cherry-lala

[cherry-lala]

The Price of Keeping Everything

Pairings:human-turned-vampire! Remmick x human!fem reader

Word count: 11.3k+

Summary: In a bakery infused with warmth and unspoken longing, two people navigate the delicate dance between desire and secrets. As their world unravels with revelations and heartache, their choices will lead them down paths that intertwine love with darkness. In a gripping tale where every whisper of the past casts long shadows, both find themselves facing the ultimate choice between redemption and the consequences of love's hidden truths.

Content Warning: Grief, loss, emotional manipulation, death, blood, violence, memory of domestic abuse, betrayal, supernatural elements, lying, coercion, implied sexual content, fear, emotional distress, transformation, abandonment

A/N: omggg I had this written alr but I didn’t have time to edit it(I kind of skimmed through editing this) buttt it’s finally done whoop whoop! Anyways I hope you enjoy this and I can find time to write many more different fics. Likes, Reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!!^^

The scent of cardamom and browned butter clung to the air like memory. The bakery had been open just past dawn, and already the ovens groaned with heat, casting golden flickers across the stone walls like morning ghosts. Your father’s footsteps echoed from the back as he barked orders you could finish before he even spoke them. You knew every rhythm here—every creak of wood under flour-heavy boots, every breath of cinnamon that curled up your sleeve like perfume.

Except now there was a new rhythm.

It was quieter than the rest. Measured. Careful.

You glanced past the rack of cooling loaves to the back corner, where the newest hire stood hunched over a sack of grain. His name was Remmick. And he looked like he’d been carved out of the grey—grey shirt, grey eyes, grey mood. A quiet thing with long limbs and a dorky sort of stillness, like he didn’t quite know how to take up space yet.

He was awkward. Too formal with your father. Too gentle with the bread.

And you couldn’t stop watchin’ him.

“This one don’t speak unless spoken to,” your father had muttered that first day, handing Remmick a pair of rolled sleeves and a sharp look. “And even then, he barely does. But his hands are strong. Might finally keep up with you.”

You hadn’t replied. Just looked the boy over, seen the way he stood like the floor might swallow him whole.

You’d expected him to fold after a week.

But here he was—two weeks in. Still quiet. Still showin’ up before sunrise with his hair a mess and his boots muddy from the walk through town. And you still didn’t know a damn thing about him.

Except you wanted to.

“Mornin’, Remmick,” you called now, loud over the clang of iron trays.

He stiffened. Straightened. Wiped his palms on his apron before glancin’ up.

“Mornin’, miss.”

“Miss?” You raised a brow, leaning your hip into the floured table. “That what we doin’? Real formal-like?”

He blinked. “Didn’t mean no offense.”

You chuckled, rollin’ a bun between your palms. “No offense taken. Just don’t reckon I’m used to bein’ called ‘miss’ by a man who nearly knocked over a whole tray of berry tarts yesterday.”

A flush crept up his neck, and he looked away.

Bingo.

“So,” you continued, folding the dough again just to keep your hands busy, “where’d you learn to knead like that? You got baker blood, or are you just tryin’ real hard to impress my old man?”

Remmick shrugged. “Worked a kitchen once. Before this.”

“That so?”

He nodded, eyes back on the dough he was weighin’. “Nothin’ special. Big house. Lotta noise.”

You tilted your head. “A manor kitchen?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

He didn’t offer more. But his knuckles were white on the table’s edge.

You filed that away.

“Well, you’re better’n the last man Pa brought in. That one thought sourdough was just regular bread with an attitude.”

That earned you a flicker of a grin. Barely there. But it tugged at your chest all the same.

“You always this talkative in the mornin’?” he asked softly, eyes still on the dough.

You smirked. “Only when I’m curious.”

“’Bout what?”

“’Bout you.”

That shut him up quick.

The heat from the ovens pushed against your back, sweat pricklin’ beneath your headscarf. You could hear your father stompin’ around in the storeroom, mutterin’ about deliveries, and still—still—all you could focus on was the way Remmick’s eyes darted to you and then away again like it hurt to keep lookin’.

Like maybe he didn’t think he was allowed to.

You picked up your tray and brushed past him, close enough to catch the scent of ash and something else—like spice left too long in a sealed jar. You caught him holdin’ his breath.

“Relax, Remmick,” you murmured near his shoulder. “I don’t bite.”

But Lord, you’d learn one day that he did.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

And the scars would never fade. The morning opened gentle—fog clingin’ low to the stones and the scent of molasses already workin’ its way into the wood beams. You’d been up since before the rooster, coaxin’ yeast to rise and tryin’ not to think about the ache in your lower back from yesterday’s deliveries. The town’s festival was three weeks off, and that meant your father was pushin’ double orders, expectin’ the both of you to run like four.

Remmick was already there when you came in.

He always was. Like he never slept. Like he came with the ovens.

You saw him through the slant of the window near the back door—coat slung over a chair, sleeves rolled up, leanin’ low over the dough trough with that same strange reverence. He moved like the bread might break if he breathed too hard. Like he was still learnin’ what it meant to touch things without losin’ them.

You opened the door with your hip, basket in your arms.

He looked up when you entered, blinkin’ once, then goin’ right back to work.

“Mornin’,” you said.

“Mornin’.”

That was all. But you heard the softness in it now. He was adjustin’ to you—little by little. Like maybe he didn’t mind so much anymore.

You set the basket down on the prep table, unloadin’ the cloth-wrapped jars and bundles. “You ever use orange blossom before?” you asked, holdin’ up the small dark bottle.

Remmick glanced over, brows liftin’ just slightly. “No. But I’ve smelled it.”

“That ain’t the same.”

“Smells like summer,” he said.

You stopped, lookin’ at him. “That’s a good way to put it.”

He offered a shrug. “Got a memory for things like that.”

“Things like what?”

“Smells. Colors. Words people don’t mean to say out loud.”

That gave you pause.

You watched him turn the dough again, strong hands folding it slow and steady.

“You always talk in riddles, or is that just a me thing?” you asked, smilin’ faint.

His mouth twitched. “Might be a you thing.”

You leaned back against the table, arms crossed, eyes still on him. “You’re not from here.”

“No.”

“Where you from then?”

He wiped his hands on a cloth. “East of here. Little colder. Little quieter.”

You nodded. “You miss it?”

He hesitated. Then, “Sometimes. But I like the quiet here better.”

That answer sat heavy between you.

You didn’t push.

Instead, you moved to the back shelves, grabbed the pan for the morning’s tart shells. The silence was easy now—like the space between verses in a hymn. You heard your father in the next room, cussin’ at a dented tray. Remmick didn’t flinch.

It wasn’t until an hour later, as the tarts cooled and the steam rolled thick from the stovetop, that he finally asked, “You ever think about leavin’? This town, I mean.”

You blinked. Caught off guard. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “Not ‘cause I hate it. Just… feels like there’s more.”

“More what?”

“More me, maybe. Someplace else.”

He nodded, like he understood.

“Why?” you asked, settin’ a cherry beside each tart. “You plannin’ on leavin’?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at the flour on his palms.

Then, quiet: “I used to think I had to.”

You looked at him.

“And now?” you asked.

He looked back.

His eyes were softer than you expected.

“Now I don’t know,” he said.

And neither of you said much else that morning.

But later, you caught him hummin’ under his breath when he thought you weren’t listenin’.

And the tune—

It was the same one your mama used to sing when she pressed your hair and said love was somethin’ that crept in quiet.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The day your father asked you to do the market run with Remmick, you almost dropped the basket of scones.

Not because it was a surprise—he’d been makin’ you do those runs since you were tall enough to carry a tray without fallin’ in the dirt. But because your father never let you go with anyone. Especially not with a man, and certainly not with the quiet one he still didn’t trust with the register.

“Town’s too busy today,” he’d muttered, rubbin’ flour off his fingers. “And that last batch of lemon braid’s too fresh to go to waste.”

You didn’t ask why Remmick couldn’t go alone. You didn’t care.

You just tied your scarf a little tighter and tried to hide the flutter beneath your ribs.

