11

“I hate him,” I seethe aloud as I scrub gore from the floor of the gray room. After leaving Krampus’s room, I changed into a nearly-dry nightdress that was hanging in the kitchen, and I’ve been trudging back and forth with buckets of water, ignoring the pain in my injured arm. When blood starts to soak through my bandages, I simply add more strips of cloth. I can’t stomach the idea of resting in that bed with him. Exhausted though I am, I’d rather be working.

“Oh my,” says a faint, glittery voice, and Perchta appears, seated in midair with one knee hooked over the other. “Is there trouble between you and Krampus?”

“A disagreement,” I reply .

“He can be terribly disagreeable.” She tosses her floating golden hair. “You know, darling, I’ve been wandering the hallways a bit and I have to say, I love what you’ve done with the place.”

“Thank you.”

“The house must adore you.” Her smile widens.

“We have a bond.”

“And has it shown you every little nook and cranny?”

“Well…” I wring out the sponge with more vigor than necessary. “Not everything.”

“Oh.” She lifts a misty brow slightly.

For some reason, her expression makes me even angrier. “Trust takes time to build,” I mutter, scrubbing the floor savagely.

“Of course, of course. And so very few people are worthy of knowing all the secrets of a place like this.” Her laugh tinkles. “Perhaps, once you’ve cleared more of the rooms, it will reveal to you the truly important areas—like the library.”

“The what?” My head snaps up, a chill of excitement ghosting over my skin.

Ten books. That’s all we had in the cabin. A book is a new horizon, a doorway into the world, a window into the hearts of people. But a library —that is a fantasy, a dream, a universe of possibilities. A whole room full of books. I’ve only heard of such places—I’ve never seen one.

“Yes, the library.” Perchta inspects her frosty white claws. “So many beautiful books. And there are a few interesting artifacts in that room as well. Some of them have been here as long as the house. You might say they’re part of the structure, in fact. Integral to its power.”

I’m barely listening, still trying to grasp the concept that this house, the one I’m connected to, has an entire roomful of books that it has kept secret from me. Before, I didn’t mind waiting for the house to slowly reveal itself, but now that I know books are involved, I can barely contain my eagerness.

I drop the sponge and splay both hands on the floor, tapping into my mental awareness of the house, hunting for the library. I can’t sense its location, but there’s an entire area that’s dark, as if someone spilled ink on a map. I can’t see those rooms.

I let my displeasure flood through my connection with the house, and it returns a vague pulse of aloofness tinged with guilt. I can tell it’s close to relenting. Close to letting me in.

A little more work, and those darkened areas will be unveiled to me.

“Fine,” I hiss, and I keep working.

Perchta drifts around me aimlessly until I ask, “How long have you known Krampus?”

“Oh, ages. I mentored him a bit, at the beginning. Helped him get used to his new existence, until the overseer decided I wasn’t obedient enough to be a guide for him. But we’ve stayed in touch. I used to pop in on him at odd times and surprise him, just for the fun of it. In fact, not long ago I went to his room and caught him stroking his cock while smelling your underwear.” She titters.

I’m not quite sure why Krampus would do such a thing, but I picture it without meaning to, and my cheeks flame as I rinse the sponge again. I remember what I was told about a man’s pleasure, how it results in the expulsion of liquid seed.

Perchta swoops closer. “Why, darling, have I embarrassed you? Have you never pleasured a man before?”

“No,” I murmur.

“You’ve touched yourself, though, of course.” When I don’t reply, she gasps. “Is it possible you haven’t? Oh, what fun! Shall I teach you? It’s really quite simple. Of course I can’t actually make myself come, not without corporeal form, but I could explain the process. The easiest way to begin is to place your fingertips over your clit—that’s the little bud between your legs, and move them around—”

“Please… no.” I clap both wet hands over my ears. “I don’t want to hear it.”

She nods, and when I remove my hands from my ears, she says, in a tone softer than I’ve ever heard her use, “I won’t tell you anything you don’t want to hear. But you should know there’s nothing wrong or frightening about pleasing yourself or someone you like. No matter what you’ve heard or seen… that sort of pleasure can be healthy and beautiful.”

I swallow hard, but I don’t reply. After a moment, she says, “It’s been a delight, Feather. I look forward to our next meeting.”

She vanishes, and I continue with my task, trying not to think about what she said—which proves impossible, because my brain keeps repeating her words over and over.

There’s nothing wrong or frightening about pleasing yourself or someone you like. No matter what you’ve heard or seen… that sort of pleasure can be healthy and beautiful.

I work until I’m beyond the point of exhaustion and the floor of the gray room is clean. Then I drag myself back to Krampus’s room.

Darkness shrouds the chamber, the shadows barely disturbed by the low-burning fire. Heavy breathing tells me that Krampus is sound asleep, hopefully recovering from his wounds.

Carefully I crawl into the opposite side of the bed. It seems safer to do so, now that he’s asleep.

My body craves sleep as well, but my mind is desperately curious. If I can’t explore the library tonight, maybe I can explore myself.

Beneath the sheets, I draw my nightgown up and slip my fingers into my underwear. I have the little sensitive spot Perchta mentioned—the clit , and the moment I touch it, I feel a soft flutter through the entire area between my legs. My captor called it the “pussy.” Sometimes he would grab Wife’s pussy in front of Mother and me. That always happened right before he took her to their bedroom.

No. I won’t think of him while I do this. I’ll think of the woman in the red-lantern house, and the man between her legs. I’ll picture how he grabbed her thighs, how he moved his mouth on her enthusiastically, as if she tasted like the finest cake or the most delicious wine.

My fingertips toy with the small bud, and then I run them farther along the delicate folds of my sex, parting the seam, discovering a light dampness. It isn’t blood, but something else.

