Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyers owns the characters, the plow is my own.
Song(s) for the Chapter: Hades - GHOSTMANE
Journey - Wonder Who's Crying Now
Denzel Curry - Black Balloons
Peach Fuzz - What Do You Want From This?
Chris Stapleton - Cold
Don't Look Any Further - Dennis Edwards and Siedah Garrett
Chapter 24
LPOV (&Florence)
...
..
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I didn't remember much else except bolting to the house, terror flooding my veins as the images of what I'd just witnessed burned into my mind. Lago. The thing—the thing—that twisted Michael's life, his body, in ways I couldn't comprehend. Whether it was Michael's doing or something he'd unleashed, it didn't matter. He was to blame for the nightmare that had unfolded before my eyes.
I'd never seen anything like that.
Hard times had come for everyone not long ago, I've seen some crazy things, but even they paled compared to watching the life drain from Michael's eyes.
I was up shit creek without a paddle.
Once inside the house, I barricaded the door behind me and stumbled into the washroom, sinking onto the floor beside the brass tub. My sobs came in waves, the walls bearing silent witness to my anguish. My girls were safe, at least for now, but my heart clenched painfully at the thought of my oldest boy, lost to the world.
I had tried so hard to protect them all, but I'd made a mistake—one born out of desperation and fear. When I took that man's hand, I believed I was saving us. Deep down, though, I knew. In my hardest of hearts, I knew. I'd been tricked, and what they woke up… I was its fool.
I sat there shaking, flinching at every sound outside, every creak of the house settling. Fear kept me paralyzed for hours. Blissful dawn had come, and was creeping in through the crack in the door. Visibility brightening.
Then came the knock.
The sound startled me, and I shrank back, crouching tighter against the tub. My elbow hit the cold brass, a sharp jolt of pain snapping me momentarily from my terror.
The knock came again, followed by a voice—familiar and achingly welcome.
"Florence!"
I froze, listening as he called out for me and then for the girls. It was Jack. Relief swept over me like a flood, and before I knew it, I was on my feet, rushing to the door.
The moment it opened, Jack's arms were around me before I even realized I'd collapsed into them. His warmth, his strength, were a fleeting comfort in the storm raging inside me. I barely recognized my own voice as I sobbed, choking on every word as I recounted the horrors of the previous night—the beating, the twisted ritual, Lago, and the vision that had taken me under, that had dragged me deeper into the darkness. Each part of it felt like it belonged to someone else, but I couldn't escape it.
He didn't flinch, didn't pull away, and didn't question a single word. His arms tightened around me, his silence steady and grounding as I unraveled in his embrace. When I mentioned Lago, his brow furrowed slightly, but there was no disbelief, no hesitation. He believed me—every word, every agonizing detail.
"Where's Richard's body?" he asked finally, his voice low and measured, laced with concern.
I froze, my breath hitching. The truth was, I didn't have an answer. That was the one thing I'd never been told—not before everything fell apart, not after.
"I don't know," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
"What about Michael?"
"In the creek," I replied, my shoulders sagging as the weight of uncertainty pressed down on me. "I think."
Jack stood, his expression unreadable as he stepped toward the door. "Wait here," he said, his tone steady but urgent.
I didn't move as he slipped outside, heading toward the creek bed where I told him it happened. The seconds stretched into minutes, the air in the house thick with silence, until I heard his boots on the porch again.
He looked white as a ghost.
"I seen it," he muttered. Jack exhaled heavily, his jaw tightening. "I can help you, Florence," he said, his voice low and firm, thick with determination. "Listen to me. I've got a motor car up at my place. We can go get it, pick up the girls, and leave. We'll get out of here before anyone comes sniffin' around."
I shook my head, unable to stop the sobs from wracking my body. "There's nothing left," I whispered, voice barely audible.
"Florence," he started, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "You can't stay here. The church folk'll come lookin' for Michael soon enough. And when they do—"
"They'll hang me," I interrupted, the words falling from my lips like lead. My voice wavered, but the certainty in it was unmistakable. "They'll hang me, Jack."
His face tightened, the helplessness etched into every line of his expression. "Don't say that," he whispered, the ache in his voice so raw it almost broke me again.
I pulled back just enough to look at him, my tear-streaked face catching the dim light. His eyes searched mine, desperate to offer hope where I felt there was none. But my words were suffocating, pressing down on both of us like a dark cloud.
"Don't," he began, his voice breaking slightly, but I didn't let him finish.
The grief, the anger, the unbearable weight of it all surged inside me. Before I could think, my fist flew into his chest with a force I didn't realize I had. It wasn't rage—it was anguish, raw and unfiltered. It was everything I'd been holding back, spilling out in a single, desperate act.
Jack didn't step back. He didn't even flinch. He just stood there, solid and unwavering, as I crumpled against him again, my fist still pressed weakly against his chest.
"It's too much," I choked out, my voice a broken sob. "It's all too much, Jack. I can't—"
"You can," he said firmly, his hands gripping my arms, steadying me, grounding me. "I know it feels like the end, Florence, but it ain't. Not if we get outta here. Not if you let me help."
I didn't answer, didn't know if I could. All I could do was cling to him, trembling as the storm inside me raged on.
"You can say he ran off, got drunk, and never came home." The words felt like ash, but Jack said it with verbosity. That was the only way out.
He didn't try to stop me from crying aloud. He only held me tighter, his hands steady and firm against my back, his warmth the only thing grounding me in the midst of it all. The bigger picture still gnawing at my fragmented resolve.