He was already waitin’ out front, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the crate of bread settled easy against his hip. He nodded when he saw you, eyes flickin’ to the basket you carried.

“That all of it?”

You nodded, pretendin’ you didn’t just count the number of words he said to you.

It was five.

Five whole words. More Progress.

The road to the market was dirt and stone, a half-hour’s walk if you didn’t stop. The heat was startin’ to lean toward summer, not so bad yet, but enough that the shade under the poplar trees looked like mercy.

You walked a little ahead at first, mostly to hide your nerves. He didn’t talk. Didn’t hum like he sometimes did in the kitchen. But you noticed he always stayed just behind you—close enough to be polite, far enough not to crowd.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at the market before,” you said after a while, tryin’ to make it casual.

“Only been once,” he said. “Didn’t like the crowd.”

“Too many people?”

He nodded. “Too many lies.”

That made you glance over. “You can tell when people are lyin’?”

He shrugged. “Most folk lie with their hands. Or their shoulders.”

You laughed, not unkind. “You ever see me lie?”

He didn’t look at you. Just walked another step, then said, “Not yet.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you stayed quiet the rest of the way, listenin’ to the wind fuss with the trees and the scuff of your shoes against the road.

The market was already hummin’ when you got there. Stalls lined the square, fruit and cloth and tins of spices from traders who’d crossed more land than you could name. Remmick didn’t seem like he belonged there—his posture too straight, his eyes too sharp—but no one questioned him. You made the sale quick, passin’ off the braid and scones to Miss Tilda, who always paid in coin and news.

“Y’all hear about the wine maker wife?” she whispered, slippin’ your father’s payment into your palm. “Swears there’s a ghost sleepin’ in her rafters.”

“Maybe it’s just her husband snorin’ again,” you said.

Miss Tilda cackled, teeth flashin’. “That’s why I like you, girl.”

You turned to find Remmick standin’ by the edge of the stall, hands in his pockets, eyes on the fountain at the center of the square.

“Done?” he asked.

“Just about,” you said, tucking the coin away. “You want to look around?”

He shook his head. “I’ve seen enough.”

But he didn’t move right away.

He watched the fountain for a long moment, brows drawn, like it reminded him of somethin’ he couldn’t place.

On the way back, the clouds rolled in low and sudden.

You cursed under your breath when the first drop hit your cheek. “Didn’t bring a coat,” you muttered.

“Here,” he said.

And without waitin’ for you to answer, he slid his overcoat from his arms and held it out.

You hesitated. “You’ll get soaked.”

“I’ve been wet before.”

You took it.

It smelled like flour and smoke and something faintly bitter—like cloves, or old sorrow.

He didn’t say nothin’ the rest of the way home.

Didn’t ask for the coat back.

Didn’t look at you twice.

But that night, you hung the coat by the hearth and stood starin’ at it long after the fire died.

Like maybe it’d remember the way he looked at you before the storm came.

And maybe—just maybe—he was startin’ to see you, too.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Two days passed quiet.

Remmick didn’t say more than needed, and you didn’t push. Not yet. But that coat still hung by the fire—his coat—and every time you caught sight of it, a warmth stirred in your chest that had nothin’ to do with the embers.

You were elbow-deep in flour when he came rushin’ through the back door, boots scuffed with mud and the edge of his tunic dusted in pollen.

“I need a blade,” he muttered, half to himself.

Your brow lifted as you dusted your hands on your apron. “We’re in a bakery, not a smithy.”

“I need a small one—sharp. For fruit.” His eyes flicked to the table where your father’s old knives rested.

You tilted your head. “What for?”

He held up his hand. Cradled in it was the most pitiful, sun-dented apricot you’d ever seen—bruised, half-cracked, but gold as anything.

You stared.

Then burst out laughin’. “You nearly tore the door off its hinges for a fruit?”

He looked almost embarrassed, cheeks flushin’ faint beneath his scruff. “I dropped the whole basket. This was the only one that didn’t split.”

“You gonna carve it a throne, then?”

“No,” he muttered, looking away. “You mentioned once… apricots were your favorite.”

Your breath caught.

“I found a stall near the town edge,” he added quickly. “Traded for ‘em. Was gonna surprise you.”

Your hands stilled on the flour bin. “You remembered that?”

He nodded once, setting the apricot on the table like it was holy. “Didn’t think it’d matter.”

You reached for it, thumb brushing the bruised side. “It does.”

He watched you like he weren’t used to bein’ looked at. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, or how to stand.

You took a paring knife from the wall and sliced it clean, placing one half back into his palm without a word.

He blinked down at it. Then up at you.

“Share it with me,” you said softly.

He sat.

You leaned against the counter beside him, your shoulders almost touchin’. The bakery smelled of clove and almond, and the soft crackle of the oven filled the silence as you both bit into your halves.

It was sweet.

Overripe and imperfect.

But sweet.

And when your fingers brushed his, reachin’ for the seed, neither of you pulled away.

That apricot changed things.

Not with words. Not with confessions.

But with glances that lingered half a second too long. With the way your fingers would brush as you kneaded dough side by side. With the way Remmick started coming in earlier—never saying why, just sweeping out the ashes and relighting the hearth before you’d even tied your apron.

You noticed how he moved now—how he stood when he thought no one was watchin’, arms folded across his chest, back to the door like he needed to know what was behind him at all times. How he mumbled to himself when he measured flour, or how he smiled under his breath when you teased the village boys who came sniffin’ round for scraps.

He’d never laugh out loud.

But sometimes you’d catch him mid-chuckle, lookin’ like he’d startled himself.

Then one afternoon, it rained.

The kind of rain that comes down slow but steady, soakin’ into the thatch, drippin’ from the eaves like the sky itself was sighin’.

You’d been rollin’ dough while he stoked the fire, and your shawl had fallen off your shoulder. He stepped up behind you without speakin’, lifted it gently, and laid it back across your back.

It should’ve been nothin’.

But his fingers brushed your skin—bare for just a moment.

You froze.

So did he.

The warmth of him lingered even as he stepped back, and when you turned, he wasn’t lookin’ at you.

His eyes were on the window.

On the rain.

On anything but you.

“Remmick,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer.

You stepped toward him. Just one pace. Bare feet whisperin’ across the flour-dusted stones.

“You’re not just quiet,” you said, watching him. “You’re hiding.”

Still, he didn’t look at you.

So you took another step.

His hands were at his sides—tense. You reached for one, gently, like you were taming a frightened horse.

His fingers twitched. He let you take it.

For a second, he let you hold it.

Then—he pulled away.

Not harsh. Not sudden.

But like it hurt.

Like it took every bit of him to do it.

“I should check the ovens,” he muttered, already halfway to the back room.

“Remmick,” you called after him, but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

You stood alone in the quiet.

Heart in your throat.

Hand still open where his had been.

Outside, the rain kept fallin’.

Inside, the warmth of his touch had already gone cold.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

After the rain, he changed again.

Not all at once.

But in small, stubborn ways.

He stopped comin’ in early. Stopped hummin’ under his breath when he swept. Kept to his side of the worktable like there was an invisible line drawn between your flour and his.

He still spoke—when spoken to. Still fixed the oven when it groaned too loud. Still rolled the dough with his sleeves pushed up just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the veins in his forearms.

But he didn’t look at you.

Not really.

And not for long.

You tried not to let it show. You joked like you always did. Plucked herbs from the windowsill and tucked them behind his ear when he reached for the mixing bowl. You asked about his past, about the village he’d come from. He answered with half-truths and shrugs, eyes always driftin’ to the fire or the door.

Still, you didn’t stop.

You offered him warm crusts from the first loaf out the oven—burnin’ your fingers just to get to them before they cooled.

You pressed a plum into his palm one afternoon, sticky-sweet and soft. “You looked like you needed somethin’ sweet,” you said.

He didn’t eat it.

But he didn’t throw it away, either.

He just held it for a long while—then set it down gently beside the water basin.

When he thought you weren’t lookin’, you saw him roll it in his hand. Thumb draggin’ over the skin like he was rememberin’ the weight of your voice.

