Page 41 of Tangled at the Root
“It’s not about that!”
Her mouth clamps shut.
“It’s not about that,” I repeat, quieter. Heat spreads through my limbs, burning me from the inside out. With our foreheads pressed like this, I feel just as exposed as she is, my ugly,desperate yearning yanked right into the light. “It’s … it’s about—” I inhale deeply and let it out in a rush. “For the first time in my life, it feels like I get tochoose. For the first time in my life, my giftfeelslike a gift. Choosing to die—by your hand, to me, feels like freedom.”
12: OMEMI
The world stops.
She’s a mami wata. A siren. A succubus sent to tempt me and drag me to hell.
Her nails dig into the back of my neck like she wants to prevent me from running—as if I’d ever run when she’s holding me like this, when this particular touch has always put me gently back into my skin whenever I felt like I’d vibrate apart.
Her eyes are wide and defiant. It’s that defiance that disarms me, makes my knees fucking weak.
She wants me tolookat her in all her raw, unflinching glory—afraid I’m going to find her desire ugly, but wanting me to see anyway. I’m so overwhelmed I feel like I’m drowning.
“I don’t want you to sacrifice anyone,” she whispers. “I don’t want you to die. And I … I don’t want you to not be yourself. So … let me die for you.”
I’ve moved before I’ve even made the conscious decision to do so.
I have Rosemary flat on her back on the study floor before she can blink, her breath leaving her lungs in a strangled gasp of fear and surprise. I kneel between her legs, delighting in yet another sharply in-drawn breath of hers as I force those thick thighs to part for me, pushing my knees up under them until I’m leaning over her, covering her completely.
“Rosemary.” It’s thick with anguish. With warning.
There’s no going back from here.
“Yes,” she breathes.
For the first time in my life, I stop holding back. I stop holding so tightly onto control, and give in completely to the hunger.
I expect to black out, like I’d done last night, when the house had let me out. Like back when I’d killed the dog, before I’d tried to contact my grandmother. Those few times as a child, when the hunger and the instincts had been stronger, until my mother had trained them out of me.
I let instinct take over, and ironically, I feel more in control than I ever have.
I’ve never felt more likeme.
Beneath me, Rosemary lies completely limp. Open and willing. It makes me feel so fucking feral I’m practically dizzy with it.
I take her glasses off, carelessly sliding them across the marble until they hit one of the bookshelves beside us.
“Open your mouth.” My voice is a harsh, gravelly whisper.
She obeys, her lips parting, mouth opening, wide, then wider, until she can tell from my expression that I’m satisfied.
My tongue slides out, abnormally long and slick. Before it disappears into her mouth, I notice it’s forked, and so darkits almost black. Rosemary jerks as the organ slides down her throat, her chest heaving and her throat constricting as she fights not to gag.
It’s some kind of venom—belonging to which creature either me or my legbaju ancestors must’ve consumed at some point, I don’t know. The liquid, thin and watery, spools from pores on the surface of my tongue, filling Rosemary’s mouth and her throat and forcing her to convulsively swallow. My core clenches when she does, my arousal so intertwined with the hunger I no longer care to differentiate the former from the latter.
That instinct—which feels so easy and so natural even though I’ve only just given in to it—tells me the venom is both a paralytic and to lessen pain.
There’ll be time later to make her really hurt for me. But for this first time, I want to be gentle.
Rosemary swallows and swallows around my tongue until I feel she’s had enough.
She stares up at me, eyes wide, her mouth still held open from the paralytic as I slide the monstrous organ from her throat. It changes shape when it’s back in my mouth, sitting comfortably against the back of my sharpened teeth.
There’s the faint thud of something that feels a lot like panic beating its fists against my subconscious—it’s screaming,stop! You can’t! You can’t let hersee—but I’m too hungry to listen.
