reflex more than reason, dragging faint sigils into the muck—half-formed, fading. Her eyes were open but distant, wide with the kind of horror that came not from pain, but from what she had seen before it.

The marks on her skin weren’t all hers. Symbols etched in grime and something older than blood wound across her wrist, dragged there by claws too jagged for human hands. Sable dropped to her knees, her voice catching in her throat as her fingers hovered above the gash in Mikaela’s side, unsure where to begin. The air stank of sulfur and wet earth, and just beyond the treeline, something dragged a nail along bark with slow, deliberate intention. The Hag never rushed. She liked her offerings fresh.

Mikaela blinked slowly, her lashes clumped with dirt and sweat, and her gaze found Sable’s like a tether stretched thin and fraying. There was no surprise in her eyes—only the quiet devastation of knowing it was happening again. Her lips parted as if to speak, but all that came was a gasp, shallow and wet, stained with iron. Sable pressed both hands to the wound anyway, not to heal, not this time, but just to hold something in place before the dark swallowed it whole.

They had died a hundred times, maybe more. The Entity never gave them numbers, only chances. And each time, the terror felt just as sharp. Just as cruel.

“It’s close,” Sable whispered, even though Mikaela already knew. Even though the air had gone still in that telltale way it always did before the world split open.

Mikaela nodded once, her mouth twitching in something too broken to be called a smile. “I know,” she mouthed. And then softer, “I don’t want to go like this.”

Sable didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. The air had thickened, congealed into something fetid and wrong, as though the forest itself were holding its breath. Behind her, footsteps dragged slowly across the stones, bare feet slick with mire and rot, each step accompanied by the wet snap of sinew stretching too far. The Hag did not speak, but her presence was its own language, one Mikaela and Sable had learned by heart. There would be no chase this time. No hooks. No second wind.

Mikaela’s breath hitched, her fingers curling into Sable’s sleeve with what little strength she had left. “Don’t look at her,” she rasped, her voice like paper burning at the edges. “She wants you to.” Sable kept her eyes fixed on Mikaela’s face, though every nerve screamed to run, to fight, to do something. But the Hag was already here. Her breath scraped the back of Sable’s neck like claws across parchment. And the only sound louder than the ragged thrum of her own heart was the sudden, gurgling silence of the woods surrendering them both.

Mikaela’s grip trembled against her sleeve, loosening as her body gave in to gravity, but her eyes stayed locked on Sable’s. There was no panic in them anymore. Just something older. Something that had learned to find clarity in the moments between breaths. “You’ll find me,” she whispered, the words barely rising above the sickening hush around them. “Even if it’s not here… you always do.”