That night, you found a plum pit tucked in the hearth ashes.

He’d eaten it alone.

You told yourself that meant something.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Another day passed. Then two.

He moved like someone with weights tied to his ribs. Still kind. Still careful. But distant.

And you?

You felt like you were reachin’ through a crack in the stone, tryin’ to coax light into a place where it hadn’t been welcome for a long, long time.

So you tried a different way.

You brought him tea at closing. Not because he asked. Just because you knew his hands ached from kneadin’. Just because you knew it’d been three days since he’d smiled.

He looked at the cup.

Then at you.

And for the first time in days, he held your gaze longer than a heartbeat.

“You don’t have to keep tryin’,” he said, voice low. “Some folk got walls for a reason.”

You smiled, soft and steady. “Yeah,” you said. “And some walls ain’t built right. All it takes is the right hand to press the right stone.”

He didn’t answer.

But he took the tea.

And didn’t look away.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The afternoon sun had dipped just low enough to send a soft gold hue through the windows, casting long, warm shadows across the flour-dusted floors. The scent of almond oil and orange peel lingered in the air, from the morning’s pastries still cooling near the window.

Y/N stood on the old wooden stool near the corner shelf, arm stretched high, fingers barely grazing the edge of the tin she needed. Her father had told her time and time again not to use that stool—it wobbled when the floor creaked, and today was no different.

“Just a little more,” she muttered, biting her lip.

Below, Remmick was bent near the prep table, stacking trays with quiet precision, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled to the elbow. He glanced up at the sound of wood groaning.

She’d grown used to climbing the wobbly stool, balancing on her toes, fingers stretching to graze the dusty edge of a jar or tin. But today, something shifted—maybe the wood had warped, maybe she’d rushed it.

Whatever the cause, her footing slipped.

The heel of her boot skated off the stool’s rim, and a startled yelp caught in her throat as her balance tipped forward into open air.

She didn’t hit the floor.

A pair of strong hands caught her—rough palms curling around her waist, steady and firm like the earth had risen up beneath her. Her chest hit his, breath knocked clean from her lungs, the scent of flour and firewood clinging to his shirt, to the warmth of him beneath it.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Remmick’s breath hitched in her ear, close enough that she felt the shift of his chest rise against hers. His fingers gripped tighter without meaning to—possessive, startled, lingering.

She tilted her head just slightly, eyes meeting his at close range. His were wide, a storm of something unreadable behind them. Fear, maybe. Or something older. Something heavier.

“I—” she started, breathless. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he murmured, voice low, rough at the edges.

She hadn’t realized she was trembling until his thumb twitched against her side, grounding her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He held her gaze a beat longer, eyes flickering between hers and her mouth. His own parted—just a little—but no sound came.

And then he stepped back.

The air between them cooled like a sudden draft. His hands fell away, jaw tight, eyes averted.

“You ought not to climb that stool,” he muttered, turning away too fast. “It’s not steady.”

She stood still, heart hammering beneath her apron.

“It held just fine last week,” she said, more softly than she meant to.

He didn’t answer.

Just went back to the counter, hands moving with an urgency that didn’t match the task, kneading dough like it might silence the pulse in his veins.

She watched him for a while, eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and something else—something that had begun curling warm and stubborn in her belly ever since he’d started to unravel.

He could shut himself off again if he liked.

She wasn’t done pulling.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The days that followed moved slow and golden.

Remmick didn’t speak of the fall, or the way he’d caught you like it mattered. But you felt it all the same—in the way his shoulders eased when you entered the room, in the way he stopped pretendin’ not to listen when you hummed.

He started bringin’ things again. Quiet offerings.

A bundle of mint from the woods behind the chapel. A coin smoothed flat by the river. A handful of berries so ripe they burst in your palm.

“You ever eat these with honey?” he asked one morning, setting them on the prep table.

You looked at him, surprised. “You cookin’ now?”

He shrugged. “No. Just thought you might like ‘em.”

You did. And he knew it.

That night, you shared them at the fire, fingers stained red, knees nearly touchin’ beneath the table.

He watched you lick juice from your thumb and looked away fast—like he was ashamed of wantin’ to keep watchin’.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away when your foot brushed his under the bench.

Didn’t flinch when your head tipped just a little closer than before.

And when you leaned into him, quiet and warm and full of some ache you didn’t yet have words for—he let you rest there.

That was the night he started hummin’ again.

A tune you didn’t know. Low and rough and holy.

He left before the song finished. But his eyes stayed on you as he closed the door behind him.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Long days in the heat of the kitchen. Evenings where you lingered outside with bread still warm in your apron and sweat curling at your brow.

He stayed longer now. Helped sweep. Helped lock up. Sometimes walked you partway home before turning off toward the woods, sayin’ nothin’ but leaving a shadow behind that always clung to your heels.

Once, you found a carved wooden charm on your windowsill. Small. Crooked. Like someone had whittled it in the dark.

You kept it under your pillow.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t need to.

Then came the harvest fire.

The whole town gathered in the square. Bonfires in every corner, sparks catchin’ in the dusk like stars had fallen too low. The day filled with baking and selling and positivity then night came.The fire crackled low.

You and Remmick sat side by side on the bench outside the bakery, the heat from the ovens drifting out the stone vent behind you. The Harvest fire had long gone out, but the scent of smoke clung to his sleeves and your scarf.

You handed him the last of the berry loaf. Still warm. Crust sugared just right.

He took it slow, careful, like everything he ever touched.

You watched him eat in silence for a moment, then asked softly, “Did you ever have this, growin’ up?”

He blinked. “What—sweet bread?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t have the sugar for it. We got day-old crusts from the inn if we were lucky.”

You bit your lip, thinking. “What about a fire like this? Family around, music, food?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared out across the dark fields, thumb brushing the edge of the crust like he’d forgotten he was holding it.

“No music,” he said eventually. “No fire. Just a lotta cold. A lotta yellin’. My da had hands quicker than his temper. And his temper weren’t ever slow.”

You turned to him fully, your heart twistin’. “Remmick…”

His voice was distant now. Like he was speakin’ to the ghosts of it.

“We had this window,” he said. “Cracked in the corner. Let in the wind even in summer. I used to sit beside it at night, pretendin’ I was somewhere else. Somewhere warm. Somewhere with music. Where the bread didn’t taste like ash and the air didn’t stink of fightin’.”

You reached for his hand. He didn’t flinch.

He let you take it.

“I used to pray,” he murmured. “Not to God. Just… to anything. For someone to see me. Not fix me. Just see me. Know I was there.”

His eyes met yours then.

And they were wide. Bare. No shields left.

“I see you,” you whispered.

His breath caught.

You leaned closer, thumb brushing his knuckles. “I see the way you hold your breath when you enter a room. The way you flinch when doors close too loud. I see the boy who sits by windows and wishes for warm.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

You touched his cheek. Gentle. Sure.

“You ain’t alone anymore, Remmick.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a second. Like your words hurt. Like they healed.

“Every time I think I’m gettin’ better,” he said, voice rough, “something in me remembers I don’t deserve it.”

You shook your head. “That ain’t true.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t care what you’ve done.”

“You should.”

You leaned in, forehead almost touchin’ his. “I care who you are now. And I know what I see.”

“And what’s that?” he asked, barely breathin’.

You smiled, voice trembling but firm. “A man who catches people even when he’s fallin’ apart himself.”

He made a sound then—choked, quiet.

You reached for him again, arms open now, and for a moment he didn’t move.

Then he folded into you.

Not quick.

Not easy.

But like it took everything in him to let himself be held.

You wrapped your arms around him, felt the tension shake through his ribs, felt his breath stutter at your neck.

And you held him.

Not like he was fragile.

But like he was real.

And worthy.

And here.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet.

He didn’t apologize.

You were glad he didn’t.

He just whispered, “Thank you.”

You nodded.

And in your chest, a bloom unfurled—warm and aching and full of hope.

You loved him.

You knew it then.

And when you walked back inside that night, your hands brushed. He didn’t pull away.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

It started with a sneeze.

You were dustin’ the countertop when the flour puffed straight into your face. Remmick looked up from the proving baskets and froze.