"Jack, for the love of God, my son is dead!" I cried, my voice breaking as the finality of it settled over me like a suffocating weight. My breaths came in ragged gasps between my sobs, the pain tearing through me. "I tried so hard—I tried to keep him safe, but he's gone. My baby…he's gone."
The words ripped from me in a torrent, raw and unfiltered. "And Michael…he just gave him to them. Just handed him over like he meant nothing!" My voice rose, filled with fury and anguish. "He was an evil man. My God, Jack, what kind of monster does that? His own flesh and blood!"
Jack remained silent, his arms never loosening their hold. His fingers moved gently through my hair, each stroke soothing but not diminishing the ache in my chest. He let me cry, let me rage, without trying to fix what couldn't be undone. His silence was kind, his presence unwavering.
"You did everything you could, Florence," he finally murmured, his voice soft but steady. "You fought for him—for all of them. What happened wasn't your fault."
I shook my head against his chest, unable to accept his words. "I failed, Jack. I was supposed to protect him, to keep him safe. I should've seen it coming. I should've known what Michael was capable of."
"You couldn't have known," he said firmly, his tone carrying an edge of conviction. He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes, his hands cupping my face. "Listen to me, Florence. You loved your son with everything you had, and he knew that. You didn't fail him. The blame lies with that bastard, not you."
His words cracked something in me, a fissure that allowed more sobs to spill free. But this time, they came without the suffocating weight of guilt. They were raw, yes, but they were shared, and in that sharing, they felt just a fraction less unbearable.
"Jack," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I don't know how to go on. How do I face tomorrow when he's not here?"
He held my gaze, his own eyes filled with a quiet intensity, unable to answer me. Just held me tighter.
For all the pain and fear clawing at my chest, I didn't pull away. It wasn't just the comfort I needed; it was the presence of someone who didn't turn away. He was here, with me, and though I couldn't explain it, the connection between us shifted. The vulnerability in my grief was something we both understood, even if we didn't speak of it.
Jack's voice, low and careful, broke through my thoughts. "You're not alone, Florence," he said quietly. "I'm right here."
His words were simple, but there was a weight to them, a promise I wasn't sure how to handle.
Eventually, my tears subsided, leaving me hollow and shell-shocked. The ache in my head was still there, but manageable. Jack asked gently if I needed anything, but I shook my head, mumbling that I just wanted him to sit with me.
We settled on the parlor floor, back to back, the silence between us gradually giving way to soft conversation.
"I've never asked you this," I said, my voice almost hesitant as I paused, gathering my thoughts.
His head tilted, and he shifted slightly so he could catch a glimpse of me, humming in acknowledgment as he did.
"Where are you from?" I asked, curiosity lacing my tone.
"Everywhere," he replied with a shrug, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
"Now that's too vague coming from you, Mr. Jack Baker," I teased, leaning back slightly to look at him. Our backs touching had me feeling feverish.
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Michigan."
"Does it get cold out there?" I pressed, a little smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
"Yeah," he said, drawing out the word for emphasis. Then he turned the question back on me. "How 'bout you? Where are you from?"
"Well," I began, trying to focus as my thoughts danced around the edges of the shock still lingering in me, "my parents had me and my brother in Louisiana."
He raised an eyebrow, as though intrigued. "What brought you all the way out here?"
"Well, I met Michael," I replied, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over me as I spoke his name. "He was traveling at the time for work, and—"
"Things were different," Jack interrupted, his voice understanding, as though he already knew where the story was headed.
"Precisely," I answered, a small, thankful smile curving my lips, glad he'd finished the thought for me.
We settled into a quiet stillness, a silence that felt less like an absence and more like a shared pause. I thought it might stay that way, but as the minutes passed, my shoulders began to shake slightly.
Jack, sensing my movement, turned toward me. Without a word, he pressed his chest against my back and slipped his arms around my stomach, holding me gently but firmly.
"What am I gonna say to the girls?" I whispered, my voice barely audible, as though the question itself might shatter me.
Jack's arms tightened around me, grounding me. "You don't have to say anything yet," he replied softly.
"But they'll ask," I countered, my voice trembling. "They'll look at me, and I know their little faces—those curious, wide eyes—and they'll ask where their brother and their papa went."
Jack sighed, his breath warm against my ear. "Then you tell them the truth you can bear to share," he said quietly. "You don't have to carry it all at once, Florence."
I pressed my hands to his forearms, the weight of his words settling into me. "It's not just what to say," I murmured. "It's what happens after. How do I give them a life worth living, Jack? How do I make sure they don't… end up broken like me?"
He didn't respond right away, but I felt him shift slightly, his chin resting gently against the top of my head. "You're stronger than you think," he said finally. "And you're not broken, Florence. You're hurt. But you're still here, still fighting. That's what they'll see. That's what they'll remember."
I cried in his embrace again for a little while, letting his words sink in. He held me close, his arms steady though I could feel a slight tremble in him, too, as if he were sharing my burden.
Eventually, I pulled away, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand. "We should eat something," I said, my voice thick with emotion.
Jack nodded, and before I could move, he was already helping me up, heading toward the pantry. "You usually have leftovers, right?" he asked, glancing back at me.
I hesitated, the sight of someone else moving so naturally in my kitchen catching me off guard. "Yes," I managed, my voice softer now.
He found the chicken and bread, setting them on the counter with practiced ease. "Got any mustard or anything?" he asked, rummaging through a cabinet until he uncovered a small jar.
