Chapter 4: Thoughts
The fire had died to embers. Grey ash drifted in the beam of moonlight slicing through the window. I lay on the rug, the wool scratching my bare skin, the impossible weight of my belly a constant, suffocating pressure. The frantic arousal from earlier had ebbed, leaving a deep, hollow ache and a layer of cold sweat. Shivering, I hauled myself upright, every movement an effort against the foreign mass occupying my center. My lower back screamed. Something deep inside my pelvis groaned.
Staggering to my feet, I ignored the discarded clothes, the damp spot on the rug. Naked, trembling, I shuffled towards my bedroom sanctuary. Adrenaline long gone, all that remained was bone-deep exhaustion and a chilling dread that settled like frost in my marrow.
The familiar space offered no comfort. Moonlight washed over the maps pinned to the wall – trails I’d conquered, peaks I’d summited. Mocking relics of freedom. My old backpack leaned in the corner, dust gathering on its straps. A framed photo on the nightstand showed me grinning, lean and strong atop a windswept ridge, the world vast and empty below. Now, my world was this room, this body, this thing.
I lowered myself onto the bed with a groan, the mattress sinking alarmingly under the new weight. The sheets felt cool against my heated skin. For a long moment, I just sat there, propped against the headboard, breathing raggedly. My hands, almost of their own accord, drifted down to cradle the taut dome of my belly. The skin was stretched drum-tight, veins tracing faint blue lines beneath the surface. It was huge. Unnaturally huge for… how long? Days? A week? Time had warped since Silas. Since that night in the woods where the air turned thick and wrong, and the darkness coalesced into crushing weight and searing invasion.
My thumbs traced the curve, feeling the strange warmth emanating from within. Was it moving? A flutter? Or just the frantic pulse of my own terrified blood? Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the exhaustion. Birthing. How? This wasn’t a human child growing at a human pace. My narrow hips, built for scrambling over rocks, not for… this. The sheer, obscene size straining against my ribs, pressing on my bladder, reshaping my skeleton – it felt like a death sentence. Would it just… rip its way out? Would I bleed out on this bed? Alone. Forgotten.
And what would emerge? A squalling, pink infant? Or something else? Something with Silas’s burning eyes? His impossible strength? His hunger? The memory of it – the brutal power, the searing stretch, the gush of impossible heat flooding my womb – sent a fresh, treacherous spike of wet heat between my legs. I clenched my thighs, a whimper escaping. Stop it. Not now.
But the incubus’s legacy wasn’t just the rapid growth. It was the furnace in my core, banked but never extinguished. The gnawing, relentless need. Even drowning in fear, my body remembered. Craved. My nipples, dark and heavy, stiffened against the cool air. Fuck. Fuck.
My hand slid lower, past the tight curve of my belly, fingers brushing the wiry hair at my apex. Slickness greeted my touch instantly. A low moan tore from my throat. Shame warred with the biological imperative screaming through my nerves. I didn’t want this. Not the fear, not the impossible pregnancy, not this fucking need. But my body didn’t care about want. It demanded.
"Just… shut up," I hissed, my voice thick and unfamiliar. "Just for a minute…"
My fingers plunged into my soaked cunt. Hot, swollen flesh parted easily, impossibly slick. The contact was electric. I gasped, arching my back off the bed, my swollen belly a cumbersome weight. I rubbed rough circles over my clit, already swollen and throbbing, desperate for the oblivion only climax could bring, however fleeting. My other hand kneaded my aching breast, pinching the hard nipple, the sharp pain only feeding the fire. "Oh god, oh fuck, please…"
I fucked myself hard with two fingers, then three, stretching, searching for that depth Silas had filled so completely. But it wasn’t enough. My fingers felt small, inadequate. I needed the brutal thickness, the relentless pounding, the feeling of being split open and owned. I needed the crushing weight on my chest, the sharp bite of teeth on my neck, the guttural growls vibrating through my bones. I needed Silas.
The thought horrified me. It made me shove my fingers deeper, curling them violently, grinding the heel of my hand against my clit. Pleasure, sharp and jagged, surged, coiling tight in my gut. "Yes! Fuck yes! Like that! Harder!" I panted, lost in the frenzied rhythm, my hips bucking wildly. The bed frame creaked in protest. My belly tightened with the force of my thrusts, a strange counterpoint to the building tension.
The orgasm hit like a detonation. My back arched impossibly high, a choked scream ripping from my throat. My cunt clamped down viscously on my thrusting fingers, waves of raw electricity tearing through me. Wetness gushed, soaking my thighs and the sheets. Stars exploded behind my clenched eyelids.
Then… nothing.
The tremors subsided. The frantic energy vanished. I collapsed back onto the mattress, gasping, my fingers still buried in the pulsing wetness. The hollowness yawned wider than ever. Deeper. The gnawing hunger in my core wasn't sated; it was starved. Angry. It roared back with terrifying force, a physical ache in the pit of my stomach, low in my womb, radiating outwards. Worse than before. Insatiable. Tears of frustration, rage, and exhaustion blurred my vision. My swollen belly felt heavier, the skin itching fiercely. The low, internal vibration – the incubus's signature – seemed to pulse stronger, resonating with the renewed hunger.
I pulled my fingers out slowly, sticky and trembling. Stared at the glistening mess. My reflection in the dark window was a distorted ghost: pale, wide-eyed, dominated by the obscene curve of my pregnancy. The maps on the wall were just grey shapes now. The backpack a forgotten shadow.
Silence pressed in, thick and heavy. The only sounds were my ragged breathing and the frantic thudding of my heart. And beneath it all, the insistent thrumming from the life – the thing – growing inside me at an obscene rate.
Fear crystallized, cold and sharp. Could my body survive this? Would it tear itself apart trying to expel whatever monstrous hybrid Silas had planted? Would the midwives at the distant clinic run screaming? Or would they strap me down, call men in white coats?
And the child… What then? A lifetime of hiding? Explaining the impossible? Watching for signs of its father’s nature? His hunger? The terrifying, exhilarating power?
Another wave of pure, unadulterated need washed through me, so intense it made my teeth ache. My untouched nipple hardened to a painful point. More slickness gathered. The hunger was a living thing now, coiling around my spine, whispering promises of oblivion only he could provide. The fear was real, the dread suffocating… but the hunger was winning.
My hand drifted back down, not to my clit, but to splay possessively, desperately, over the tight, vibrating swell of my belly. My head fell back against the headboard.
The hunger was winning. And the terrifying truth, whispered in the deepest, darkest part of my soul, was that part of me wanted it to win. Wanted the crushing weight, the searing stretch, the brutal oblivion. Wanted Silas. Needed him.
The moon slid behind a cloud, plunging the room into near darkness. The deep thrumming inside me intensified. The roots were growing deeper. Anchoring. And the hunger… the hunger was a gaping void only he could fill.