Chapter 3: Unquenchable Hunger from Deep Inside Me
1244 Words
IT STARTED with a fever beneath my skin.
Hot. Low. Relentless.
The second night, I could not sleep. My body felt too tight. My thoughts blurred. I kept hearing things — maybe the ghost of my darkest, sinful thoughts, but it was phantom footsteps outside my door, the rustle of fur in the dark, and a voice that oddly sounded like his. The phantom of my new reality. The man who got my heart pounding and my thighs to sizzle together.
Icarus.
I tasted his name on my tongue like guilt.
By morning, my nightgown was soaked and clinging to me. My skin was flushed, my thighs trembling, mouth dry, and I was sweating from head to toe, drenching the bed. I was surprised by how fast my heart was beating, at the state that I was in. I curled into myself and tried to breathe through the ache, but it was no use. Truly, I was stuck in this sensation. Burning me to death. Alive, but to death.
Something was calling to me.
And it was not a whisper anymore.
It was a scream.
~ ~ ~
I tried to hide it at first. I stayed in my room all day, hiding there like a goddamn coward. I took cold showers. I pressed my fingers between my legs and tried to quiet the need, the aching, there, in my core — but it only made it worse because I had no clue what to do. I was spiraling, truly. Going out of control. I could not take care of myself, my mind — it just went in circles at the same thing all over again.
My scent was changing. I could feel it in the way the air clung to me, in how heavy it became when I exhaled. The smell of me — it was odd. It was not me. The heat was blooming in my belly, a slow-burning fire I could not extinguish.
I was losing it.
What was happening to me?
What was wrong?
Was it the water? The air around here? The food?
What made me like this?
So many questions ran through my head, but none was given an answer. I could not find out what was wrong with me but I just knew — it had something to do with desire.
With lust.
With unquenchable hunger from deep inside of me.
~ ~ ~
On the fourth night, I heard his footsteps outside my room. I pressed a pillow between my thighs and clenched around it, muffling my whimpers. I was drenched for some reason. Slicked. I knew the reason, actually, and the thought of this forbidden feeling only grew it more. What was wrong with me, oh, God, what was happening to me? Was it always this hard — desire? Was it always like this — to want someone? It felt like I could not breathe without thinking about him. My body was changing. I did not understand any of it. I wished I had someone to ask. But even if my mother was still here, I could not have asked her.
My whole body pulsed.
Could he smell it?
I knew he was standing on the other side of the door, jaw locked, fists clenched, fighting himself not to rip the damn thing perhaps — but no. Maybe he was just making sure I was here and not wandering outside at night.
He stood there.
I wanted him to move.
I wanted him to break.
But he did not.
~ ~ ~
When dawn approached, I was dying.
Truly.
There was something incredibly not right with me.
Maybe it was the illness that Icarus had mentioned before. That scared me. I could not take it anymore, so I went to him. I found him alone in the study, his shirt was opened a few buttons, his hair was still wet, and his hands were ink-stained. If I did not know any better, I would think he was trembling. His hands clasped over an old leather-bound journal. His eyes were locked on the window.
He did not hear me at first.
Or maybe he did and he was just pretending.
I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me. The sound was soft — but final. I had invited myself in. His shoulders stiffened. He still would not turn to look at me. “I can’t breathe,” I whispered, hoping he could help. Maybe I needed to see a physician though I doubted any of them could do anything right now. He said nothing.
“It hurts,” I whimpered. I took a step closer. “Please,” I begged. “Help me. Make it stop.”
His head lowered. Shoulders tensed even more. When he finally turned to look at me — his eyes were wild.
Feral.
But he did not move.
“It’s your sickness,” he said hoarsely. “It’s early, but it’s really strong.”
“Help me. Is there any medication for this?”
“I —“
“Help me. Get rid of this.”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I just want this — ache — to be gone. I need you to help me. Please.”
His jaw ticked. “I can’t help you.”
“But — but — take me somewhere,” I pleaded with him. “Help me.”
“I can’t —“ he rasped. “I can’t help you.”
“But why?” I was desperate. My knees trembled. Still, I stepped forward.
“You were my wife’s daughter,” he said devastatingly.
I was stunned for a second.
“You’re still a child —“
“I am not.”
“You’re human —“
“What? What do you mean I’m human? You’re—“
Icarus growled. He gritted his teeth and looked away. I took another step. The heat made my movements sluggish, but I pressed on. His hand tightened on the edge of the desk. “I can’t breathe,” I repeated with a whisper. “I wake up — wet. From sweat, tears in my sleep — and this unknown fire inside of me. I’m shaking. Moaning —“ your name. “— and I’m just — I’m aching all over. I don’t know how to stop it. What is wrong with my body? I know you know the answer.”
He flinched. “I hear you,” he rasped. “Every night. Every broken little gasp.”
“I hear you, too, you know. Tell me.”
He tilted his gaze to mine. “I hate myself for listening.”
My breath stuttered. “Icarus —“
“Call me Sir or Lord of the Manor.”
I actually drew back, stunned that he could say something like that. I looked into his eyes. Silence. I stepped closer again.
“Icarus—“
His eyes shut tight. He lowered his head, forehead nearly touching the end of the table.
“Please, save me.”
Icarus shook his head. “There is no remedy. You just have to ride it out, sweet little thing.”
That night, I did not sleep again. I bit my pillow. I cried. I writhed. I begged whatever cruel gods made me like this to make it stop. But I did not.
I burned.
Alone.
While just down the hall, I knew he could hear me.
- Writer
