by Palmer, Dee
“But have no trouble competing with the daylight robbers,” I mumble, and she smiles so brightly I know she heard every damn word.
“So where are you staying?”
I sigh because, even if I don’t tell her now, she’ll find out soon enough.
“The Lodge.”
“The one that belongs to the Kraus family, you mean?” She tilts her head, curiosity creasing her brow, and she grins with an air of optimism that perhaps I might be more forthcoming. I’m not, and her suspicions will go unsatisfied.
“The very one.”
It was a hunch that the spare key would be in the flowerpot by the back door, although I was pretty confident I could slip the latch open on the kitchen window and climb in if I needed to. Still, I’m thankful I don’t have to scale the coal bunker and balance on a sill of crumbling rotten wood to gain entry. Even if I weighed the same as I did when I was at school, I am worn weary by recent events, and I’m struggling to haul myself in through the front door as it is. The stale, damp air hits me in the face like a pungent time hop, an assault to my nostrils and memory. I flick the hall light on and am knocked sideways with overwhelming sense of nostalgia. My last visit, I didn’t even look in the window when I returned after my release from prison. I barely paused at the driveway, headed directly up to the Hall, got what I needed, and got the hell out.
Everything is as I remember. I hated this place.
I guess I assumed it would’ve been cleared out when my mother died. My bag slips from my shoulder, and I place the door key on the sideboard. My finger absently swipes the thick dust clean in a streak, exposing dark glossy mahogany. I suck back the surge of emotion threatening to teeter my fragile self over the edge. I never thought I’d be so happy to be proved wrong and standing in the entrance of the place where I grew up. I never thought I’d be so happy to be home.
Pulling my cases to the bottom of the stairs I step over them and take my recently purchased supplies to the kitchen. The harsh florescent light flickers, casting eerie shadows on the wall before bathing the small room in far too much artificial light. The small pine table and other surfaces are clear of typical life-confirming debris: upturned cups on the drainer, a greasy butter knife with a mix of jam and breadcrumbs, a fresh coffee stain on the table or the faint trail of steam rising from a recently boiled kettle. Stark evidence the heart of the house flatlined a long time ago. Yet this house feels like a home, my home.
When Logan handed me the folder from Mr Waterhouse, he said it contained a list of my assets, properties around the world and bank accounts at my disposal, as if that would help somehow. It didn’t, and I still haven’t looked in the folder. I wonder if it eased Logan’s conscience at all. He has to be reeling from what he’s done. I know he loves me, and I know because of that, the threat is both crippling and terrifying. It is for me too, but I thought we were together in this, in life. And I didn’t get a say. I’m not sure I will ever forgive him for choosing this option.
Regardless of what assets and properties might be in the folder, though, I know this is where I need to be to gather the broken pieces of my life.
I was right to come here. I feel it in my bones, a connection to something more than mere bricks and mortar. I just hope it’s enough to pull me through because, right now, I feel like I’m freefalling into the abyss, and I no longer have a net.
I’d convinced myself for so long, it was just me, and all that time I had Logan. My hand steadies the buckle in my knees, resting on the kitchen table as the enormity of everything hits me like a fucking freight train.
You don’t know what you have until its gone.
A heart-rending howl shatters the silence in the room and hurts my soul with raw, visceral pain clawing from the deepest most broken part of me. I can’t quite believe I’m making that god-awful sound, and I can’t stop. I crumple to the floor. Nothing is going to hold me up; nothing is closing this floodgate, and nothing is going to stop me from drowning. I sink deeper and deeper and for so long, I know I’m completely lost when I start to hear things, a familiar voice I shouldn’t be hearing.
“Hey, princess.” Eyes so deep and enticing I will happily remain submerged, even if I know it’s just a dream. “Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” His strong hand lifts my chin, and he wipes away the tears with such tender surety, my eyes dry at his seemingly magical touch. This is a dream. It has to be a dream, and I don’t care. I’m going to cling with both hands to the comfort seizing my heart for as long as it lasts. Illusive, wondrous and fleeting as dreams always are, I feel the warmth of his nearness ignite the spark in my stone cold, broken heart.