“You alright?” he asked, already smilin’.

You swiped your sleeve across your cheek, squinting through the cloud. “Just swallowed half the sack, I think.”

He chuckled under his breath, and you narrowed your eyes.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothin’.”

“What?”

He leaned on the counter, mouth twitchin’. “You got flour in your lashes.”

“So?”

“So you look like a ghost who died makin’ biscuits.”

You grabbed a handful of flour and tossed it.

You missed.

He didn’t.

You didn’t see him throw his until it landed right in your hair, a full moon of white dustin’ your curls.

“Remmick!” you gasped, coughing through laughter.

He grinned—actually grinned—eyes crinkling in a way you hadn’t seen before. “That for the apricot throne comment,” he said.

“Oh, it’s war now.”

By the end of it, the prep table was a battlefield. You both coughed and wheezed and laughed ‘til your bellies hurt, backs against the oven, covered in flour like sugar ghosts.

And when the laughter faded, he looked at you—really looked.

“You’ve got light freckles,” he said, eyes soft.

You blinked. “Really? Never noticed.”

“Me either.” His voice dropped. “They’re real pretty.”

You forgot how to breathe.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The storms rolled in without thunder that night—just grey on grey, wind howlin’ low like a dog missin’ home.

You and Remmick were closin’ up when the candles flickered.

Then went out.

You paused by the hearth, hands mid-way through sweepin’ crumbs.

Remmick set the tray down. “I’ll check the shutters.”

He didn’t move.

You glanced over. “Remmick?”

“I hate the dark,” he said softly.

Your brow furrowed. “Why?”

He hesitated. Then, “When I was young, we lost my little brother. Wandered out one night. No moon, no lantern. By the time we found him…”

He didn’t finish.

You crossed the room, silent but sure, and slid your hand into his.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “You ain’t in it alone.”

He didn’t speak.

But he didn’t let go, either.

You stood there a long time, two silhouettes lit by the oven’s glow.

No stars.

Just warmth.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Late summer brought the laziest kind of heat—the kind that made everything feel dipped in syrup. That afternoon, you dragged a stool out back and poured Remmick a glass of the sun tea you’d left brewin’ on the sill.

He sipped, lips quirkin’.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Mint and peach,” you said, smug. “With a little somethin’ extra.”

“Poison?”

“Rosewater,” you huffed, swattin’ at his arm.

He winced. “That’s worse.”

You laughed, kickin’ your feet up on the crate between you.

“Tell me a secret,” you said.

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“’Cause I just gave you my prize tea, and I’m sweatin’ through two layers of cotton.”

He leaned back. Looked at the sky.

“…I’m afraid I’ll ruin this,” he said.

You blinked.

“This?” you echoed.

“You. This. Us.” He swallowed. “I don’t always know how to be… safe.”

Your voice softened. “You don’t have to be safe. Just honest.”

He turned to you, eyes shaded but shining. “Then I’ll tell you another secret.”

You leaned in. “Go on.”

He smiled. “I like your rosewater tea.”

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Late evening. The ovens are off. The fire’s low. The world’s asleep—except for you and him.

You were hummin’.

Just a little thing. Barely a tune. Something your mama used to sing when her back ached and the bread was risin’.

Remmick was stackin’ trays when he paused.

“What is that?” he asked, wiping flour off his palms.

You blinked up from the washbasin. “What?”

“That song. You hum it all the time.”

You shrugged, grinnin’. “Don’t even know if it’s a real song. Could be somethin’ Mama made up to keep from swearin’ when the yeast didn’t rise.”

Remmick leaned his hip against the table, eyes still on you. “Sounds like somethin’ you’d dance to.”

You froze. Half a breath. Then:

“You know how to dance, Remmick?”

He looked mildly offended. “I ain’t a corpse.”

“No, but you act like one most mornings.”

His mouth twitched. “I’ll have you know, I once danced at a harvest festival. Spun a girl so hard she threw up on my boots.”

You burst out laughin’. “Lord, I hope you take that as a cautionary tale.”

He stepped closer, holding out a hand like it wasn’t shakin’. “One dance. No vomit.”

You raised a brow. “Ain’t no music.”

“We’ll make our own.”

You stared at him.

Then, slowly, you set your rag down and took his hand.

It was warm. A little calloused. A little unsure.

You placed your other hand on his shoulder, and he hesitated before resting his palm against your waist.

The bakery felt quieter than it ever had.

The only sound was the soft creak of the wood beneath your feet and the ghost of your hum between you.

You took the first step.

So did he.

In opposite directions.

You stumbled.

He stepped on your foot.

You both froze.

“I warned you,” he muttered, ears turnin’ pink.

You covered your mouth to keep from laughin’. “You did not.”

He exhaled, shakily. “Alright, let’s try again.”

You reset. Hands back where they belonged. This time, you moved slower.

Left. Right. A turn that was more a shuffle than a twirl.

But you didn’t care.

He was holdin’ you like you mattered.

And he was smilin’.

Really smilin’. A little crooked. A little shy. But real.

“You’re not bad,” you whispered.

“I’m terrible,” he whispered back.

You grinned. “But you’re tryin’.”

And when you rested your head on his chest, just for a moment, you felt it:

The way his breath hitched.

The way his heart stuttered once—

Then steadied.

Like he’d been waitin’ his whole life to be held this gentle.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The day had been long. The heat had broken. The kitchen was quiet. And neither of you had moved from the flour-dusted table in twenty minutes.

You were sittin’ side by side, ankles bumped beneath the bench, pickin’ raisins out of the last loaf like children who’d sworn they were full five minutes ago.

Remmick leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, watchin’ you like you were far more interestin’ than anything else this side of the river.

“You always eat the tops first,” he said.

You popped a piece in your mouth. “It’s the softest part.”

“That’s criminal behavior.”

You shrugged. “Bold talk from someone who eats crusts like it’s a job.”

He gave a mock scoff. “It is my job.”

You laughed, leanin’ sideways into his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned a little, too.

“Gonna tell me my loaf manners ain’t proper now?” you teased.

Remmick smirked, real slow. “No,” he said. “But you’re lucky you’re cute.”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

His face turned red like an oven coil, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe he said it either.

“I mean—uh—”

You leaned closer, grinnin’. “Go on.”

“I… meant that in a respectful, deeply professional, non-criminal way,” he mumbled, lookin’ anywhere but your face.

You bit your lip. “So you think I’m cute?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “you’re real hard not to look at.”

The silence stretched.

And then, soft and certain, you leaned in.

So did he.

And somewhere between the smell of molasses and the warm press of his palm against your knee, your lips touched.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was a little clumsy.

Your nose bumped his.

You giggled into his mouth.

But his hand cupped your cheek after that, thumb dusted in flour, and he kissed you like he wasn’t sure the world would let him do it twice.

It was sweet.

And soft.

And then—

“Mornin’ run’s late,” came your father’s voice as the back door swung open hard against the wall.

You and Remmick shot apart like bread tossed in a grease fire.

You both turned.

He was already halfway across the room, hangin’ his coat like nothin’ happened.

You grabbed a broom that wasn’t even yours, pretendin’ to sweep like your life depended on it.

Your dad stopped.

Squinted.

Raised one brow.

“…Why’s there a raisin on the floor?” he asked flatly.

You and Remmick answered at the same time.

“Slipped.”

“Fell.”

Your father just grunted.

Walked past you both.

Didn’t say a word.

But as he grabbed a tray off the shelf, you saw it.

The hint of a frown at the corner of his mouth.

He knew.

He knew.

And he said nothin’.

Just went about his business like his daughter hadn’t just been kissed breathless by the bakery hand with flour on his lips.

Remmick shot you a sideways glance.

You mouthed, we’re dead.

And he mouthed back, worth it.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

It started with your legs tangled up in his, both of you sittin’ on the flour-dusted floor behind the prep table, laughin’ ‘til your sides ached.

Remmick had just confessed he once got caught deliverin’ bread to the wrong house and ended up feedin’ a rooster instead of a customer. You were wheezin’, folded over, tears in your eyes.