I blinked, momentarily stunned. "You don't have to—"
"Let me," he interrupted gently, his tone leaving little room for argument as he looked over his shoulder. "It's not much, but you don't need to do this alone."
His words hit me hard, striking a place deep inside that I hadn't realized was so fragile. I turned to grab plates, hoping the movement would hide the lump forming in my throat.
"Ugh, Rose's bread," he muttered with a small grin as he inspected the loaf. "So good."
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. He worked quickly and efficiently, slicing the bread and layering the chicken like someone who'd done it a hundred times before. When he handed me a sandwich, his expression was easy, kind.
"Thank you," I murmured, our fingers brushing briefly as I took the plate.
We sat at the table in a companionable silence. The food was simple, but sharing it made it feel like more. For the first time in what felt like days, the weight on my chest seemed to ease, if only for a moment.
After we finished, I stood to gather the plates, my chest tightening as I approached the sink. The memories, the routine—it all felt heavy, oppressive. My throat constricted, tears threatening to rise again.
Before I could crumble, I heard Jack's chair scrape against the floor. He moved beside me, gently taking the plates from my hands.
"I'll help," he said softly.
"You don't have to," I said quickly, my voice faltering.
He offered a small, knowing smile as he turned on the tap. "I know."
I stepped to the side, hovering awkwardly. It felt strange to see someone else in the place where I always stood, but it wasn't unwelcome.
He handed me a towel as he rinsed the dishes. "You dry, I'll wash," he said simply, as though we'd done this together countless times.
The quiet rhythm of the task soothed me in a way I didn't expect. By the time he handed me the last plate, my hands had stopped trembling.
But when he looked at me, his eyes meeting mine, he must have noticed the fresh tears glistening there.
"Florence," Jack said, his voice soft but insistent, "I know this is hard, but you can't stay here. You know that, right?"
I shook my head, avoiding his eyes. Placing the plate on the counter, my arms wrapping tightly around myself.
"I want to help," he continued.
Jack took a step closer, my eyes snapped to his expression, unreadable.
"What is even in this for you, Jack?" I asked, a hint of frustration slipping into my tone. "Why are you so hellbent on sticking your neck out for me?"
His jaw tightened, and he let out a slow breath. "I have no other motives besides helping you," he replied firmly.
"Why?" I scoffed, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all. "Do you realize how dense I sound after everything I just told you this mornin'?"
Jack's gaze softened, though there was a flicker of something unyielding behind his eyes. "I saw him, Florence," he said, his voice low but steady. "On the crick bed. I know you couldn't have done… whatever the hell did that to him. I know for a fact you didn't."
"But if you think those church folk won't try to find a way to pin this on you," he continued, stepping closer until we were nearly toe-to-toe, "then you are out of your wits. They'll come for you, Florence."
I stared at him, my throat tightening as the bit of resolve I had left was slipping from me. "You're trying to justify being around me," I said, my voice almost inaudible as I stared up at him. "Knowing I'm married."
Jack's expression darkened, and he gave a small, bitter laugh. "Was," he said simply, the word cutting through the space between us like a knife.
Now wasn't the time.
"Whatever the case may be!" I snapped, my voice rising with a mix of anger and desperation.
He didn't flinch, didn't look away. Instead, he held my gaze, his eyes filled with something untamed, something unspoken.
"Florence," he said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "You deserve more than this—than hiding, than fear. Let me help you. Not because I'm pulling strings for some advantage, but because I want to see you safe."
I crumbled into him as he pulled me close, his embrace warm, a silent promise of safety. Tears spilled freely, soaking into his shirt, and he didn't move, letting me fall apart in his arms.
Later, Jack went outside to feed the flock for me. It was another reminder of everything I was leaving behind—the animals, the life we'd built here. We spoke briefly about what to do with them. August would join us tomorrow with the carriage for the long trek ahead. As for the rest, Jack promised to handle it in the early hours of the morning, sparing me the heartache of saying goodbye.
When he came back inside, we sat down to the leftover stew from earlier. The meal was simple, the silence between us heavier than the air outside. We didn't say much—there wasn't much left to say. Only the occasional clink of the spoons against the bowls broke the stillness.
The quiet didn't feel awkward or strained. It was cumbersome, yes, but it carried an unspoken understanding, an acknowledgment of everything.
But even in the midst of the mourning, even in the darkest moments, I felt something shift—a quiet connection that seemed to grow in the silence. There was a pull between us that went beyond the grief. Jack never pushed me, never tried to offer more than simple comfort. He stayed beside me, his hand never straying far, but his respect for my grief kept the distance between us.
As the hours stretched on, the weight of my sorrow pressed heavily on my chest, yet I found myself instinctively leaning closer to Jack. His presence was grounding—a steady anchor in the storm of my emotions. Amid the grief, a warmth began to unfurl in his company, a comfort I hadn't realized I was yearning for.
Needing a moment to reclaim some semblance of normalcy, I decided to wash up. I heated water above the wood stove in the kitchen, asking Jack if he needed to bathe as well. He said he'd go in after I was done and hurried to fetch fresh, cool water from the well. As the warm water enveloped me, I dipped my head under briefly, letting the stillness surround me. For a moment, the world outside didn't exist—just the heat, the quiet, and my thoughts.
After washing up, I slipped into my nightgown, the white fabric brushing softly against my feet as I moved through the house. I found Jack waiting in the parlor, his gaze following me as I passed. He didn't speak, but the intensity of his eyes said more than words ever could. It lingered, even as he excused himself to bathe.