“Atticus,” I exhale, sorrow filling every particle of air holding his name.
“Princess,” He strokes my cheeks, and his touch feels like heaven, lifting my senses from the numbness consuming me. My body shudders from the contact and awakens the agony eroding inside.
“It hurts so much.” Holding the point, I feel it most with an angry clenched fist.
“I know, baby. I know, and I’m so sorry.” His other hand covers mine and pulls it away from my chest.
“I love him. I love you, and I’m all alone. How is that fair?”
“You have me.” He drops his head to one side. His gaze is intense with understanding and certainty. I wish I shared a fraction of that resolve. I shake my head, pull my hand from his, and cross my arms for support and protection.
“I don’t have anyone. You’re not real. I’m dreaming you because I’m utterly alone.”
“You’re dreaming of me because you are mine and I’m yours.” He counters with a cocky quirk of his blonde brow.
“I’m dreaming of you because I’m here, in my old home. Trust me, give it another day and I’ll be dreaming of him.” I scoff and instantly regret the picture of hurt, however brief, darkening his expression. He rallies, cupping his hand possessively around my neck.
“Perhaps, but tonight it’s me in your dream. It’s my chance and I’m going to take it.” His lips press against mine, urgent and hungry, coaxing my compliance and making it difficult to breathe.
Do I even need to breathe in dreams? I can do anything I want, this is my dream, and it feels too good to be anything else. And my reality is too fucking painful to bear. I want this; I want this dream.
“Make me forget everything.” I speak against his soft lips.
“No,” He growls and his pupils dissolve to inky blackness, erasing all traces of brilliant blue.
“No?”
“No, princess, I’m going to make you remember.” His lips cover mine, soft and sure and dizzyingly perfect. He lifts me in his arms with no effort, and while I catch the breath he stole, we glide up the stairs and into my old bedroom. The bed is freshly made and seems to hold my frame like a familiar coat around my body when he lays me down. His large body hovers over mine and he just gazes at me. The tears in my eyes trickle and the vision before me is hazy and illusive. I reach up to touch the apparition and smile when the touch feels real, feels good. His strong jaw has a light dusting of bristles which tickle my palm, and when he turns his head, I can feel the same lips from only a moment before kiss my palm.
“Atticus I’m not—” I’m not sure what I was going to say when he silences me with a well placed finger on my lips.
“Shh, princess, I’ve got this.” He drops to my side and shifts and manoeuvres my body so my back is to his front, and his arm lays heavy on my waist. His head rests just above and on the side of mine so we are almost cheek-to-cheek. I can feel his warm sweet breath ebb and flow across my face. He eases his knee between my legs and hooks my leg back over his. His hand skims the waistband of my leggings, and when his lips begin to nibble the shell of my ear, his long fingers descend down the front on my pants.
“Mmm, oh god,” I shudder when one finger sinks along my surprising wetness. He groans in my ear as I wantonly open my legs to give him better access. If this is my dream, I may as well enjoy it. His lips suck my lobe into his hot mouth,
and he drags the soft flesh through his teeth, biting down to the delicious point of pain. I roll my hips and push my backside against his erection. I try to turn but his fingers cup between my legs, one just at my entrance, and he prevents me from moving with the firmness of the hold.
“No, princess, this is about you. I want to watch you fall, and I want to catch you when you do.” I look ahead and see the standing mirror in the corner of the room perfectly reflecting our entire image. His eyes meet mine and I agree. I am so ready to fall into that deeply erotic gaze and dark desire emblazoned on his strong Nordic features. His smile widens with pure wicked intent when I drape my arm up and back around behind me and around his neck, an open invitation to do his worst, if ever there was one.
I’m glad this is a dream. Even I’m judging my lack of morals. I seem to make a habit of slipping out of one bed and straight into another.
“I’m just trying to ease your pain princess, that’s all,” he whispers, and I shiver with the warm brush of his breath on my neck. Yes, yes that’s all this dream is. My heart is broken, and I need a distraction from the devastation. Since a sinfully sexy dream is what my subconscious has conjured up, who am I to argue?
