6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Cianán

I watch as she stumbles briefly on the path back to safety, unaware of my presence. No matter how hard she looks, she won't see me. My steps are as light as a whisper on the sunlit ground as I follow her through the forest.

The midday sun filters through the canopy, casting dappled shadows on the ground, and light dances across her skin, highlighting the delicate freckles on her pale face. She moves with a quiet grace, the occasional rustle of leaves and snap of twigs the only sounds marking her passage.

I keep my distance, careful not to disturb the tranquility. Concealed by my glamor, I blend into the shadows, watching. There is something about her that is both captivating and unsettling, a subtle contrast to the serene beauty around her. As she leaves the forest and heads toward the small cottage on the cliffs, light glints off the sea, providing a shimmering backdrop to the quaint structure.

I remain hidden at the forest's edge, watching her. Her skin flushes slightly in the warmth of the day, her breathing steady, her mind seemingly far from any thought of danger. The sight stirs something deep within me. As the sun catches the faint sheen of her hair, it creates a halo-like glow around her. Her hand lingers on the weathered door of the cottage, and even from this distance, I can see the pulse at her throat, the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

She looks back toward the forest, directly toward me. She pauses, waiting. Logically I know she cannot see me because my magic is currently the strongest there is here. But still, she looks and I almost want to throw off my glamor and see how she would react. When she simply shakes her head and enters the cottage, I retreat deeper into the forest.

Her song—an old, haunting fae melody—echoed through the trees as I had drawn closer. I'd hoped she might be a new participant in the hunt, a fresh challenge to break the monotony of my days. But recognizing that ancient tune, I knew she was no stranger to the dangers lurking here. If she knew that song, she would stay indoors on the night of the hunt, safe from me.

Her resemblance to the lower fae woman who vanished a century ago, around the same time as Lorcan's soulmate, only added layers to the intrigue. If she wasn't already aware of the old stories herself, the villagers would surely warn her. This knowledge deepened my disappointment, a wave of frustration crashing over me.

Yet, even with this setback, a darker impulse stirs within me. Lorcan's words from earlier linger, fueling thoughts that were once dormant. The memory of her ignites a flicker of desire within me. The way she moved, the soft flutter of her pulse beneath her pale skin like a caged bird, the delicate freckles that seemed like a constellation across her face—these details haunt my thoughts.

The idea of playing with her—teasing her, toying with her fears and curiosities becomes irresistible. I imagine the thrill of seeing her again, of watching her grow uneasy, knowing something is there but never quite seeing it. The glamor I wear will keep me hidden, and I could get as close as I want, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, to hear the frantic beat of her heart when she senses the danger.

I could almost imagine the sight of her blood connecting the blemishes on her skin as though drawing constellations in red. It sends a thrill coursing through me. My mind remains fixated on her, like a hunter with its prey in their sights, as blood streaked fantasies dance in my thoughts.

Would she cry out, I wonder, with that voice so pure it could make a songbird weep? Or would her lips part in a gasp, silent but heavy with fear, as she realizes what I am, what I want?

There's a thrill in the unknown, in the way her reaction could swing wildly between terror and surrender. The thought of her struggle sends a shiver of anticipation through me. Would she resist, fight with every fiber of her being? Or would she give in, as so many before her had done, collapsing under the weight of the darkness that defines me?

The idea of her resistance is tantalizing. The way her pulse would quicken, the thrum of it beneath her fragile skin as panic takes hold, makes my blood hum with excitement. To see her fear, raw and unfiltered, reflected in those wide blue eyes—to hear her voice, trembling and broken, as she realizes there is no escape from me—this thought alone makes my body heat with desire.

And yet, there is an equal temptation in the idea of her giving in. The moment she might realize that running is futile, that the darkness has claimed her before she even knew it was there. Would she whisper my name? Would she beg for mercy, her song twisted into a plea for release from the very thing she sang of? There is a twisted beauty in the way submission can be as potent as defiance, both paths leading to the same inevitable end.

Her voice, haunting and ethereal, is what lingers the longest in my mind. I want to hear it again, but not in the way I heard it before. I want to hear her voice crack with emotion, torn between the need to flee and the deeper pull to something darker. Would it break? Would it soften?

I picture her again, inside that small cottage on the cliff. Is she thinking of me, sensing my presence even if she can't see it? Does the fear of the unknown prick at her skin, raising goosebumps in the warm sunlight? Or does she feel safe, tucked away in her little haven, unaware of the game that has already begun?

I could visit her in the dead of night, when the moon is high and the air is thick with silence. I could stand at the edge of her bed, watching the rise and fall of her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart. How long would it take for her to realize I was there, watching, waiting? The thought of her waking, eyes fluttering open to see nothing but the dark expanse of her room, sends a jolt of anticipation through me.

No matter what, she will know me soon enough. And when that time comes, whether she struggles or submits, I will enjoy every moment of it.