I went to fetch some of Michael's old clothes for Jack—a nightshirt and loose-fitting trousers. The gesture felt strange, wrong even, but a part of me rationalized that Michael wouldn't be needing them anymore. Setting the garments down outside the bathroom door, I knocked lightly.
"I brought you something to change into," my voice wavered, soft as a sigh.
The door creaked open, and Jack stood there, water still dripping from his skin. A simple towel hung low on his hips, clinging precariously to the ridges of his frame. His broad shoulders gleamed under the dim light, droplets sliding down his chest and disappearing beneath the towel's edge. I froze, my breath catching as my eyes betrayed me, darting over him before I forced them back to his face. His gaze locked on mine, heavy and unreadable, and for a moment, the air between us was charged with something unspoken.
"Let me guess your seasoning," he said, his lips curving into a playful smile, the low rasp of his voice like the strike of a match.
The comment caught me off guard. Now wasn't the time for casual banter—God knew the weekend I'd endured—but there was something disarming about Jack. He wasn't overbearing, didn't pry, and certainly wasn't hard to look at. I rolled my eyes, fighting a smile as the tension between us eased just a fraction.
"Go on then," I replied, my voice soft but tinged with curiosity.
"Paprika, cumin, maybe some thyme—"
"Rosemary, salt, pepper," I interrupted with a faint smirk, "and my own secret blend."
He chuckled, the sound deep and intimate, resonating through the small space like a shared secret. The weight of the weekend momentarily lifted, and in its place, something else settled—something I couldn't quite name but felt in the way his eyes lingered on mine before he bent to pick up the clothes. The movement drew my gaze down the curve of his back, the towel slipping slightly, revealing a glimpse of his hip before he straightened and closed the door.
I stood there longer than I should have, replaying the exchange in my mind, the heat of his presence lingering in the hallway like a touch that refused to fade.
When he emerged, dressed in Michael's clothes that seemed a little tight on his powerful frame, the room seemed smaller, the walls closing in around us. He didn't speak, and neither did I. The silence wasn't awkward—it was electric, alive with the unspoken tension crackling between us. Jack didn't move far, didn't push or prod, but his nearness was overwhelming. It was in the way he leaned just close enough for the scent of soap and warmth to reach me, in the way his gaze brushed over me like a caress he wasn't quite ready to give.
I swallowed hard, my pulse racing, my hands trembling slightly as I smoothed my skirt. Jack's presence filled every inch of the room, making it impossible to breathe deeply or think clearly. Yet, I didn't want him to leave. Not yet. Not when the space between us seemed to hum with something I wasn't ready to admit I craved.
I almost felt like he was testing the waters. I just couldn't get myself to cross that line just yet.
Eventually, we made our way to my bedroom. For a while, he stood quietly in the doorway, watching as I sat on the edge of the bed, brushing the tangles from my hair. He didn't speak, his hesitation hanging in the air like a question. For the longest time, he remained there, as if weighing whether to stay or go.
"I know how tragic this loss must feel, Florence," he said, his voice low but steady, as if testing the weight of his words.
I continued brushing, scraping the bristles past my tendrils with more strength than necessary. The slight tug at my scalp was grounding, the rhythm of the motion an anchor. The brush was gripped tightly in my palm, my knuckles pale.
"Do you?" I asked, my tone sharper than I intended, though I didn't look at him. The question hung in the air, and I punctuated it with another harsh stroke through my hair.
He hesitated but took another step closer, his gaze unwavering. "I do," he replied quietly.
I stopped brushing for a moment, my hand falling to my lap as I finally turned to face him. "Why are you really here, Jack?" My voice softened, edged with both suspicion and curiosity. "Men like you don't just show up to play savior."
He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression a mix of discomfort and something else I couldn't quite name. His hand dropped to his side, fingers twitching slightly before stilling. "Me being here right now is... unorthodox, I'll admit. But, I'm not manipulating circumstances to gain favor," he said earnestly. "I feel—drawn to you."
I tilted my head, studying him carefully. "Drawn?"
He nodded, taking a slow step closer. "I recognize the pain you feel," he said, his tone quieter now, like he was confiding a secret he rarely shared.
I held his gaze for a long moment before asking, "How?" The word came out almost a whisper, despite the strength I tried to lend it.
Another pause followed. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with something raw and distant. "I lost my family after the Great War," he admitted, his voice vulnerable with old pain.
His words struck me like a blow, and I blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The authenticity in his expression told me he wasn't just saying it to gain my sympathy; it was a wound he carried, one he rarely let show.
A lump rose in my throat, thick and unrelenting. My gaze met his. "What happened?"
"My wife died giving birth," he murmured, his eyes dropping to the floor.
"And the baby?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He shook his head, his shoulders sagging under the burden of the memory. "Neither of them made it."
I felt the grief in his words like a physical thing, pressing against the already raw ache in my chest. He glanced up, his expression gentle but unflinching. "It's not the same, Florence," he said. "But I know loss… more than you might think."
The words seemed to hang in the air, their heaviness lingering between us. I swallowed hard, my throat tight. "What comes of all of this?" I asked, my voice barely holding steady.
He rubbed a hand across his face, a sigh escaping him as he spoke, the words filled with a wisdom forged in pain. "Life holds a bitterness sometimes... But you are strong, Florence. And you have three little girls waiting for you tomorrow."
