At least with nothing cupping me, I could forget the tightness of cotton. I could calm down and allow the heat in my blood to vanish.
The temptation to let the boxers float away came strong, but I ignored it.
I’d done that one too many times, and the available options in the house had dwindled to just a few pairs. Once they wore out, I’d have nothing. Therefore, I’d keep this pair even though I preferred to wear nothing for as long as the season permitted.
I didn’t know how long I remained in the river, floating on the surface before ducking and gliding along the bottom. Hunger for food finally overshadowed my hunger for sex, and I climbed reluctantly from the watery embrace.
Droplets cascaded down my torso and legs as I strode back toward the ivy-shrouded house. My cock bounced against my thighs, once again turning hard despite my self-disgust.
I’d thought, as more time passed, that those urges would fade. In the beginning, I’d been blessedly free from wanting any form of sexual release. Unfortunately, it’d become rather insistent the past couple of years.
The cramping in my balls. The hardness between my legs. My body’s demands for pleasure always went unanswered, but it cost me. It made my temper spike and frustration bubble.
Stop it.
Ignore it, and it will pass.
Fisting the boxers, I focused on getting home. Once I’d eaten and done my daily chores, I could lose myself in a book. Perhaps, I’d find one I hadn’t already read. Or I could finally lower the chandelier in the entrance hall and clean the crystals. I hadn’t done that for years and had been putting it off for too long.
It was a bitch of a job, but it was the only part of the house that hinted at the filth existing within the walls, and it bothered me.
My mind continued to bounce from work to what I should cook. I’d have to start conserving crops soon. The endless task of freezing, drying, and preparing a larder for winter.
I’d gotten pretty good at prepping. Supposed it was thanks to the third winter when I’d finally exhausted the large amount of produce that’d been stored here and almost starved.
I hadn’t planned ahead.
I’d gone hungry.
For months, I survived on scrawny game and river water. By the time spring came and the snow left, I’d read every book in the library on cultivation and put the many packets of seeds in the storeroom to use.
If it’s this hot this summer, it means an equally cold winter is on its way.
Urgency made me walk faster, ticking off a mental checklist of things to do. The veggie patch needed weeding, the celery needed harvesting, and the cucumbers re-stringing. I also had the shit job of fertilizing, which included raiding the septic tank, scouring the woods for animal scat, and enduring the stench in the sun.
But at least those chores were outside.
I preferred those over the indoor ones.
When winter hit and boredom found me, I methodically cleaned Fables from top to bottom. Every inch of that monstrous mansion was buffed, waxed, and dusted, hoping that this year, I might achieve the impossible and clean away the dregs of disaster, despair, and desolation that existed within its walls.
My hands curled into fists.
Today really wasn’t my day.
Not only had I sleepwalked and suffered from lust that crippled my balls and thickened my cock but I’d also slipped into old habits.
This house wasn’t Fables anymore.
This house was mine.
And if I had my way, it would never remember why it had such a title or why I’d spent one spring chiseling out the engraved name from all the keystones above the wooden doors.
This place was nameless now.
Just like me.
Exhaling hard, I shoved my thoughts away. Thoughts were bad. Actions were good. I had a shit ton to do and didn’t need my mind delaying me any longer.
My legs worked on autopilot, taking me home. Birds sang in happy tunes, chipmunks argued in the undergrowth, and my valley gave no hint that the predator from this morning remained.
Good.
I didn’t fancy taking on another bear. My encounter with one that first autumn, when I still had so much to learn, had almost meant my death. I’d almost lost. Almost.
My fingers trailed over the scars he’d left behind on my torso. He’d wanted to claim the house as his own. I’d said no. We’d...argued. He’d left, and I hadn’t seen him since.
I often wondered if he was still alive or if the seasons had claimed him like they’d tried to claim me.
The shadow of the house welcomed me back as I stepped over the threshold into the kitchen. With a practiced toss, I threw the soaked boxers into the sink and kept striding toward the stairs that led to the dorm—
Wait.
I spun around.
The door.
It’s wide open!
I never leave it open.
Ever!
You didn’t latch it this morning.
You were too eager to bolt.
Maybe the wind blew it open?
I scowled outside at the calm trees and soft breeze.
It hadn’t been windy all day.
There was no way the heavy door would’ve opened on its own.
Intruder.
What kind of animal? What weapon would I need?
My eyes dropped to the floor, searching for tracks.
Claw marks.
Pad indents.
Slither hints.
I ducked to my haunches, running my fingers over the tile.
I stopped breathing.
I couldn’t move.
Not a paw print but the barely-there tread of a shoe.
Fuck.
Fuck!
I shot up and backed away so fast, I bumped into the kitchen island.
A shoe?
What the fuck was a shoe imprint doing on my tiles?
My heart rate exploded.
I couldn’t catch a proper breath.
Undiluted fear and the hottest, blackest rage snarled in my stomach.
Human.
There was a motherfucking person in my house.
My house.
Not theirs.
Mine.
I’d kill them.
I’ll rip them limb from limb.
Pushing away from the island, I bared my teeth at the dusty footprints and hunted.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WELL, I’D CONFIRMED IT.
I’m alone.
The bedrooms had been decorated with scrumptious furniture, rich bedding, intricate sconces, and delicate works of art, yet I hadn’t found the slightest hint in any of the twenty suites that someone slept there.
Each bathroom was untouched with fresh towels hanging off chrome rails, soap still wrapped in tissue paper, and taps so perfectly polished I could see my reflection in them. And just like the dining room and its shattered mirrors, each bathroom housed empty frames where reflective glass used to live. No debris existed, so meticulous attention to cleanliness was obvious, but the oddness of missing mirrors sent chills down my back.
Who had done such a thing?
Why?
Did they still live here?
No water marks in the showers, no laundry on the floor, no books on the side tables, no usual clutter of habitation. If someone did live here, they didn’t sleep in the house.
So...where?
Who keeps this place so clean?
My head swam a little, either from the heat, confusion, or dehydration. I’d somehow stumbled into a mystery that I doubted many people knew about, and my questions weighed me down. Curiosity scratched me. I’d hoped I’d find someone to explain the randomness of this home and the apparent attempt at sheltering it away from the population.