Chapter 9: The Sting of Stillness

The fucking itch was still there.

She was there. 

It was that Matilda girl’s fault. She’d tried to entice him. And everything she lacked had been so blatantly clear. It created this fucking vacuum in his chest that yawned in its emptiness. Matilda’s eyes were dark brown, not hazel. Her frame was ample, not narrow. Her hair—it was all wrong. 

Aerion closed his eyes and sighed, remembering the sensation of his fingers running through those dark locks. Of the tension breaking as she cut off a tendril for him. Something stirred low in his gut. 

He let his mind wander. Let it trace the path it had taken many nights, for many months.

He stood by the harbor.

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OR

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Myrelle grapples with guilt and grief. Aerion struggles to stifle his obsession as he adjusts to Blackhaven.