Hidden in the Heartwood {sapphic paranormal}

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

023. || wolf like me.

As Finley shut the door of her cabin, she leaned back against it with regret. 

Shame. 

Guilt. 

But guilt for not feeling guilty. She was supposed to recoil from the touch of another person like the thousands of other survivors, yet everytime River took her hand, she only craved them more. Every touch left her skin hot, but so had the Demon once and she could no longer trust herself. And worse, she began to doubt what had happened to her over the last couple years. She struggled still to give it the name of abuse. If she could be feeling desire, pleasure even, so soon after, had it really been that bad?

Bad enough to murder?

But then those worms started writhing around beneath her skin and she could feel them crawling up her leg and she remembered why they were inside her body in the first place. Because that shot to her foot hadn't killed her and that burning match had just missed the gas-soaked fringe of her dress and she knew she wouldn't be so lucky a third time. And she'd been right.

The Demon had killed her and she had killed it, trapping them both in a cursed forest.

Beyond the dark shadows of the kitchen, something thudded against the floor. The living room's oak boards creaked with heavy footsteps approaching. Finley gripped the door handle, ready to run, but spotted the wooden stock of Grandad's rifle above a cabinet. Just as she pulled it down and stepped forward to take sight, two orbs gleamed up at her in the dark, reflecting from the gloaming's twilight storm.

"Ignatius," Finley sighed, lowering the gun. "How'd you get in here?"

From behind, a voice slipped into her mind. <That rifle won't do ya much good against something—or someone already dead.>

Spinning on her heels, Finley peered through the window above the sink. "Buckmouse?"

But as a flash of lightning lit up the field, no bony white figure glowed beneath the grove of galas and just the patter of rain against the cabin's metal roof could be heard. Finley turned back towards the lynx whose silver eyes continued to follow her as she walked over to the dining table and placed the rifle down.

Cautiously, she held her hand out towards him to sniff. "You riding out the storm with me tonight?"

But he bypassed her hand and nosed right into her pocket, nudging her hip hard with the side of his head.

"Oh, I forgot I snuck some snacks for you." Finley dipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out a couple pieces of dried meat wrapped in a handkerchief. "Don't tell River."

The wild cat's throat rumbled with purring agreement as he gobbled down the meat. Finley wiped out the dust from a porcelain bowl and filled it with water, placing it in front of the cabinets for him. Outside, the wind and rain began to whip against the cabin walls, finding its way in through the cracks and beneath the door. Black clouds pushed out the last sliver of twilight as Finley lit an oil lamp to counter the darkness.

River's blue checkered flannel laid draped over the armchair in the corner of the living room, but she took a seat across from it. As she sunk into the dusty Victorian sofa, a mouse ran out from behind it. The black tufts of the cat's ears twitched and before the mouse could reach safety behind the bookshelf, Ignatius had leapt onto it.

"Iggy," Finley groaned as she watched the lynx bat the mouse back and forth between its thick paws, flipping it over, but it soon went still. And he lost interest. "You're not even gonna eat it, are you?" Ignatius sat tall, lifting his paw to his tongue to wash the fur between his toes. His silver eyes blinked slow and he thumped his bobbed tail against the floor just inches from the dead mouse. "You clearly don't feel guilty for killing either."