I exhaled shakily, feeling the tension in my shoulders start to ease just a fraction. My fingers curled into my lap as I set the brush aside, my heart pounding in the stillness. With a quiet, unsteady breath, I whispered, "I don't want to sleep alone tonight."
His eyes softened, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. Wordlessly, he stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate, as though every step was a quiet reassurance. His presence seemed to fill the room, offering a kind of solace I hadn't known I needed.
"You don't have to," he said gently, his voice low and steady, the words like a balm against the rawness of the night.
His hand reached out, brushing against my chin, tilting my face up toward him. The warmth of his calloused fingers sent a shiver down my spine. His gaze held mine, intense and searching, filled with something I hadn't expected—something fierce and undeniable.
Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing against mine—tentative at first, testing the waters. The kiss deepened, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, pulling me closer as though afraid I might slip away. My breath hitched, and for a moment, everything else faded—the pain, the guilt, the world beyond these walls.
There was only this. Only him. And the fire between us, fierce and unstoppable.
We collapsed onto the bed. The sounds from the spring mattress shifting and molding to our bodies, holding each other as the kisses continued, vehement and unrelenting. It had been so long since I'd felt anything like this, and the sensation of his rough hands holding me with such tenderness did something to me. I felt alive again.
He paused, his gaze locking onto mine, his breath warm against my skin. "You are divine," he murmured. His voice was thick with reverence, each word like a promise. "I'll take you and the girls away from here first thing in the morning... You say the word, and I'll make it happen."
I lay back, my heart racing as I searched his face, vulnerable yet captivated by the sincerity in his eyes. Here was this man, my friend—now nearly my lover—offering me a way out. A chance for escape from the horrors that had suffocated us.
But why me?
"Why are you doing this?" I asked softly, my voice trembling as his hand rested gently on my leg, his touch sending warmth flooding through me.
"What do you mean?" he asked, his brows knitting slightly as his hand slid higher, pushing the fabric of my sheer nightgown up until it revealed the bare skin of my thigh.
"You're so calm, so controlled—after everything I told you this morning," I said, my words catching in my throat.
There was a part of me testing him, needing to know if this was real. But the adornment in his eyes only deepened.
One of the straps of my gown slipped down my shoulder with a single, deliberate movement of his fingers. He leaned in, his lips grazing the newly exposed skin, planting slow, deliberate kisses that sent shivers coursing through me. My heart thundered in my chest. Making me feel things in places I'd forgotten about.
"I really, really like you, Florence," he murmured against me, his voice low and rough, each word carrying the weight of his sincerity. "If I don't tell ya', then you wouldn't know. Sometimes in life, ya need to push back a little bit, be assertive." His fingers gently brushed against the exposed skin of my collarbone, making my breath catch. "Since the day I first saw you, I was always thinkin'—I'd have treated you better than good."
My eyes fluttered closed as his words washed over me, tender and filled with longing. Slowly, I reached up, tangling my fingers in his hair—a touch I'd been aching for. It was soft and thick, just enough resistance to anchor me in the moment. Everything about him felt right, like a missing piece I hadn't realized I'd been searching for.
"We can take the girls and move up north," he said, his voice carrying a note of hope, something tentative but genuine. "It'll be cold, but I promise I'll make you all happier than you've ever been."
I paused, the suggestion hanging in the air. For a split second, I wondered if he was serious. His commitment was clear, but could I trust it?
"You must be on the fritz," I said, my tone half-serious, half-joking, trying to lighten the sudden weight that had settled over us.
He laughed softly, the sound warm and low, a deep rumble that sent a ripple of warmth through my chest. His lips moved against my skin, finding the sensitive curve of my neck as he chuckled.
"Maybe I am," he murmured, his breath sending another shiver down my spine. "But I know what I want. And I want you, Florence."
A soft sigh escaped me as I let my fingers glide through his hair, the sensation making me ache for something I hadn't realized was missing.
"You're sure about this?" I asked quietly, needing reassurance, even though I felt the same pull. "Moving, being with me... all of it?"
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes, his expression soft but determined. "More sure than I've been about anything in my life," he said, the sincerity in his eyes making my chest tighten.
I didn't know what to say to that. So, instead, I leaned in, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that deepened with every passing second. His hands found their way to my waist, pulling me closer. I gasped into the kiss, feeling the heat of him surge through me. My hands roamed to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the fabric of his shirt.
"I don't want to forget this," I whispered against his lips, my voice low, a thread of need woven through the words. His hand tightened at my waist, his grip firm and steady, sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through me.
"You won't," he promised, his voice a husky murmur as he kissed me again, his lips tender and sure. I couldn't help but respond, my hands rising to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead as I leaned into him, savoring the moment
And with those simple, heartfelt words echoing in my mind, he kissed me again, sealing the moment in a way I knew would stay with me forever.
"Every morning when I wake up, I think of you," he confessed, his voice secure but charged with emotion. To my thrill, his hand gripped my waist again, pulling me closer. "Your body is a temple," he murmured against my skin. "Do you care to know how badly I want you?" His breath was warm and intoxicating, the sincerity in his voice making my heart race. I leaned into him, answering his kiss with a quiet eagerness that felt instinctive, almost inevitable.
My hands tugged the shirt over his head before we could get a chance for a much needed breath. He halted my hands as I fumbled with his breeches. The reality of this happening had my desire for him in a spiral.
Jack pulled my hands to his lips.
He asked to taste me, the words leaving me wide-eyed and bemused. I glared at him in half-hearted disbelief, but he only smiled, a quiet confidence lighting his features.
