{Completed} A queer, slow-burn steamy gothic horror novel about rediscovering yourself after trauma--with kinky, blood-drinking immortals and polyamory.
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He gripped her red locks firmly and pulled her head aside, baring her neck. His teeth grazed...
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Autumn, 1239
The wheel turns and seasons shift. Autumn leaves fall, portending the end. But seeds carry the promise of new life.
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Heart pounding in her throat and covered in sweat, Meya's eyes shot open. Panting, she looked around the small, dark room.
Relax, she told herself. It's the middle of the night. You're in a village, safe, far away from wars or raids. Still, her gut was telling her something was off.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She didn't recall waking from a nightmare, but she figured that was what was troubling her.
Memories of events that had transpired a year ago flooded her mind, and she shook her head in an attempt to erase them. There are no raiders, and there's no fire. She groaned and dropped back onto the mattress, the straw inside rustling. You're safe. Stop worrying.
The more she tried to comfort herself, the stronger the gut feeling became. Wide awake, she stared into the dark. She thought back to what had happened at her family's inn.
I woke up in the middle of the night then, too. If I hadn't gone out to the latrine... She closed her eyes as she remembered the fire, the screams of her loved ones, the raiders. Her eyes snapped open. No. I won't think about that. She sat up straight and combed her fingers through her red locks.
The sound of a door creaking, followed by several sets of footsteps, made her freeze. She held her breath as she listened intently.
There were whispering voices of men down the hall, followed by that of the innkeeper.
Meya got up, grabbed her robe off the floor and put it on. She sat back on the edge of the bed for a moment but then rushed to the door to ensure it was locked, only to scold herself soon after. They're probably just travellers arriving late at the inn. Stop worrying already!
Yet her instincts were telling her something different. Her sandals were right next to the door and she slid them on, hoping to calm the anxiety bubbling up in the pit of her stomach, but it didn't help. She felt her way towards a small table, the unfamiliar furniture hidden by the darkness. Her fingers found a heavy jug still half-filled with water and she grabbed it, holding it close to her chest. Better safe than sorry. She felt silly for standing in the dark like that, in what was probably the middle of the night, holding the piece of pottery, while her head thumped from anxiety.
The footsteps halted at her door and her breath hitched. A loud slam echoed through the room. Meya yelped and dropped the jug, the contents splashing all over her legs and feet. A second slam and the door gave in. She stumbled away from the blinding lamplight that flooded into the room until her back was against the wall.