“Mmmm,” I sigh when his finger dips inside me, first one then two, and he moves them at such a languidly luscious pace it’s like he’s coaxing my climax from a much deeper place indeed. “Atticus!” I cry out when he twists and rotates, working his fingers in a scissors motion and squeezing a third inside me. I feel the stretch as he pushes farther inside me, and my tummy tightens with the delicious pull of pleasure from every sensitive nerve he teases. I grip the short hair at his neck and squeeze as the first wave of tingles starts to build.
“Keep your eyes open, princess.” His hoarse voice is strained and his command is timely. I desperately want to squeeze my eyes shut. The intensity of the feral look he is boring into me feels too real. I obey and return his gaze. His lips part, and I feel the rush of his exhalation. My compliance seems to give him equal, if not more pleasure than what he’s drawing from my helplessly willing body.
“Oh god, yes!” My leg snaps away from his and slams closed around his arm. His fingers continue to dive and delve into my depths as far as they can, with the angle of his arm despite the fact that it is now wedged between my trembling thighs. In and out, twist and turn, deeper and more, until ungodly pleasure shoots like an exploding supernova, bursting inside me, the inevitable result of just the right curl of his finger, just the precise amount of pressure on the perfect spot. My building climax escalates. Ripples become waves, and sparks ignite the powder keg inside me, a heavenly detonation sending me higher and higher as his expert fingers eek the very last trace of euphoria from my body. Only when I can no longer breathe without gasping or see without stars permeating my vision does he stroke and tenderly kiss me back to the land of blissful nights and endless dreams.
“Ah!!!” I scream at the sight before me. My hands snatch the bed sheet to cover my nakedness. I try and calm my heart from beating right out of my chest and wrack my brains at what the hell is going on.
“What? What’s wrong?” Atticus moves from the doorway and is instantly at my side, dipping the bed with his weight. He reaches for me, and I scramble away, farther up the bed until my head cracks the wall. Careful to keep the sheet close I wave an accusatory finger at the apparition in all its godly glory.
Oh god, it wasn’t a dream.
“You! You!” I utter, feeling the first shock of shame like a tidal wave.
“Yes me, although I think I prefer when you call me God.” His nefarious smile is perfectly accompanied by his playfully wicked glare and teasing tug of the sheet. His voice drops a little lower, and it feels like sensually smooth velvet over sensitive skin. “I very much like the sound of ‘Oh God!’ falling from your lips the moment you c—”
“Atticus!” I screech my interruption, feeling the heat of humiliation sprint like a hellfire across my chest and neck, settling like a mask on my beet red face. “What are you doing here?”
“Hoping to make love to you again, but judging by the look on your face, I’m now sort of hoping you’re not going to call the police.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender.
“You’re not a dream?” I feel like such a dumbass for saying it out loud.
“Flesh and bone, princess.”
His eyes dip to the sizeable erection he’s not remotely interested in hiding, and I bury my head in the sheet in my clenched hands, crying out in muffled mortification.
“Oh God!”
“Hmm, yes, now that’s more like it.” I feel the bed dip again as he presses his hands flat, his weight shifting as he starts a slow, predatory crawl over the surface toward my huddled form. I hold my palm out, halting him before he gets too close. Bolting the stable door comes to mind.
“No! No! And put some clothes on, Cass. This is not happening.” I tuck the entire sheet aggressively around my body to ensure maximum coverage and stomp the short distance to the bathroom. Atticus has the decency to suppress the beginnings of a wicked, knowing grin itching to dominate his smug, handsome face. I’m so furious right now, I just don’t know with whom. I get a sick twist in my gut that it’s most likely me.
After several soul searching minutes, I peek out of the door. I heard the creak of the floorboards a little while ago when he supposedly went downstairs but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s tricked me with that one, scaling the wall like Spiderman to avoid making a sound and scaring the crap out of me in the process. However, I feel safe enough to venture back into my bedroom since there’s the smell of cooking breakfast and enough noise from pots and pans to make me think the Swedish Chef is preparing breakfast.