"Trust me," he said softly. "You'll love it."
And I sure did.
My thighs trembled against his face as his mouth explored me with deliberate, unrelenting care. His lips and tongue worked in perfect harmony, sending ripples of pleasure coursing through me. I let out breathless cries, my body writhing against his every movement. Our eyes met intermittently, those piercing green pools locking with mine, balancing me even as I felt like I was floating away.
Time blurred as sensations overwhelmed me, building higher and higher until I was speaking in fragmented whispers, words tumbling out in a language that barely felt my own. Heat surged through me, and I gasped, gripping the sheets as wave after wave of bliss overtook me.
He shifted, positioning himself above me, his gaze heavy with desire. When his lips met mine again, I could taste the essence of myself on him, an intimacy that felt both raw and electric.
I called his name, a breathless plea that echoed in the stillness of the night as my body trembled beneath his. Each movement, each deliberate connection, sent another shock of pleasure spiraling through me. His warmth surrounded me, his strength anchoring me as every ripple of sensation threatened to pull me under. Jack moaning my name into my mouth as we kissed was something I didn't know I craved.
Our breaths mingled, our bodies entwined, moving together in perfect rhythm as he proceeded to fill me, over and over again. Every quiver, every gasp, every stolen moment became a crescendo, a symphony of desire that left me craving more even as I dissolved against him. It was all-consuming, too much and yet not enough, leaving me trembling and utterly undone.
We lay tangled together in the aftermath, our breaths still uneven, the air between us charged yet peaceful. In the dim glow of candlelight, our whispered voices filled the quiet. We spoke softly, our words faltering with the weight of everything unspoken. His hand traced idle patterns along my arm, grounding me even as I felt adrift.
He'd convinced me, gently but firmly, that come morning, we would leave. His tone was steady, but his gaze betrayed a hint of urgency, a deep concern that mirrored my own. I nodded against his chest, too tired to argue, too overwhelmed to consider anything else.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed us. His warmth enveloped me as I nestled closer, his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek. The flickering candle burned low, casting soft shadows that danced across the room as sleep crept in, slow and inevitable.
His arm tightened around me protectively, and I let myself surrender to the quiet, to the comfort of his presence. Together, we drifted into the stillness of the night, our fears and plans momentarily forgotten, cradled by the fleeting peace we'd found in each other.
.
..
(L)
I gasped, looking down at my great-grandmother's sleeping form. She lay wrapped in the sheets, Jack holding her closely from behind. Their breathing was soft and rhythmic, undisturbed by my presence. That's when I realized—I was floating.
Was I asleep? I couldn't tell anymore.
The scene felt intimate and strangely familiar. The resemblance between Jack and Edward was uncanny, and I bared great resemblance to my great gram, it was almost surreal.
Part of me found it... sexy, in a way I didn't want to admit. But then guilt crept in, thick and oppressive. Witnessing their private moment felt like a boundary I shouldn't have crossed. Maybe I shouldn't have seen this at all. Maybe I could have woken up before Mr. Baker made his visit to my great-grandmother.
I think I'd seen more than enough.
Florence stirred suddenly, her body going still but her eyes snapping open, staring forward with a vacant intensity. Jack shifted beside her, groggily waking at her sudden movement.
"Florence?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. "You alright?"
She didn't respond. He reached out to touch her shoulder gently, concern etched on his face.
Before he could do more, Florence erupted into a wild frenzy, her limbs flailing as if she were battling some unseen force. Her movements were frantic, chaotic. Jack tried to calm her, but she struck out, her arms whipping wildly. One blow landed hard, catching him off guard and sending him sprawling to the floor, unconscious.
The chaos spiraled as I watched helplessly, my chest tightening with a panic I couldn't control.
And then, without warning, I was pulled—yanked—backward as though caught in a powerful current. My vision blurred and twisted, and the world around me collapsed into darkness.
When the sensation stopped, I was no longer watching. I was in her. I was Florence.
Again.
Her terror became mine, her confusion and fury pounding through my chest as I struggled to understand what was happening. My pulse raced as the line between us disappeared, and I was left to face whatever came next.
(F)
..
.
The house looked deplorable through my eyes. Blood everywhere, Jack was gone, disappeared. I stepped into the hall, though not of my own volition. My feet moved as if guided by an unseen force, my mind screaming for control that I no longer had. Every instinct begged me to turn back, but my body refused to listen.
I drifted down the hallway, my destination clear yet incomprehensible: the children's washroom.
This must be a dream. It has to be.
The door creaked open with agonizing slowness, the sound slicing through the oppressive silence. My breath hitched as I saw it standing there—the spirit, Lago. It didn't look at me or speak. It simply stood, a grim figure haunting the small, dimly lit room.
Then, its skeletal hand extended, bony fingers pointing toward the small window in front of us.
I wanted to scream, to turn and run, but my body obeyed its silent command. Step by step, I approached the window, my movements stiff and unnatural.
Reaching it, I pushed it open with trembling hands, the wood scraping against the frame. Slowly, I leaned forward, pressing my head through the narrow opening. The rough edges of the window frame scraped against my neck, but I strained further, desperate to see whatever it was Lago wanted me to witness.
My heart pounded in my chest, each beat a sickening throb as I watched my boy, Richard, being beaten mercilessly.
The figures looming over my boy were shadows, their faces obscured, but the violence they inflicted on my son was crystal clear. Each strike, each blow, tore into me as if it were my own flesh being torn apart. The thud of fists against his skin was deafening, but it was the silence of his suffering that choked me. His cries echoed in my ears, though he didn't make a sound.