He was leanin’ back on his elbows, watchin’ you with that rare, lazy smirk you’d only started earnin’ lately.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured.

You caught your breath and turned toward him. “You like trouble.”

He didn’t deny it. Just looked at you like he couldn’t remember what air tasted like before you came along.

You crawled over, slid into his lap without askin’. His hands found your hips like they were meant to live there.

“You keep starin’ at me like that,” you whispered, “you’re gonna have to do somethin’ about it.”

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbin’.

“I’m tryin’ to be good.”

“You already are,” you said, breath warm against his jaw. “But I don’t want good right now.”

And that was all it took.

He kissed you—hard. Nothing tentative this time. Just mouths collidin’, hands roamin’, breath comin’ sharp. He gripped your thighs, pullin’ you flush against him, and you moaned into his mouth when you felt the thick press of him, already hard beneath his trousers.

“Fuck,” he muttered, like the word slipped out uninvited. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this every damn night.”

You ground down on him slowly, smilin’ as his breath hitched.

“Then do it right,” you whispered.

He stood, still holdin’ you, and set you down on the prep table like you were the finest thing he’d ever handled. His hands slid under your skirt, pushin’ it up around your waist, thumbs brushing over your thighs.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I’ll slap you if you do.”

That made him grin—but it faded fast as he dropped to his knees, draggin’ your panties down your legs slow. Real slow. Watchin’ every inch of skin he revealed like it might vanish if he blinked too fast.

“Pretty,” he said, more like a groan than a compliment.

Then his mouth was on you.

You gasped, head fallin’ back, hand grippin’ the table edge. His tongue moved soft at first—circlin’, explorin’—then firm, steady, rhythmic. He groaned against your pussy when you moaned his name, and the vibration made your knees damn near buckle.

“Remmick—” you panted. “God—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He licked you like he meant to make you fall apart. Like he was starvin’ and you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to taste.

When you came, it was with a cry into your forearm, thighs clenchin’ around his head, body shakin’.

He kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and sweet, then stood—lickin’ his lips with a look that should’ve been a sin.

You reached for his belt.

“Take it off,” you said.

He obeyed without a word, fingers fumblin’ slightly, breath shallow as he shoved his pants down and his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leakn’ at the tip.

Your eyes widened. “Remmick…”

“What?” he asked, brows drawin’ down.

“You’re… big.”

He flushed hard, mouth open like he didn’t know what to say.

You pulled him close. “Good thing I’m brave.”

He kissed you, deep and messy, while you guided him between your legs. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, grippin’ the table behind you with white-knuckled fists.

“Ready?” he breathed.

You nodded. “Need you.”

And he pushed in.

Slow.

Stretchin’ you open inch by inch, your walls clenchin’ around him as your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re tight—fuckin’ hell—”

You whimpered. “Keep goin’.”

He paused once he was fully seated inside, tryin’ not to lose it right there.

“Look at me,” you said.

He did.

And he started to move.

Each stroke was deep, slow, fillin’ you up so good you forgot where you were. His hips rocked steady, his breath ragged against your mouth, his hands all over you—your waist, your thighs, your ass.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he muttered, voice guttural. “Could die like this.”

You clung to him, legs wrapped around his hips, heels diggin’ in to pull him deeper.

“Harder,” you whispered.

He obeyed.

The table creaked.

Your cries grew louder.

He kissed your neck, your mouth, your shoulder—sayin’ your name like a prayer between thrusts.

You came again, this time clenchin’ around him so hard he cursed into your collarbone.

“I—shit—Y/N—” he choked out, and then he came with a low groan, hips jerkin’, cock pulsin’ deep inside you.

You both stayed there a moment, breathless, his head buried in your neck.

“I think,” you panted, “we might’ve burnt the night rolls.”

He laughed—weakly. “Worth it.”

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The table still creaked when you leaned against it the next night, memories fresh in your bones.

You’d cleaned the flour off it, wiped every trace, but some things don’t wash out easy. Especially not heat. Not touch.

Not the sound of Remmick gasping your name against your neck.

He was late comin’ in, which wasn’t like him.

But when he finally pushed through the door, coat tugged close and hair tousled from wind, you smiled like your heart already knew how to beat faster just for him.

“Evenin’, stranger,” you teased, nudgin’ a bowl of peaches toward him.

He grinned, tired but genuine. “Got caught up. Had a few things to see to.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

He hesitated. Then shrugged. “Nothin’ bad. Just… personal.”

You didn’t press. Not tonight.

He helped you close up—quiet but present—hands brushing yours when you passed him the trays. There was a softness between you now, unspoken but undeniable. He didn’t look away when you caught his gaze. Didn’t hide the way his fingers lingered when he tucked a loose curl behind your ear.

When the last lantern was out, he reached for his coat again.

“You ain’t stayin’ late?” you asked, tryin’ not to sound disappointed.

He gave you a sheepish look. “Wish I could. But I gotta take care of somethin’. I’ll be back before dawn.”

You nodded, stepping closer.

“Hold still.”

He blinked. “What for—”

You stood on your toes and kissed him. Quick. Light. Barely a breath of it.

But it made him exhale like you’d knocked the wind clean from his lungs.

He looked at you like he might stay after all.

But he didn’t.

He kissed your knuckles slow, then stepped back with a whisper of a smile.

“Sweet dreams, darlin’.”

Then he was gone.

And the door clicked shut.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Your father was waitin’ in the front room.

You didn’t notice him at first—just went about stackin’ the last of the linen, still flushed from the kiss.

“Y/N,” he said, voice sharp enough to still the air.

You turned. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

He was sittin’ with his ledger in his lap, pen still in hand, eyes fixed.

“I been thinkin’, and it’s time you heard it straight.”

You blinked. “Heard what?”

“You’re marryin’ Thom Hensley.”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came.

“I already gave my word,” he said flatly. “Arranged it last week. His daddy’s providin’ two barrels of flour a month and coverin’ the roof repair.”

You took a step back. “No.”

“It’s done.”

“You didn’t even ask me,” you said, voice crackin’.

“Didn’t need to. You’re a smart girl, Y/N. You know love don’t pay for shingles and sugar. This here’s survival.”

You felt the heat rise in your chest.

Your lips still tasted like Remmick.

Your thighs still ached from him.

And now?

Now your world was shatterin’ in your hands like a dropped dish on stone.

“I’m not marryin’ him,” you whispered.

“You will,” your father said, standing. “You’ll thank me someday when your belly’s full and you ain’t beggin’ for scraps.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t soften.

Didn’t see the girl in front of him—just the deal already signed.

You ran.

Out the back door, apron still on, breath catchin’ in your throat like ash.

But Remmick was already gone.

And the stars above were too quiet to answer.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The Next Day – Just Before Sunset

The bell above the bakery door jingled.

Once.

Sharp as a knife drawn too fast.

Her father looked up from the broom in his hand, brows raisin’ at the sound. The sun was already sinkin’ behind the buildings, spillin’ red through the windows. The sign on the door said Closed.

But there he was.

Remmick.

Leanin’ in the doorway like a shadow that had learned how to walk.

His coat hung clean, but his eyes looked wrong. Darker than nightfall. Like the world inside him had stopped makin’ sense.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” her father said. “I thought you ran off like a whipped pup.”

Remmick didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Just stepped inside, boots quiet on the wood, until they stood near the counter where her hands used to press the dough flat each morning.

Her father squinted. “You here for more beggin’? Thought I told you, she’s not yours.”

“You don’t get to own her,” Remmick said, voice low.

“Don’t gotta own her. Just gotta protect her from fools like you who can’t offer nothin’ but promises.”

“Stop the wedding,” Remmick said, stepping closer. “Tell him it’s off. Give her back.”

Her father barked a laugh, full of spite. “Give her back? What’re you, some kind of prince now? You got land? You got title? Hell—you got a pulse worth bettin’ on?”

“I’ll take her away. Far from here. She loves me.”

“She don’t know what love is!” he shouted, slammin’ his palm against the counter. “You think touchin’ her in the dark gives you a claim? You’re a ghost, boy. You were always just passin’ through.”