Tugging my jeans up my legs, I smart at the ache in every single muscle as I perform the most basic task of getting dressed. I take a second look at all the red kiss-shaped bruises on my inner thighs and curse my slutty self.
How heart broken can I be exactly, to not just welcome Atticus with open arms but wide open legs too.
Fuck, I feel sick. Oh, shit I’m going to be sick. I rush to the bathroom and heave mostly liquid into the bowl until my stomach rolls angrily that it’s got nothing left to give. I don’t remember the last time I had a full meal, which is a good thing at the moment because I’m unable to keep much of anything down. If I didn’t know better… “You’re a slut.” I scold my reflection in the mirror, only I can’t hold my gaze for too long, I’m so ashamed.
“You’re not.” Atticus’s eyes crinkle at the edge with obvious concern, and his tone is deeply irritated and clipped with reprimand. “You’re dealing with a lot of shit, Tia, and you sought comfort in the arms of someone who loves you and who you love. Nothing wrong in that. If it gives you comfort, you were pretty convinced it was a dream—almost had me believing it for a while—and then you did that thing…”
“Atticus please, not helping.” I groan with self-loathing and quickly rinse my face. Rubbing it dry on my t-shirt, I look up and meet his reflection. “It felt like a dream.”
“It was better than any dream.” He boldly holds my gaze, and I find I can’t look away. He’s always been so sure, so confident, and he was always mine. His soft smile is warm, wide and familiar. This is a fucking mess.
“You’re not supposed to be in the country. How are you here? Why?” To stop my wayward thoughts, I fire at him with more pertinent questions.
“Come on downstairs, I’ve made sausage and egg sandwiches and crappy coffee. We can talk. I think it’s long overdue.” He flashes a cocky wink, and I let out a flat laugh at his biblical understatement.
“Yeah, long overdue.”
He looks strangely comfortable sitting at the end of the small bench seat, twisting at the waist so his long legs can find enough room to spread. Mine manage to fit with my knees skimming the underside of the table every time I move. I lick the salty grease and ketchup from my lips and push the empty plate away.
“Mmmm, this is so good. I didn’t
realise how hungry I was.” Picking up the coffee, I take a sip and wash the taste of breakfast down with the bitter bite of unsweetened coffee. I wrinkle my nose and make a mental note to myself to get some sugar.
“I did,” He chuckles, “Your rumbling stomach kept me awake most of the night, well, that and your snoring.”
“I do not snore.”
“Oh yes, you do, but it’s cute.” He taps my nose, gathers the plates and starts to wash them up. “So why are you here?”
“Long story.” I try to shrug but the weight of everything prevents even that small dismissive gesture. I shuffle around so I’m facing him, with a leg either side of the bench seat.
“Think I have time enough to spare. I’ve got nowhere else to be right now, princess.” He peers over his shoulder and raises an encouraging brow.
“And why is that exactly?” I sniff and tighten my lips. If this is a Q and A session, it’s going to start with his As. He rubs his hands dry on his jeans and swings his leg over the bench so he is straddling the wood directly in front of me and his knees are touching mine.
“Okay, what do you want to know?” He hunches so we are eye level, and I feel the heat from his body like a tropical storm, intense and a little bit scary.
“You told everyone who I am?”
“I did.”
“Why? I don’t want any of it. It’s like a poisoned chalice, Cass. I’m not interested in any of it.”
“None of it? What about Tartarus?” He tilts his head in genuine surprise.
“Not even the Hall, or what’s left of it. No.” My tone is adamant even as I can feel the turmoil of mixed emotions. I really don’t know. I let out a heavy sigh and offer with a fair degree of reticence, “Maybe I do want the lodge, since I have nowhere else to go.”
“You’re very wrong about that. Look, Tia, if you want to sell it all and simply have a fat bank account, do it. The point is: Now, you can do whatever you want. However, I had to make sure everyone knows who you are. It was the only way to keep you safe.” His throat bobs with the effort to swallow, and I sense the subtle shift from informative to serious.
