ILLICIT DESIRES | 18 +

11: Dreams and Nightmares

RITA

Comfort Zone.

I never thought I would miss my old place, considering how often I daydreamed about being uprooted from home.

I dreamt of freedom.

But fate decided to twist those dreams, and instead of freedom, I got Nicolai, and now I am the captive of a slayer.

Though, my dream is halfway fulfilled. I left my parents' nest at a heavy cost:

The complete destruction of my old life.

I am free, but I don't feel free. I feel cold and lonely throughout the night, which makes me cling to the hairy solace beside me.

My face aches with every movement. I can't stop wondering what kind of misshapen Clitoria ternatea my face resembles now.

Only when the sun begins to sink does my mind stop circling around its worries, allowing me to close my eyes. But even then, my sleep is haunted by memories and desire.

I dream of him — the Devil's Hands, the mysterious man who once cherished me.

I'm lying in a quiet meadow, the earth soft beneath my fingers, wildflowers brushing against my skin. A red mask conceals his face, but the intensity in his eyes is unmistakable.

He leans close, and I feel his lips on mine. My heart hammers; my body trembles, surrendering to a longing I cannot name.

For a moment, the world narrows to this: him, me, the smell of rain-soaked earth, and the gentle hum of Goddess of nature in the background, letting me taste freedom and tenderness amidst the chaos of my life.

I am completely immersed in the sensation.

Then, in a blink, his mask melts away, and Nicolai's face replaces it.

My stomach twists.

Panic and disgust wash through me, drowning out every trace of desire.

I scream.

My husband of a day — the man I hated — leans closer as though to kiss me.

I wrench back, horror-stricken, yet the dream refuses to let me escape. The meadow blurs into ash, the flowers blacken, and he — the Devil's Hand wearing Nicolai's face — keeps pressing against me.

I struggle, screaming, hating every second.

I wake with a gasp, my cheek pressed against something rough and hairy. My eyes snap open. I am clutching a leg as though it were my lifeline. And it isn't the meadow or blossoms I taste — it's the foul taste of his toe.

"Damn you, woman! Stop chewing on my toe! Let it go!" I hear him shout as he shakes me off. "I knew you had a foot fetish..."

"Eww..." I whine, disgusted and embarrassed.

I let go of his hairy leg, scooting away and licking my sleeve in a futile attempt to get the disgusting taste of his foul toe out of my mouth, only to hear his amused chuckle.

His phone is in his hand.

"Ew? You didn't act like 'ew' a few seconds ago..." He turns his phone toward me, and I gasp at the picture: me hugging his hairy foot. "Wait, that's not all." He shows me another picture where I'm suckling on his toe, eyes closed and frowning.

"Please delete those pictures!" I mutter, flustered and humiliated, crawling toward him on the bed and trying to snatch the phone to erase the evidence.

"Please! That's so embarrassing!" I beg as he holds his phone out of reach, chuckling and clearly enjoying the whole situation.

"I know, right?" he says, scrolling through his camera roll. "And look at this one! You're literally giving my foot a French kiss!"