Remmick’s breath caught.

His jaw clenched.

And somewhere under his skin—something shifted.

He didn’t remember moving.

Didn’t remember the sound of bone splitting.

But he felt it—claws, black as ash, slippin’ out from his fingertips like knives born from hunger.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he growled.

The air went still.

Her father took a step back.

And that’s when it happened.

A blur.

A flash.

A sound like meat tearin’.

Remmick’s hand moved before his mind did.

The claws slashed across the man’s chest—deep, red spillin’ out like wine uncorked in one sudden breath.

The broom hit the floor.

Her father stumbled back, gaspin’, eyes wide with shock. He reached for the counter, missed, and collapsed onto his side with a heavy thud.

Remmick stood frozen.

Shit. Shit—

He dropped to his knees, heart poundin’ in a chest that didn’t beat anymore.

“No, no, no—” he whispered, hands tryin’ to press against the wound, to hold somethin’ in that was already spillin’ out too fast.

“I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean—”

Her father’s lips parted once. No words. Just a long, shaky breath that rattled in his throat.

And then…

Stillness.

Remmick’s hands were soaked to the wrists.

“God—no—”

But what broke him wasn’t the blood.

It was the gold pendant in the old man’s hand.

Still clutched tight.

A necklace.

Simple.

Oval-shaped.

And inside—behind the glass—a faded sketch of a woman’s face.

Y/N’s mother.

Remmick stared at it, chest hollowed out, eyes wild with something worse than fear.

He was trying to hold onto her memory when he died.

She was all he had left.

Footsteps.

Fast.

Too close.

Someone was comin’.

Remmick snatched the pendant, hand shakin’, eyes wide.

He ran.

Out the back.

Into the dark.

Heartless and hunted.

Blood on his coat.

Love on his tongue.

And a curse bloomin’ in his chest that no power in the woods could ever undo.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

One week later. After the funeral. The sun sets behind the chapel.

They buried her father under the willow near the chapel’s edge, the one with roots so deep the grave digger cursed under his breath the whole morning.

The wedding never came.

The flowers meant for the aisle withered in the corner of the bakery, forgotten.

People murmured their sympathies like gossip dressed up in black. So sorry. So sudden. Such a shame.

Y/N didn’t hear a word of it.

She stood through the service dry-eyed and stone-still, clutching the locket that had been pressed into her hand by the seamstress who’d cleaned her father’s coat.

Inside was a sketch of her mother.

Old. Smudged.

She hadn’t known he still carried it.

She hadn’t known a lot of things.

꧁༺༻꧂

The sun was settin’ by the time she was alone.

She stayed behind after everyone else had gone, lettin’ the silence sit heavy around her like the heat after a fire.

Her boots sank slightly into the soft dirt as she stepped away from the grave. Her veil had been black instead of white. Her hands still smelled like lilies and earth.

Then—

She felt it.

That weight in the air. That strange pull, like the wind had stopped breathin’.

She turned.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Standin’ just beyond the tree line, half-shadowed in the gold light.

Not movin’.

Not speakin’.

Just there.

Her breath caught sharp in her throat.

She hadn’t seen him since… before.

Before the blood.

Before the screaming silence in her chest.

“Remmick,” she whispered.

He stepped closer.

And in the light, she saw him fully.

His face was the same. But not.

Eyes darker. Skin paler. A stillness in him that hadn’t been there before. Like the world moved and he stayed behind.

“You’re alive,” she said, the words trembling out of her.

“Mostly,” he murmured.

Her mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again—but what came out wasn’t what she expected.

It was anger.

“You weren’t there.”

His brow furrowed.

“I waited,” she said, voice crackin’ now. “I needed you, and you left.”

“Y/N—”

“You left me with him. With the man who told me I was a burden. Who sold me off like a sack of flour and didn’t even ask me.”

“I didn’t know—”

“And now he’s gone.”

She took a step forward, hands balled at her sides.

“He’s gone, and I never got to say goodbye. Never told him I forgave him. Never got to yell at him or hug him or—anything. He died thinkin’ I hated him. And you—”

Her voice broke completely.

“You weren’t there.”

Remmick’s mouth parted, eyes glassin’.

“I wanted to be.”

“Then why weren’t you?” she demanded, tears spillin’ now, hot down her cheeks.

He took another step, slower this time.

“Because I thought I had nothin’ left to give you,” he whispered. “I went looking for a way to fix it. To make things right. But all I did was break more.”

She stared at him, breathin’ hard, her grief and fury twisted together like a storm that had no place left to land.

And somewhere deep inside her—

She felt it.

Something was wrong.

Different.

Off.

“What did you do?” she asked, barely audible.

Remmick looked at her.

And said nothing.

But the look in his eyes—

The look of a man who would damn himself to keep her safe—

That said everything.

꧁༺༻꧂  

The wedding never came.

Not after the funeral.

Not after the letters stopped.

Not after she sat alone in her room for three days straight, the white dress hangin’ limp in her wardrobe like a ghost she hadn’t invited.

Y/N called it off herself.

Didn’t wait for Thom’s answer.

Didn’t care what the town whispered when she took off the ring and walked into the chapel barefoot and unbothered.

She’d already buried enough that week.

Remmick found her in the garden behind the bakery a few days later, sittin’ in her mama’s old rocking chair with her knees tucked up, a blanket draped around her shoulders and her eyes swollen from cryin’.

She didn’t speak when he approached.

Didn’t flinch when he sat beside her.

She just leaned into him like she’d been waitin’ for his warmth all day, and he let her.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

Held her when she trembled.

Didn’t offer false comforts.

Didn’t rush her grief.

He was quiet—but present.

And that meant more than any apology ever could.

“I still feel him in the walls,” she whispered one night, curled up on the old settee in the back room, Remmick sittin’ beside her with his fingers in her hair. “The way he’d mutter when the jam boiled too fast. The way his boots hit the floor when he was pissed.”

Remmick just nodded, soft and slow.

“I hated him,” she said. “And I loved him. And now I don’t know what to do with any of it.”

He looked at her, expression unreadable.

“You forgive yourself,” he said. “That’s where you start.”

She turned toward him, eyes bleary. “But what if I’m the reason he died angry?”

“He chose what he chose,” Remmick said quietly. “That don’t belong to you.”

Y/N broke then, and Remmick caught her—again.

Time passed like that.

She began movin’ more. Smilin’ again in pieces. Her hands found rhythm in baking once more. She laughed softer, held her own silence better.

And Remmick was always near.

She clung to him like a raft in the flood.

Let him kiss her slow, unhurried. Let him whisper how proud he was. How strong she was.

He kissed her scars like blessings.

And she loved him.

Loved him so much it made her forget sometimes.

Forget how he never stepped into the sunlight.

Forget how he flinched when she brought garlic into the kitchen.

Forget how cold his hands stayed even when he was holdin’ her tight.

She chalked it up to grief. To change. To the weight of all they’d been through.

Love made shadows softer.

Until the day she cleaned his room.

꧁༺༻꧂

She wasn’t lookin’ for nothin’.

Just a fresh blanket. The edge of summer was nippin’ cold again, and Remmick’d been workin’ harder than usual—stayin’ up late, disappearin’ at odd hours with excuses about woodcutters or errands that didn’t quite line up.

She went to fold his spare coat.

It was heavier than usual.

She reached into the inner pocket—

And pulled out the gold locket.

Her mother’s.

Her chest seized.

The sketch inside—familiar.

The smear of dried blood along the hinge—undeniable.

Her breath caught.

The room spun.

Her father had died holdin’ that locket.

And now it was here.

In Remmick’s coat.

Not lost. Not returned.

Hid.

She stared at it for a long, shaking moment, thumb brushin’ the dried edge of what had once been her father’s blood.

Her heart wanted to say no.

Wanted to deny it.

But love didn’t stop truth.

Didn’t erase instincts.

And in the pit of her stomach—

She already knew.

꧁༺༻꧂

She didn’t ask him about the locket.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Not even when he kissed her temple and whispered her name like it still meant safety instead of suspicion.

She tucked it away. Literally.