My blood ran cold. My stomach twisted, a knot of dread squeezing tighter with every second. I reached out, desperate, my body trembling with the force of the helplessness surging through me.
"Please, someone, stop this!" I screamed, the sound of my voice high and frantic, but it was a voice that never left my lips. It was as if I were trapped in a shell, forced to witness this horror without the ability to act.
I tried again, this time louder, my throat raw with desperation. "Stop! Stop it!" But my words seemed to get lost in the thick air, swallowed by the oppressive silence that hung over everything. The more I screamed, the more my cries dissolved into the cold, indifferent night.
The beating didn't stop. It never stopped.
And then—something changed.
In the blink of an eye, my surroundings shifted. The view outside the window melted away, the frantic sight of Richard being beaten fading into the darkness like smoke. I was no longer watching my son from that window. I was... somewhere else.
I was in the yard, facing the river. The moon high in the sky. I was somehow taller. Before I could think, in my disorienting state, I'd tried to take a step forward. Immediately keeling over. The tall step ladder from the kitchen tumbled underneath me. Immediately realizing my neck was tied with rope. The fabric burning and clutching to my skin.
The vision grew increasingly distorted as I watched, still feeling every sensation that Florence had endured. I stood there, not as myself but trapped in the skin of another, witnessing her torment. My throat tightened, and the weight of the rope cutting into my neck was almost unbearable. The fabric of my dress burned against my skin, hot and suffocating, making it harder to breathe.
...
..
.
(L)
I could see Florence, not in the way I'd known her but as an observer, feeling every ounce of the terror she felt in those final moments. The world around me blurred with darkness, only the twisted vision of the riverbank and the cruel figures who surrounded her clear in my mind.
I tried to scream, to make sense of it, but the vision only twisted tighter around me, forcing me to see the final moments of Florence's life—her last struggle to escape that dreadful fate, but it was futile. The rope tightened, cutting off her breath, and the darkness of the vision swallowed me whole.
In the end, there was no more Florence, only an overwhelming silence. I was no longer a part of this memory, but rather a bystander to her death, her spirit fading from this world in that final, anguished moment.
"Another one for the earth," I heard echo through my mind.
My eyes shot open, unfocused at first, the world around me a blur. Pain erupted in my chest with each ragged gasp, tearing its way out of my throat. It was a violent awakening, as though I'd been yanked back into my body. I was back. I'd felt the familiar surroundings of the earth beneath me, the pain shooting through my ribs, and my body. I patted myself, realizing that it was really me now.
I was back.
Thank God.
I think I fucking saw enough, a while ago.
I scrambled upright, my limbs trembling as reality anchored me. The ground beneath me was damp and familiar, and I realized I was right where I'd been before the visions overtook me. My head throbbed with a relentless, punishing rhythm, and my parched throat burned for water—or maybe something stronger. A dozen beers wouldn't have gone amiss.
The memories crashed into me like a wave. A different life, another time. I'd seen too much. The burial hadn't worked.
The dark earth stared back at me, a grotesque reminder of my failure. Bile surged in my throat as the cloaked figure's words in that cult replayed in my mind:
'The seal.'
I staggered to my feet, panic fueling my wild, uneven movements. My fingers closed around a stick lying nearby, clutching it like a lifeline. Kneeling once more, I pressed the tip of the stick into the dirt, carving the symbol from my vision. My hand trembled as I worked, each line jagged and uneven. Sweat dripped into my eyes, stinging, but I didn't stop. The spirals, the inverted triangles—I drew them all.
The air around me thickened, suffocating, pressing down with an almost physical weight. Each breath came harder, shallower, as though the atmosphere itself were shrinking. My heart hammered in my chest as I scratched the final line into the dirt. The moment it connected, the temperature plummeted.
A low, guttural rumble broke the silence, reverberating through the ground like an earthquake. Shadows writhed at the edge of the trees, twisting unnaturally, and then it emerged.
The entity slid from the void, its presence both sudden and eternal, as though it had always been there, lurking just beyond the veil of sight. Its form was barely human, grotesquely stretched and contorted, each movement jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. Its grin split its face unnaturally wide, cruel and mocking, but it was the hollow eyes that froze my blood. They stared at me with a malevolence so ancient, so consuming, it made my stomach lurch.
The air thinned further, each inhale more strained than the last. My every instinct screamed at me to run, to turn my back and flee from the abomination now towering before me.
But I stood my ground. I dropped the stick from my trembling hand. My pulse roaring in my ears.
"Step into the seal," I commanded, my voice hoarse, shaking, yet steady enough to cut through the suffocating weight of its presence.
The entity tilted its head, its grin widening. The motion was slow, deliberate, like it was savoring the moment. And then, with a single, fluid step, it crossed the line into the seal.
The earth seemed to tremble as it did, the air itself crackling with an unnatural energy. For a heartbeat, the world felt as though it might collapse under the its existence.
It stood there, watching me, its tall form flickering at the edges like a flame about to gutter out. But it didn't. Its grin, sharp as a knife, cut through the suffocating silence.
"Well?" it asked, its voice resonating with a hollow, bone-deep echo. "Now that I'm here, what do you think you can possibly do?"
"How do you die?" I spat, venom dripping from each word. My voice trembled but held a fierce edge.