I hesitate, glancing over at Krampus, but his back is turned, and he’s still breathing slowly, heavily. Deeply asleep.

I wonder if his tongue has healed yet. I wonder how his tongue would feel right here, slithering over my pussy, the piercings rubbing against this sensitive bit at the top. My fingers move in slow circles, then faster as I imagine his beautiful face and horned head between my legs, his mouth devouring me with eagerness and devotion, a deep hum rolling from his chest…

I feel awake and warm and deliciously alive. With every pass of my fingertips, a surge of fragile pleasure trickles through my pussy. But I want more—I need more. And I’m not sure how to get what I need.

I give a faint moan of frustration, then clamp my free hand over my mouth.

When did I bend my knees and spread them wide? When did the sheet slip down dangerously low across my waist? And I think I was panting aloud. I became so lost in chasing the pleasure that I forgot where I was.

Krampus still has his back to me. But as I hold my breath, I realize the pattern of his breathing has changed. It’s still heavy, but it’s faster than the slow cadence of sleep.

I press my hand to my pussy, staying perfectly still.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he says, low and venomous.

“What… what do you mean? ”

“Filling the air of this room with your fragrance. With the scent of arousal. Do you know what that does to a Fae like me? Especially a wounded one?”

“I don’t understand.”

He rolls onto his back with a weary sigh. “Blood isn’t the only thing that helps us heal. Sex does, too, if it’s with another Fae… or a human. And you , lying next to me with your little fingers nestled in that sweet-scented pussy—it’s like you’re dangling a healing charm in front of my face while forbidding me from taking it. Is this your vengeance because I refused to go along with your plan?”

“No,” I mutter shamefacedly into the darkened room. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I haven’t done it before. Perchta said it was fun, but it seems more frustrating than enjoyable. I can’t… I need more …”

“Perchta?” His tone is a blade, keen and combative. “She spoke to you? I warned her—”

I yank down my nightdress and pull the sheet up to my chin. “I don’t want to talk any more. I’m going to sleep.”

“Well, now that you’ve gotten yourself excited, you won’t be able to sleep until you come,” Krampus replies, then adds in an undertone, “Nor will I.”

“What do you mean, ‘come’?”

He groans, and it sounds like pain, but there’s an undercurrent of wild hunger, too. A gentle thrill traces along my pussy, and my fingers twitch with the longing to touch it again.

“This is too cruel,” he mutters. “But I suppose I must teach you, since you have no one else. If you keep playing with yourself as you did, but with a faster rhythm in just the right places, you will achieve a burst of exquisite pleasure. It’s called an orgasm, a shock of euphoria when your body comes. It’s a relief and a delight when the act is performed alone—even more so when achieved by two partners. ”

“Is it the same thing as sex?” I whisper. “When a man puts himself inside a woman? I always thought it pleasured him and pained her.”

“Only if she isn’t willing,” replies Krampus, in a gentler tone. “Sex between willing partners shouldn’t hurt. A little the first time, perhaps, but after that, there should be no pain. There are many ways for bodies to join, whether male, female, or other, and all such connections should be delightful, not harmful. Unless one of the participants enjoys the occasional playful bite or the sting of a whip to intensify their pleasure.”

I frown. “How would pain intensify pleasure?”

He’s quiet for a while. All I can hear are his quick breaths.

When he speaks again, his words are thick and strained. “I can’t tell you about this anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m so fucking hard it hurts,” he growls. “I need you to be quiet, and cover up that luscious-smelling cunt of yours before I drag you over here and use you as a cock-sleeve.” He vents a frustrated snarl, then mutters, “Not that I would ever touch you. You need not fear that from me. But in my current state, I am sorely tempted.”

I bite my lip. Though my limbs are trembling with apprehension, my pussy is slick and warm and tingling. “One more question, please. Is it normal for me to be… very wet in that place?”

“Yes,” he rasps. “That liquid eases the way when a hard cock penetrates you. It means you’re ready to be fucked. Now shut up.”

We lie there silent, unmoving. Eventually I risk a glance at him. He’s barely visible in the glow of the fireplace embers, but I can make out his elegant profile and the parallel ridges along the curve of each black horn. He has thrown off most of the covers, but the sheet still drapes him from the waist down. Beneath the sheet, below his waist, something large and thick is poking up .

His cock. So hard it hurts, he said. And sex helps the Fae heal.

I don’t understand the wild, dark need inside me, the sudden yearning to lift the sheet and see all of him again… maybe touch him this time. Two weeks we’ve lived together, and we’ve never shared the bed. Perhaps this is why. Perhaps he feared this sort of connection, or temptation.

He doesn’t really like me, any more than I like him. He’s simply aroused by my scent, by our conversation, and by his desire to heal. It’s more than a desire—it’s a need. Perhaps it’s a need that his maid should fulfill.

I shift nearer to him under the sheets, until I can feel the heat of his bare skin all along the side of my body. Cautiously I move one hand toward him until my fingers touch his thigh.

“Get out,” he rasps.

I freeze.

He practically snarls at me. “I would leave if I could, and give you the bed, but I’m not strong enough yet. Take pillows, blankets, whatever you need, and go. Sleep in the bathroom or the kitchen. Go.”

“I want you,” I whisper.

“I said, get out .”

Hot, angry tears stain my cheeks as I tear a pillow and a blanket from the bed and stalk out of the room. I make my way to the kitchen, conscious of the Bahkauv trailing along in my wake. He doesn’t come too close, nor does he try to enter the kitchen when I do. Frustrated and weary, I lie down on the hearth, roll myself in the blanket, tuck the pillow under my head, and fall into a tormented sleep.

The Bahkauv