Wrapped it in linen and shoved it in the bottom of her wardrobe, like maybe if she buried it far enough under her dresses and grief, it’d lose the weight it carried.

But it didn’t.

It burned there.

A tiny, gold fire at the root of everything.

And she felt it every time he walked into a room.

Every time he smiled too slow.

Every time he touched her like she might disappear.

꧁༺༻꧂

She started noticin’ things she’d brushed off before.

The way he moved—too quiet.

The way his eyes gleamed too sharp in the dark.

The way he always smelled faintly of ash, even after a wash.

And the way animals seemed to avoid him now—especially the old stray cat that used to love sleepin’ under the bakery window. It hissed when he got too close last Thursday.

Remmick had laughed.

She hadn’t.

꧁༺༻꧂

Her sleep got strange.

Sweeter, then darker.

Dreams of blood on fresh dough. Of her father’s boots walkin’ across the floor without a man wearin’ them. Of Remmick touchin’ her with hands that didn’t end in fingers.

She’d wake up breathless.

Heart poundin’.

Sometimes with him watchin’ her.

And always—always—the locket called to her like it had a voice.

Like it remembered how her father died even if no one else did.

꧁༺༻꧂

She started foldin’ distance between them in daylight.

Small things.

A slower smile. A turned shoulder. A delay in reachin’ for his hand.

Remmick noticed.

Of course he did.

“You alright, dove?” he asked one evening, brow furrowed as he handed her a warm tart.

“Just tired,” she lied.

He watched her like he didn’t believe it.

But he said nothin’.

That scared her more.

Because Remmick always said somethin’. Even if it was low.Even if it was too late.

Now?

He just nodded. Quiet.

Too quiet. And that kind of silence?

That wasn’t natural.She didn’t know what scared her more. The thought of losin’ him…

Or the thought that she already had—and just hadn’t realized what took his place.

꧁༺༻꧂

Late evening. The fire’s near out. The locket’s hidden. But her grief is not.

The coals had gone low in the hearth, leavin’ only that orange-red flicker across the stone floor. The bakery’s back room was quiet save for the creak of beams and the occasional drip from the roof where the thatch never held. Y/N sat on the edge of the cot, hands wrapped in her shift, locket still buried beneath her dresses upstairs.

She couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t cry anymore either. The ache in her chest had hollowed her out—left nothin’ but embers where her heart used to sit. So when Remmick entered, boots muddy, eyes tired, shoulders broader than they’d been before the grief, she stood.

Said nothin’.

Just walked to him in the dark. He opened his mouth to speak—maybe to ask what was wrong. But she silenced him with her mouth.

Kissed him hard.

Desperate. And he caught her like instinct, hands grippin’ her waist, shift slippin’ beneath his fingers as they stumbled toward the wall. She tore at the laces of his tunic like she hated the thing. Like she wanted bare skin or nothin’ at all.

“Y/N—” he breathed, voice hoarse.

“Don’t speak,” she whispered.

He didn’t. He just kissed her deeper, tongue slick against hers, his breath catchin’ when her hand slipped down the front of his trousers and wrapped around him, already hot and heavy in her palm.

“God’s wounds,” he groaned.

She shoved his tunic down his arms, then turned and braced herself against the table. The same table where they once made bread. Tonight, it was for breakin’.

“Take me,” she said. “Don’t ask. Just do it.”

He hesitated—but only for a moment.Then his hands were on her hips, her shift shoved up to her waist, her legs partin’ for him like they’d done a dozen times in dreams, not enough in life.

When he slid into her, slow and thick, she gasped—but she didn’t stop him. She wanted to feel. Wanted to split apart on him if it meant forgettin’ for a while. He grunted, teeth sinkin’ into her shoulder as he bottomed out, her body clenchin’ tight ‘round him.

“Harder,” she whispered, fingers white on the edge of the table.

He obeyed.

The table rocked with each thrust, her feet liftin’ from the ground, his cock drivin’ into her deep, fast, brutal—just how she needed. She cried out his name, and he kissed the back of her neck like it might undo the pain they both carried. She came like that—half bent, mouth open, skin sweat-slick and marked by his hands.

But it wasn’t enough. She turned, grabbed him by the throat, and pulled him down to the floor. He followed her like a man caught in spellwork. She climbed on top, sank down on him again with a gasp. He gritted his teeth. “You’ll ruin me.”

“I already have,” she said.

She rode him slow and hard, breasts bared to the candlelight, thighs tight around his hips, her mouth on his as they chased oblivion.When he came, he held her like a dying man—arms tight, body shaking, a curse whispered into her shoulder that sounded too ancient to be human.

꧁༺༻꧂

After, they lay together on the cold floor, the stone stealin’ the heat from their skin. She watched him through the flicker of flame, heart still hammerin’, chest sticky with sweat and seed.

And then—

He stood. Dressed in silence.

“You’re leavin’ again,” she said flatly, not lookin’ at him. He didn’t lie.Just fastened his cloak and said, “There’s a matter I’ve to see to. I’ll return before cock’s crow.”

She nodded.

Didn’t stop him.

Didn’t say don’t go.

Didn’t ask where.

And when the door shut behind him, the wind howled under the sill. She pulled the blanket to her chin, eyes burnin’. But she didn’t cry. She just stared at the locket’s hiding place. And wondered how many more lies could live inside the body of the man she loved.

꧁༺༻꧂

Just after sundown. The locket’s in her hand.

The fire had gone cold.

So had she.

She stood in the back room of the bakery, the air thick with silence, her cloak still damp from the rain. In her hand was the locket. Cleaned. Dried. Heavy with memory. The gold caught what little light was left. She heard his boots before she saw him—soft steps over stone. Remmick stepped into the doorway, brow furrowed. “You left the door unbarred. I thought—”

“You lied to me.” He froze. Her voice was low. Even. Not broken. Not yet. His jaw clenched. “Y/N…” She held up the locket. He didn’t move.

“Found it in your coat,” she said. “Tucked between your shirts. Still had his blood on it.” He said nothing. The silence dragged until it suffocated the breath in her chest.

“I asked myself a hundred ways,” she whispered. “Maybe you found it. Maybe you tried to save him. Maybe it got caught in your clothes by mistake.” Her hand shook. “But that ain’t what happened… is it?”

Remmick stepped forward once. She stepped back.

“Tell me the truth.” Her voice cracked. “Did you kill him?” His mouth parted—then closed again. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Her world went still. Just those five words. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“You killed him,” she said, voice numb. “I lost control.”

“You murdered him.”

“I loved you!” he shouted.

That broke it. Broke the last bit of stillness between them.

“You loved me?” she spat, chest heaving. “You loved me and left me to bury the man you butchered like an animal? You loved me and lied every single day since?”

“I did it for you!” His voice was ragged. “He was going to sell you off like stock—he took everything from you. From us. I was trying to give you a future.”

“You took my past,” she whispered. “You took my father. My chance to forgive him. To fight him. To understand him.”

He stepped closer, eyes dark with something ancient. “I’d do it again.” Her mouth trembled. “Then I don’t know you.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, reaching for her. “You know every part of me.”

She slapped his hand away. He snapped. His temper—his grief—his hunger flared too fast. Faster than it ever should have.

In a blink, his hand gripped her wrist, hard. Too hard. The force of it slammed her against the wall, a dull thud knocking the wind from her chest. Her eyes went wide. He froze. She gasped, trying to twist away—but he held her still.

And then—

He looked down.

Saw the bruise already blooming beneath his fingers. His expression shattered. He let go like he’d been burned.

“Y/N,” he whispered, stepping back. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t think—”

She backed away, eyes filled with something worse than tears.

Fear.

Real, gut-deep fear.

“Don’t,” she said, voice small. “Don’t come near me.”

“Please—”

“Get out.”

He stood there—bloodless, breathless, the monster inside finally naked in the light of her pain. Then he turned. And fled. Like he had the night he killed her father. Only this time, he wasn’t running from rage.

He was running from what he’d become in the eyes of the only person he ever loved.

꧁༺༻꧂

Some endings never choose a shape. They simply… wait. The forest breathed in silence.