The entity chuckled softly, its tone almost patronizing. "I don't," it replied, tilting its head. "I come and go, depending on the circumstances. This body is my key, and it takes fire to break a key."
My jaw tightened. "What's with the wolf monster thing?"
"It's one of many forms I may or may not take, depending on the scenario." Made enough sense. Was why he was coming to me now in the almost same form he'd visited my great-grandmother as. "Because of it, I can see all, when in focus, like a magnifying glass, I am able to see every menial part of anything, I just have to look hard."
I gritted my teeth. Its words slithered through me like oil, clinging to every crevice of my mind.
"A sacrifice for a sacrifice," it continued, its grin widening. "That's how you close the circle. End it all."
Suspicion prickled at the back of my mind, sharp and undeniable. My brows furrowed as I pieced together its words. If that were true, then Florence's death—my great-grandmother's murder—should have ended this nightmare long ago. My gaze flickered to the edge of the seal at its feet, where I'd missed a spot in my frenzy.
It's lying to you.
"I didn't manifest you," I said, my voice sharpening as defiance seeped in. "They did. Those monsters in their cursed, demonic worship—they summoned you. Not her."
The entity's grin faltered, just for a moment, a crack in its menacing façade. It was enough to push me forward.
"Florence was an incredible woman—" I growled. A mother who gave everything for her children. She lived through hell, but, one thing was for sure, "—she didn't summon you. You're their abomination." Living in a time of adversity. Not able to flee her hardships like most were able to do now a days.
Its expression darkened, the grin twisting into something colder, sharper. "It's still your blood," it said, its voice devoid of warmth. "Your family ties. They bind you to me, whether you accept it or not."
I swallowed back the knot of fear in my throat and straightened, my anger outpacing my dread. "I won't let the people I care about die," I said, my tone unwavering. "Not now, not ever."
I'd fought too hard to reach this point. I'd seen more than anyone in my family had ever dreamed, endured too much—not just in this battle but in life itself. I wasn't about to let it end here. I would move on from this. I would survive. And when it was over, I'd make sure it stayed buried.
The entity's grin returned, more sinister this time. "Then you must make a choice," it hissed, its voice dripping with malice. "Save your friends, or watch them all perish. Either way, the clock is ticking."
My mind raced. The summoning—it had been done in the house. Specifically, in a basement we hadn't even known existed. We didn't really know shit. Until now, thanks to Florence showing me.
That was the tether.
To kill the entity, I had to destroy the house.
As the thought solidified in my mind, the entity went still. Its grin faded, its hollow eyes boring into me. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then, without warning, it vanished, dissolving into the air like smoke, leaving behind a silence heavy with the weight of unfinished business.
The silence was deafening, broken only by a roar echoing from the woods. It tore through me, shaking me to my core.
My knees buckled, and I collapsed to the ground. My body convulsed violently, the entity's shadow clinging to me, clawing at the edges of my memories. Pain radiated through every nerve as flashes of its form flickered in my mind.
One final vision struck me—a steel door bolted shut, the entity pacing behind it. Flames licked at the edges of the frame, casting its shadow in every direction. The air reeked of sulfur, the heat oppressive.
Hell.
As the vision receded, the suffocating mass on my mind slowly depleted. My body finally stilled, though tremors still wracked me, a lingering echo of the entity's grin burned into my very soul. I lay there for a long moment, frozen and hollow, my breaths shallow and uneven, as the world around me gradually snapped back into focus.
Frantic, my eyes darted around, scanning the scene fully. My gaze landed behind me, and I gasped. The treehouse—once a place of memory and warmth for my great gram and her kids—was now a crumbling shell, falling apart, its timbers sagging and warped with time.
A bitter, hollow laugh bubbled up from my chest. "What a grand coincidence."
What had just happened? The feeling of it all still clung to me—too sharp, too real to be a mere dream, yet so fragmented and twisted that I struggled to accept it. But amidst the confusion, one truth rang clear: I had to get back to the house. Now.
Before I left, something within urged me to stop. I spotted two sturdy sticks nearby and, almost instinctively, bent down to fashion them into a makeshift cross. I tore a strip from my already tattered shirt and wrapped it tightly around the wood, my fingers working with a desperate urgency. When it was finished, I knelt and pressed the cross into the dirt, placing it gently where the bones lay—offering a small tribute before I left.
A quiet prayer escaped my lips, unspoken words carried on the cold air.
With that, I turned back toward the house, moving cautiously through the trees. My steps were slow, deliberate, as if the woods might betray me at any moment. My body ached with every movement, a reminder of how close I had come to losing everything.
As I stepped into a small clearing, the sky came into view. The stars shimmered with a peculiar brilliance, as if the oppressive darkness had momentarily loosened its grip. The faint scent of burning wood followed, sharp and distinct, curling into my senses. A rush of alarm surged through me—was something wrong? But with it came a fragile thread of relief. Maybe they'd realized what was happening before I had.
Tears pricked at my eyes, blurring the path ahead. I pushed myself forward, quicker now, my legs trembling with the need to confirm what I couldn't yet know. I had to see for myself. I had to know they were safe.
Florence never got her happy ending.
I wasn't supposed to either, I suppose. Yet, the love Edward and I shared felt indomitable, a chain forged in something unyielding, impervious to even the crushing weight of this nightmare.
That thought grounded me, a beacon through the storm in my mind.
I needed to see Edward. I needed to feel his arms around me, to hold onto him as if the act alone could keep the panic still gnawing at me at bay.
Thank you for reading!
Next chapter will be up soon!
-A