Divine Contract

Denial

Wes had immediately gone to Tara’s dorm and after an hour of trying and failing to study because of what was going on next door, Lillian finally decided to give up and take a shower to cleanse herself.  She desperately needed one if she wanted to relax after yet another run in with Lucius.  After a thorough cleaning and shave, she’d been standing in the hot water, completely relaxed, when she heard a bang.

    At first, she thought it was just Wes and Tara again.

    Then it happened again but louder and it sounded . . . was it coming from her room?

    Her nerves worked over time as she turned off the water and stumbled out of the shower, quickly covering her body in the towel she’d had hanging on the back of the door.  When she stepped out into the hallway, she’d hesitated at her own apartment door, listening.  She was sure she’d locked her door before going to the bathroom so there was no way—

    A thump on the opposite side of her rooms’ door made her jump.

    Her knees felt weak as she realized she’d left her on her nightstand next to her bed to charge—inside the space where she’d heard the noise.  It was soft, just a light thud, but it was enough to make her suddenly feel cold despite the hot water, fear pulling at her as she imagined somebody standing on the other side of the door, just waiting to lunge at her.

    Her mind stumbled over a number of possibilities, jumbled thoughts scrambling to the surface as she decided what she should do.  What could she do?  Go get help?  Her clothing was laid out on her bed.  She was naked and phoneless and it had just been a noise—had there even been a noise?  Her brain was doing backflips trying to remember exactly what she’d heard.  Maybe it was all in her mind.  Maybe she’d been mistaken.  She’d heard of that before—auditory malfunctions, silly misguided neuro transmissions that guided you into simply believing you’d heard something.

    You’re overreacting, she told herself.  It wasn’t uncommon for her to do that, panic over something small, make a mountain out of a mole hill.  Lady Catherine had scolded her multiple times for her lack of sensibility.  Women weren’t supposed to panic, especially not women of God.  Lilian had once tried to explain that she wasn’t a woman of God, or at least she had no intention of joining a nunnery, and Lady Catherine would have none of that.  Pish posh, the woman had spat.  One does not need to join a nunnery to be a woman of God.  It is in how a woman acts in her grace and how strong firm she is in her resolution to be loyal to Him.  And all Lily had thought, over and over, was how comedic the term “pish posh” was.

    Taking a breath, she gathered her bravery and quickly opened the door.

    Nobody stood on the other side.  In fact, nothing was amiss in her room.  Nothing.  So there hadn’t been a noise, she thought, quickly marching forward and shutting the door after herself, her mind set on getting dressed to try to calm down.  She’d very nearly let her towel down when she felt something press to the back of her neck.  It was a feather light touch but the sensation that tore through her body was absolutely mind numbing.  Her head fell back, eyes rolling her legs stiffened, trying desperately to keep her upright as the word seemed to tilt around her.  Oh.  It was a delicate burn that tore down her spine in slow, torturous procession as she stood there, frozen in the grasp of whatever unseen force had taken her into its clutches.  It wasn’t a painful burn but something far more sinister, something that made her abdomen dip and a soft noise escape from the back of her throat.  Oh.  Lily’s arm shifted, the towel dropping to the floor as her body was violently flooded with a foreign, unbearable sensation building deep within her and, without any sense of control, her every muscle seemed to spasm.

    “Kneel.”

    His familiar voice made her crumple to her knees at the foot of her bed and she felt her body sway a little, managing to grip the comforter before her just as another shockwave of sensation tore through her.  She whimpered, sweat building at her brow as she leaned forward, pressing her body against the comfort of her soft sheets.  “What’s happening?” she asked the man, situated behind her.  She wanted to look at him but she was frightened of what she would see.  He’s here, she thought.  The man with the crown was here, in her room.  She tried to reach for her towel, to maintain some semblance of self-respect but his hand clamped down on the back of her neck, squeezing her, and she felt her body unravel beneath his touch, her legs shaking uncontrollably as she screamed into her sheets.  He held her there, just like that, for she didn’t know how long and in the midst of her trembling, panting whines, she realized what had happened from just one grab.

    It was her first orgasm.

    From a solitary touch, to the back of her neck no less.   Her face grew hot with shame as she realized what had happened with her body.  “Please,” she begged, tears building in her eyes.  She was panting, trying to rise from her knees, to break his hold upon her.  “Please.”

    The hand slid gently down her spine in a slow, agonizing pace leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake and she shivered, her eyes widening she felt him kneel behind her.  “Please, what?”  His tone was jagged as a thorn but his voice was smooth as velvet, his lips pressed so close to her ear it made an involuntary shiver ripple through her and God her body seemed to be screaming for something.  She felt desperate and vulnerable before him and somehow it was so much worse than simply being laid bare before him, his body just a hair length from hers.  No, it wasn’t simply a lack of clothing that left her burning with a fear of being seen—it was the way he’d made her body release, the way he was drawing out something vicious within her, the way she wanted him.

    “Leave,” she hissed into the comforter, terrified to turn and see what kind of a man—if he could even be a man—could come to a woman unwelcome and yet make her burn to keep him.  He couldn’t be a man, she realized.  He was something else.  Something different.  It’s him.  Always him.

    She trembled with fear as he sat there for a moment, just behind her, motionless—fear that he would touch her and fear that he might not.  Tears welled up in her eyes and she squeezed her bare thighs together, feeling her hair drip down her back which was painfully bare to him.  She was completely bare to him, she realized, whatever he was.  With a soft whimper she whispered, “Please leave me.”

    The chuckle was low and soft and sent another ripple of anticipation, of dread through her.  He rose suddenly from behind her and she clutched the edge of the bed tight, squeezing her eyes shut in anticipation.  Nothing.  No sound of retreating footsteps, no doors opening and closing.  Silence filled the small room and, tensed against whatever it was that had just dominated her body so violently, she turned.  Nobody was there.

    Horror stricken, she rose from the floor, searching.  Nobody.  Nothing.  No sign of entry, her room firmly locked from the inside.  She was shaking as she pulled her clothing on in a rush, eyes darting around nervously as she brushed through her tangled hair.  Lillian tried to tell herself that she’d imagined it, that she was working too hard and had fallen asleep somehow, naked and wet, at the edge of her bed.  Yeah, that must have been it.  She’d had a really weird nightmare about the man with the fire crown just like every other night . . . only different.  No, different or not it was a nightmare.  Just another nightmare.  Quickly climbing into bed beneath her large comforter, she managed to talk herself into taking a nap because she must be exhausted, she decided.  Yes, it was surely the fatigue that brought that on.  Nothing else, she insisted.  Just a simple case of overexertion.

    Squeezing her eyes shut, she let her denials continue.  He isn’t real.  He can’t be real.