Hidden in the Heartwood {sapphic paranormal}

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

24. || white blank page

Morning sun trickled through the crack of the cellar door and down over the steps, spilling warmth across Finley's face. As her eyes blinked open, she found herself wrapped in a pair of firm arms, her body pressed tight against another, cheek to bare chest.

Slowly, she reached up to their face, tucking a tress of dark auburn hair around their ear. Sleep had smoothed away the hardened tension in their jaw, unwrinkled the knot in their brow. The discolored scar that split it stretched farther along their cheek than she had ever noticed before. She'd never been so close. Her fingers traced down over their neck, stopping at their collarbone where just below, their chest rose and fell with her own.

Whatever they may be, witch, ghost, angel—or demon, there were definitely worse haunts in these woods to wake up next to than River Hawthorne.

And maybe it was just the aftermath of all they'd survived together. Being in danger could do that to you, bind you to another through trauma. Tethered to some kinda malevolent bond due to a buildup of chemicals and misfirings. Or maybe it was just because she was literally dead cold, but River felt warm and safe and all over just plain good.

As they began to stir, Finley turned away, scooting as best she could towards her corner of the sleeping bag, but River pulled her back and snuggled in closer. Their fingertips slid over her hip, stealing her breath when they came to rest against the band of her underwear. Before she could willingly release her breath, it escaped her lungs as River's thigh slipped up between her legs. Her body burned with desire and shuddered against theirs. River's lips hummed along her ear, vibrating down her neck, and Finley was sure she could feel the heat of them smiling into her skin. They were certainly in no hurry to let go.

"Good morning," they murmured against her hair. "Looks like we made it through the night."

"Looks like," Finley managed to reply.

River straightened their leg out and their toes grazed hers. "How are ya still so cold?"

"Bad circulation, I guess," she answered sheepishly. It wasn't untrue before death, she'd always been cold. A draft slipped beneath the cellar door and she shivered against them. Their hand, still on her hip, slid down her thigh to rub her leg. "River, do you think the dead know they're dead?"

The breath of River's quiet laugh wrapped around her neck, rekindling her with warmth. "You back to thinkin' I'm dead again?"

"No, not you." Rolling over, Finley turned to face them. As their dark curious eyes shifted over her, the beam of sun lit up the honey gold rings around their irises. "I just mean Béla didn't know he was dead, but he was trapped in the mine so long with no sense of time. I was just wondering if others would be aware."

"Usually, no... That's what makes 'em so susceptible."

"Susceptible? To what?"

They seemed hesitant to say. The sharp line of their jaw, their scarred brow, their cheekbones all hardened once more. "Demons." Their hand came to rest on Finley's side again, thumb circling over her hip bone. "That's why I gotta reap their souls, return 'em to the mountain, lest they wind up in the wrong hands."

"Wrong hands," Finley echoed. Or hooves? "Good to know." While Buckmouse had never directly stated he was the one who procured her soul, he seemed to be the one most benefiting from her finding the talismans. "So you go rounding up the dead for the mountain? That's your part of the curse?"

River watched her closely. "Somethin' like that."

"And that mark you made on Béla..." Finley reached down to lace her fingers with theirs, pulling their hands out of the sleeping bag to study the scarred tattoo on their forearm.