Page 10 of Palingenesis

I’m not as surprised as I should be. It’s not like rest and I have ever been good pals.

Groaning, I push my feet with a creak in my knees and an ache in my back and wander my way into the house where I find Henry, going about his morning routine as if nothing is amiss.

About time you showed yourself, he mouths, the words inaudible but clear as fucking day on his lips as if he knew I’d try to read them. That I’ve been practicing to get better at it.

“Shit. Hang on.”

A flush takes over my cheeks, warming the chilled skin as I rush back to the bedroom where I left my charging case. It’s a quick, yet painful switch from one set of hearing devices to the next, and I’m back in the kitchen before Henry can take his first sip of coffee.

“You weren’t in bed,” Henry mutters over the rim of his mug, his narrowed gaze aimed at me.

I know what comes next. In no way should I be surprised at the tone, or the silent accusation, and yet my shoulders still come back up to my ears as I pull the carafe from the burner and pour myself a mug. It’s as bitter as the look in Henry’s eyes when I turn away from the stove to face him.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I mumble from behind my hit of caffeine, the edge of desperation pitching up my words. They come out sounding almost like a question, filled with a gruffness, and earn me an eyeroll from Henry.

“Just say you’d rather spend all night with your little fantasies than in bed with me.”

I can’t help but scoff, only realizing it too late to cover it with a cough.

He slams his mug against the counter, and I jolt at the sloshing of coffee spilling over the rim, a mess he’ll surely blame me for.

“I didn’t even write,” I rush out, a pit in my stomach growing with each second that his scathing eyes watch me. They bounce around my face and drop to my bare chest and comfy shorts. Then back up to where I’m certain it looks like a sweat built up on the small patch of hair between my pecs.

Resisting the urge to cross my arms and hide my body, I force myself to take a slow sip of coffee. Let him look at me. Think what he wants, even if I correct him.

Shitty as it may be, it’s the most he’s looked at me in weeks.

And admittedly, I secretly crave the attention of appreciative eyes on me. Gazing at me in wonder, or even lust, in my most natural state. I can ignore that it’s indifference instead and pretend.

At least, that’s what I tell myself when he quirks a brow and points at the floor. “Show me what you had your stupid little characters do to each other last night.”

I don’t bother correcting him; it’s useless.

He’ll never understand that I’ve stopped writing blowjobs into my books or why every character prefers anything but head. That when I write spice into my novels, it’s slow and sweet and leaves my knees weaker than anything he’s ever done to me.

But it’s all fables. Make believe. Unrealistic in the real world. I know that.

People just don’t operate that way.

Though it doesn’t mean I’m not absolutely disgusted by my own actions as his head slips between my lips and his fingers drag uncaringly through my hair.

I used to love this, the edge of roughness that came with Henry, the control he exhibited. Some sick part of me still does, enough that my groin floods with the tingling of an erection that’ll go untouched, and it turns my stomach sourly.

None of that stops me from giving him exactly what he’s asked for, in the way that he’s trained me to do.

On my knees and quietly.

Chapter 6

Shannon

Seeing the small town, coated in remnants of times gone by, left the bitter taste of ash along my tongue.

Glaring at the typed words that refuse to feel right, I hover over the delete button for the third time in the last twenty minutes. I’ve been working on this same paragraph for hours—scratch that.

It's been weeks.

Days have stacked up so high that I’ve lost count since the last time I hit a flow state good enough to make any progress in this book.