Chapter 2: Trial
The echo of claws on wood vibrated through the plank wall, right into my bones. My hand found the axe handle by the door before my brain fully caught up. Cold iron, solid. Familiar. My breath hitched, sharp and shallow. Not Birch. Too deliberate. Too… present.
I inched sideways, pressing my shoulder against the rough timber beside the grimy window. Heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Slowly, slowly, I tilted my head, peering through the smudged glass into the grey dawn light filtering through the pines.
Nothing. Just the sway of branches, the endless green stillness. Then – a thick, low-hanging limb, heavy with wet snow, scraped the cabin wall again as the wind pushed it. Thump-scrape. Relief, thick and syrupy, flooded me, leaving me weak-kneed and stupidly shaky against the wall. I dropped my forehead to the cool wood.
"Stupid," I hissed at the empty room, my voice tight. "Jumping at branches. Get a grip, Amy." The axe felt suddenly heavy, ridiculous in my white-knuckled grip. I leaned it back against the wall with a soft thud. The silence pressed in, louder than the scraping branch had been. Heavy. Charged. It left too much space for the other thing, the thing inside the walls. Inside me.
My gaze drifted down, involuntarily, to my chest. The phantom slickness felt like a brand beneath the worn thermal top. The memory of that accidental touch in the bathroom slammed back – the electric shock of pleasure that had buckled my knees, the raw, involuntary moan that still echoed in my ears. Shame prickled hot across my skin. But beneath it… a terrifying, insistent curiosity. A scientist’s morbid fascination with a dangerous specimen.
Birch had smelled it. Floral. What did it do? Not just to me. But to others? The thought sent a fresh wave of ice down my spine. I needed to know. Not knowing was worse. Gotta know the enemy. Right?
My mouth was suddenly dry as dust. The cabin felt stifling. I moved towards the bed, my steps deliberate. Sat on the edge of the worn quilt. My fingers, trembling only slightly now, went to the hem of my thermal top. Pulled it up slowly, over my head. The cold air hit my bare skin, tightening it instantly. Goosebumps rose. I avoided looking in the cracked bathroom mirror this time. Didn’t need another ghostly reflection staring back.
There they were. Still fuller than normal. Still beaded with that clear, viscous fluid. It gathered, pearled on the tip of each nipple, catching the weak light. My own traitorous body. I stared at the tiny droplets, glistening. Smelled the faint, cloying sweetness in the air – stronger now, unmasked by wool or soap. Floral. Like honeysuckle, maybe, but deeper. Muskier. Undeniably potent.
Know your enemy.
The thought was a hammer blow. I couldn't fight what I didn't understand. My hand lifted, slow, hesitant. Not to touch the nipple itself. Not after last time. No. This was… reconnaissance. My index finger hovered near the left breast, then darted in, swiping quickly through the gathered moisture on the right. A tiny smear, cool and slick against my fingertip.
I pulled my hand back, staring at the glistening tip. My pulse thundered in my ears. The scent intensified, blooming in the small space between my hand and my face. Sweet. Earthy. Inevitable.
I brought my finger to my lips. Hesitated for a breath that felt like an eternity. Then touched it to my tongue.
The taste exploded. Sweet, yes, intensely so, like liquid nectar. But underneath, a complex muskiness, a hint of something dark and primal. It coated my tongue, slid down my throat. Immediate. Not just taste. A chemical reaction, deep and fundamental.
Heat. It bloomed low in my belly first, a sudden, insistent furnace igniting. Then it spread, a slow, viscous wave of warmth radiating outwards, down my thighs, up through my chest, tightening my skin everywhere. My breath caught, then released in a shaky sigh that wasn’t entirely involuntary. My nipples puckered tighter, aching points of sensation that echoed the fire below.
Arousal. But not like before. Not a lightning strike. This was deeper. Slower. A slow, relentless tide rising, pulling me under. It seeped into my muscles, loosening them, making the simple act of sitting feel languid, heavy. My thoughts fragmented. Fear, shame, the scratching branch – all washed away by the insistent, honeyed thrum pulsing through my veins. My own body’s chemistry hijacking my mind.
A low whimper escaped me. My hand, seemingly of its own accord, drifted down my stomach, fingers splaying over the worn fabric of my jeans. The pressure there was unbearable, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded attention. The heat between my legs was intense, liquid. My hips shifted restlessly against the mattress.
Know your enemy… The thought was a distant whisper, drowned out by the roaring in my blood.
My fingers fumbled with the button of my jeans. The zipper sounded unnaturally loud in the thick silence. Pushed them down, just enough. Slid my hand beneath the waistband of my underwear. The touch of my own fingers against the slick heat there was electric. A jolt that arched my back, pressing me deeper into the thin mattress. A choked gasp tore from my throat.
No finesse. No thought. Just desperate, instinctive pressure. Circles, firm against the swollen, aching center. Every nerve ending screamed. The scent of that secretion – my secretion – filled the tiny room, thick and intoxicating now, mingling with the sharp tang of my own arousal. The taste still lingered on my tongue, amplifying every sensation.
The rhythm took over. Hips lifting off the bed, driving against my own hand. Short, sharp breaths became ragged moans I couldn't stifle. The pressure built, a coil tightening impossibly tight, winding towards a shattering point. Images flickered – Birch’s confused frown, the glistening drops in the mirror, the terrifying intensity of that accidental touch. But they were fragmented, washed away by the relentless wave of sensation.
It crashed over me like a physical blow. A silent scream locked in my throat as my body convulsed, back arching off the bed, fingers pressing hard as stars exploded behind my eyelids. Wave after wave of pure, obliterating pleasure tore through me, leaving me trembling, gasping, pinned to the mattress by its sheer force.
The world slowly swam back into focus. The rough texture of the quilt beneath me. The cold air on my heated skin. My own rapid, shallow breaths. The slickness between my legs. And underneath it all, still, that pervasive, sweet-musky scent. Mine.
Shame slammed back in, hot and nauseating. I yanked my hand out, wiped it furiously on the quilt, then scrambled to pull my jeans up. My skin felt hypersensitive, raw. That… that was because of it. The secretion. The taste. It had done that. Taken my body hostage. Made me… that. My chest heaved.
I sat up, wrapping my arms around my knees, trying to make myself small. Trying to vanish. The lingering echoes of pleasure felt like a violation. Proof of this… thing controlling me. Terror, cold and sharp, cut through the haze of the aftermath. If that tiny taste did this… what would happen to someone else? To Birch if he got closer? To… something else drawn by the scent?
Outside, the wind sighed through the pines. Then, cutting through it, clear and deliberate this time, not a branch:
Scratch… scratch… scratch…
On the door. Down low. Slow. Purposeful claws on wood. Something was out there. And it wasn’t going away.