Page 32 of Fear Me Not

I can’t help but chuckle. “You can try to convince yourself that you don’t either want or need us, but ultimately your body says differently. Stop making this so much harder on all of us, and just accept that your body is ours over winter. Ours to do with as we please.”

She shakes her head but doesn’t reply. Instead, she crawls over to where her clothes are in a pile, pulls them on, and runs from the room.

18

ASPEN

Well, that hadn’t gone exactly how I’d planned.

Levi had certainly done an excellent job of distracting me from my mission. Had that been his plan all along?

My ass is stinging from the spanking, and the material of my sweatpants clinging to my sticky skin isn’t helping. I could hardly run back to my room naked, though. What if I’d run into Blake? I shouldn’t be mortified at the thought, but I am. Even though he brought me here for his sons to fuck, my complex emotions about him means I don’t want him to actually see the aftermath and be reminded that that’s what I’m doing.

Levi has done an excellent job of distracting me from my search for the Wi-Fi box, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten about it. I have a new focus now—Dov’s room. I don’t know why I haven’t considered it before. With all the technology he has in there, of course it’s going to be the most likely place I’ll get an internet connection.

Does he have cameras in Levi’s room? Will he have been watching us? I’m not sure if the idea fills me with excitement or shame.

But no, I can’t imagine Levi allowing Dov to put cameras in his room. He would want his privacy.

I make it back to my room without encountering anyone, carefully strip off my clothes, and step into a warm shower. The water stings my backside, and I grit my teeth, willing the sharpness of the pain to ease. It does, soon enough, and I exhale a breath and cover my face with my hands. I hadn’t been planning on things going that way when I’d left my room—far from it.

How am I going to manage months in this place, just the four of us, without giving in to my basest urges? I don’t want to go months without sex. I’m a young woman, and I have needs, just the same as the guys.

My body is easy to hand over. My heart, however, that’s a whole different matter.

I climb out of the shower and wrap a towel around my body, tucking it in between my breasts. I didn’t wash my hair, just tied it in a top knot to keep it out of my face, and I leave it that way.

As I head back to my bed, my sketch pad and pencils catch my attention. I still have no urge to draw, but perhaps I can look through some of my earlier work and hope to be inspired. The thought of being here for months without even being able to while away the hours on my work is depressing. When I’m drawing, I lose track of time. Hours can pass, lost in that headspace, but it may only feel like thirty minutes. It’s my favorite thing to do, except it hasn’t been lately.

I’m sleepy from my orgasm and the endorphins flooding my system, so I carry the pad over to my bed.

Flipping the pages, each image takes me back to the exact moment when I drew it. Sometimes it feels a little like time travel. I turn to the drawing of the butterfly, and I’m back in the abandoned orangery, the earthy vegetation scent from the bottom of the pool filling my nostrils, the late season sunshine filtering through the cracked glass panes and warming my skin. I close my eyes briefly, enjoying the sensation. I can feel the pencil back in my hand, the smooth feel of graphite beneath my skin where I’ve used my finger to smudge and shade.

My body jerks, like it does sometimes in that moment right before I’m about to fall asleep, and I snap myself fully awake…

What the hell?

I’m gripping my 6B pencil hard in my fist, enough that it’s imprinted red marks into my skin though I have no memory of picking it up. But that’s not what shocks me. Scattered all across the bed are sheets that I’ve torn from my sketch pad, but that I have no recollection of doing, and drawings I’m one hundred percent certain are not my own.

Needing to put space between me and the pictures, I scrambled off my bed and back away until my spine is pressed to the bedroom wall. My heart races and my palms are clammy. I drop the pencil, and it hits the floor and rolls… and keeps rolling. I stare in horror, fully aware that it should not still be moving. There’s no downward slant to the floorboards, is there? No breeze that would keep it going, or else the drawings would be fluttering, too.

I must still be asleep. That’s it, I’m dreaming. I’ve fallen asleep, and this is all just a nightmare. But then why can I feel the sting on my butt cheeks from Levi spanking me, and my thoughts are clear, unlike the usual jumble of confusing ideas that happen when I’m dreaming?

If only I wasn’t alone. If I’d invited Levi back to my room, he’d have been here to confirm if what I’m seeing is real or not.

I find myself wishing for Blake’s strong arms around me, or for Dov to position himself between me and the bed, blocking my view of something I’m still struggling to believe is real.

The pictures are real, though. I have to accept that. I must have drawn them while I’d been half asleep. My fingers and the side of my hand are covered in gray graphite, which only happens when I’ve been drawing.

How long was I out for? With my heart still pounding, I approach the bed. My hand shakes as I reach for the closest piece of paper. The edge is ragged and torn where it appears I’ve ripped it from the pad with some force. I imagine myself in a frenzy, not fully conscious, scribbling across the page, a pencil gripped hard enough to almost snap it, tearing out sheet after sheet.

The blood has drained from my face, and I know I must be scarily white.

I scan the drawings, trying to make out what they’re of. They’re not in my style at all. My work is hyper-realistic, so it’s like looking at a black and white photograph, whereas these pictures are a mass of gray and nearly black swirls. I hold up the one in my hand and study it. Is this one of the maze I got lost in that day? I cross the bedroom to my window, looking out upon the white blanketed world. The shape of the maze is still visible, but its hedgerows now look like they’re only a couple of feet tall, as snow has filled the spaces between them and is piled up on top of them.

I’m sure that’s what the drawing is of, though. Had my subconscious mind gone back to that day and spilled my fear out onto paper?

I pick up another piece. Again, it takes a moment for my eye to pick out what I’m seeing. The style is abstract, the pencil marks a combination of shaded swirls and sharp squares. But once more, my keen eye picks it out. It’s the east wing of the hotel, and there, in the far corner, is the room where I first saw Dov. Except this time it isn’t Dov standing at the window—if it had ever been Dov—but a woman with long hair and black eyes.