blood orange sky (bwwm horror)

his wife

Calliope trailed after him, watching as he moved with ruthless efficiency, picking up the boxes and piling them into the bed of his truck. He didn't spare her a single glance, and she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched each time he hoisted a box. A few things that hadn't fit in boxes—her backpack, a small collection of framed photos, an old blanket—were thrown in last, as though they were barely worth his effort.

"Grab the last one," he said, nodding toward a small cardboard box at the edge of the RV. His tone was curt, commanding. She obeyed, lifting it carefully, feeling the weight of her possessions press into her arms as she followed him back to the truck.

The drive up the cabin's winding driveway was silent, the tension thick between them. Calliope felt herself shrinking further with each passing moment, the weight of her life reduced to a few boxes packed in the back of his truck. Once they arrived, Lucas pulled the truck as close to the cabin's front steps as possible and jumped out, gesturing impatiently for her to follow.

"Take these inside," he said, hoisting one of the larger boxes into her arms. She staggered slightly under the weight, but he paid no mind, turning back to grab another box. They moved back and forth, carrying everything up the steps and into the cabin, his motions sharp, almost mechanical, as he dropped each box onto the hardwood floor. She could hear the contents rattling with each thud, her belongings deposited like unwanted baggage.

When the last box was inside, Lucas took a long, sweeping glance over the small piles of her things now cluttering his cabin. He placed his hands on his hips, his face unreadable as he surveyed the scene.

"Get dinner started," he said, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. He walked past her without a second thought, kicking one of the boxes out of his path as he headed into the living room.

Calliope's throat tightened, her hands curling into fists at her sides as she watched him settle onto the couch, stretching his legs out as though he hadn't just upended her life. She felt her stomach twist, resentment bubbling beneath her fear, but she bit her lip, forcing herself to keep it contained. There was no use in arguing. Not now. Not here.

She turned and made her way into the small kitchen, the familiar sights and smells of the room feeling foreign in this context. Opening the fridge, she found a few basic ingredients and began preparing something simple, her hands moving on autopilot. As she worked, she could feel his gaze following her, the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on her as if daring her to step out of line.

The scent of simmering food filled the air, but it felt like an illusion, a mask over the suffocating tension that hung between them. She set the table, placing a plate in front of him where he sat, but she didn't join him. Instead, she stayed standing, her brown eyes focused on the edge of the table, her pulse racing.

The cabin was silent except for the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. Calliope moved around the small kitchen, her hands trembling slightly as she set the dinner plates on the table. The aroma of the venison she had prepared mixed with the scent of the wood smoke, but it did little to soothe her nerves.

She placed the last dish down and stood back, waiting for Lucas to sit.

He glanced up at her, his eyes sharp and calculating, before lowering himself into the wooden chair at the head of the table. His gaze lingered on her as she took her seat across from him, a slight, unsettling smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"This is... good," he said, but there was something in his tone that didn't feel like praise—more like an evaluation.

Lucas took a another bite, nodding approvingly as he chewed. "That's more like it," he said, his brown eyes meeting hers, a hint of satisfaction in his gaze. "It's time you learn how things are going to work around here. I provide. You obey. That's how it'll be."