No birds. No beasts. Only the hush of twilight pressing down like a prayer unsaid. Remmick stood at the edge of the ruin—where ivy strangled stone and the altar loomed like a half-buried sin.

He had followed the path without knowing why. No map. No lantern. Just grief carving trails into his mind, and the sound of her name pounding beneath his ribs. Y/N was gone. Not buried. Not wed.

Just… gone.

Some said she left on foot at dawn. Others swore they’d seen her enter the woods in her nightdress, barefoot, like she’d been sleepwalking toward something she couldn’t name.

He hadn’t seen her since the night she looked at him with eyes full of heartbreak. Eyes full of fear. He still heard her voice in dreams.

“You killed him.”

“You lied to me.”

“I don’t know what you are anymore.”

And maybe she was right. Maybe he didn’t know either.

But here he was again, drawn back to the place where he’d first bartered pieces of his soul in exchange for something he didn’t yet understand. The altar waited. And so did the voice.

“You return,” it rasped, from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Remmick said nothing at first. Just reached beneath his tunic and pulled the chain from his neck. The locket. Her mother’s portrait, sealed behind glass. Still warm from his skin. He laid it on the altar.

“I want her back,” he said softly.

A pause. Then a chuckle made of leaves and wind.

“She’s not something to own, boy.”

“I know.”

“She made her choice. As you did.”

He looked to the trees. To the dark curling inward like a closing fist.

“What would you give now?” the voice asked.

And for a moment, he couldn’t answer. Because he didn’t know what he had left. His love? It had become his ruin. His power? It had never been enough.

And her?

Maybe she still breathed somewhere. Maybe she’d never forgive him. Maybe she waited.

Or maybe she had already chosen a path that never looped back to him.The air thickened. The altar pulsed.And Remmick—aching, desperate, changed—spoke only one word.

“Tell me how.” What answer the forest gave…

…was never heard aloud.

Only the wind knows now what bargain was struck.Only the shadows remember whether he chose redemption……or revenge.

______

Taglist(LMK if you want out): @jakecockley, @alastorhazbin

[cherry-lala]

The Price of Keeping Everything

Pairings:human-turned-vampire! Remmick x human!fem reader

Word count: 11.3k+

Summary: In a bakery infused with warmth and unspoken longing, two people navigate the delicate dance between desire and secrets. As their world unravels with revelations and heartache, their choices will lead them down paths that intertwine love with darkness. In a gripping tale where every whisper of the past casts long shadows, both find themselves facing the ultimate choice between redemption and the consequences of love's hidden truths.

Content Warning: Grief, loss, emotional manipulation, death, blood, violence, memory of domestic abuse, betrayal, supernatural elements, lying, coercion, implied sexual content, fear, emotional distress, transformation, abandonment

A/N: omggg I had this written alr but I didn’t have time to edit it(I kind of skimmed through editing this) buttt it’s finally done whoop whoop! Anyways I hope you enjoy this and I can find time to write many more different fics. Likes, Reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!!^^

The scent of cardamom and browned butter clung to the air like memory. The bakery had been open just past dawn, and already the ovens groaned with heat, casting golden flickers across the stone walls like morning ghosts. Your father’s footsteps echoed from the back as he barked orders you could finish before he even spoke them. You knew every rhythm here—every creak of wood under flour-heavy boots, every breath of cinnamon that curled up your sleeve like perfume.

Except now there was a new rhythm.

It was quieter than the rest. Measured. Careful.

You glanced past the rack of cooling loaves to the back corner, where the newest hire stood hunched over a sack of grain. His name was Remmick. And he looked like he’d been carved out of the grey—grey shirt, grey eyes, grey mood. A quiet thing with long limbs and a dorky sort of stillness, like he didn’t quite know how to take up space yet.

He was awkward. Too formal with your father. Too gentle with the bread.

And you couldn’t stop watchin’ him.

“This one don’t speak unless spoken to,” your father had muttered that first day, handing Remmick a pair of rolled sleeves and a sharp look. “And even then, he barely does. But his hands are strong. Might finally keep up with you.”

You hadn’t replied. Just looked the boy over, seen the way he stood like the floor might swallow him whole.

You’d expected him to fold after a week.

But here he was—two weeks in. Still quiet. Still showin’ up before sunrise with his hair a mess and his boots muddy from the walk through town. And you still didn’t know a damn thing about him.

Except you wanted to.

“Mornin’, Remmick,” you called now, loud over the clang of iron trays.

He stiffened. Straightened. Wiped his palms on his apron before glancin’ up.

“Mornin’, miss.”

“Miss?” You raised a brow, leaning your hip into the floured table. “That what we doin’? Real formal-like?”

He blinked. “Didn’t mean no offense.”

You chuckled, rollin’ a bun between your palms. “No offense taken. Just don’t reckon I’m used to bein’ called ‘miss’ by a man who nearly knocked over a whole tray of berry tarts yesterday.”

A flush crept up his neck, and he looked away.

Bingo.

“So,” you continued, folding the dough again just to keep your hands busy, “where’d you learn to knead like that? You got baker blood, or are you just tryin’ real hard to impress my old man?”

Remmick shrugged. “Worked a kitchen once. Before this.”

“That so?”

He nodded, eyes back on the dough he was weighin’. “Nothin’ special. Big house. Lotta noise.”

You tilted your head. “A manor kitchen?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

He didn’t offer more. But his knuckles were white on the table’s edge.

You filed that away.

“Well, you’re better’n the last man Pa brought in. That one thought sourdough was just regular bread with an attitude.”

That earned you a flicker of a grin. Barely there. But it tugged at your chest all the same.

“You always this talkative in the mornin’?” he asked softly, eyes still on the dough.

You smirked. “Only when I’m curious.”

“’Bout what?”

“’Bout you.”

That shut him up quick.

The heat from the ovens pushed against your back, sweat pricklin’ beneath your headscarf. You could hear your father stompin’ around in the storeroom, mutterin’ about deliveries, and still—still—all you could focus on was the way Remmick’s eyes darted to you and then away again like it hurt to keep lookin’.

Like maybe he didn’t think he was allowed to.

You picked up your tray and brushed past him, close enough to catch the scent of ash and something else—like spice left too long in a sealed jar. You caught him holdin’ his breath.

“Relax, Remmick,” you murmured near his shoulder. “I don’t bite.”

But Lord, you’d learn one day that he did.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

And the scars would never fade. The morning opened gentle—fog clingin’ low to the stones and the scent of molasses already workin’ its way into the wood beams. You’d been up since before the rooster, coaxin’ yeast to rise and tryin’ not to think about the ache in your lower back from yesterday’s deliveries. The town’s festival was three weeks off, and that meant your father was pushin’ double orders, expectin’ the both of you to run like four.

Remmick was already there when you came in.

He always was. Like he never slept. Like he came with the ovens.

You saw him through the slant of the window near the back door—coat slung over a chair, sleeves rolled up, leanin’ low over the dough trough with that same strange reverence. He moved like the bread might break if he breathed too hard. Like he was still learnin’ what it meant to touch things without losin’ them.

You opened the door with your hip, basket in your arms.

He looked up when you entered, blinkin’ once, then goin’ right back to work.

“Mornin’,” you said.

“Mornin’.”

That was all. But you heard the softness in it now. He was adjustin’ to you—little by little. Like maybe he didn’t mind so much anymore.

You set the basket down on the prep table, unloadin’ the cloth-wrapped jars and bundles. “You ever use orange blossom before?” you asked, holdin’ up the small dark bottle.

Remmick glanced over, brows liftin’ just slightly. “No. But I’ve smelled it.”

“That ain’t the same.”

“Smells like summer,” he said.

You stopped, lookin’ at him. “That’s a good way to put it.”

He offered a shrug. “Got a memory for things like that.”

“Things like what?”

“Smells. Colors. Words people don’t mean to say out loud.”

That gave you pause.

You watched him turn the dough again, strong hands folding it slow and steady.

“You always talk in riddles, or is that just a me thing?” you asked, smilin’ faint.

His mouth twitched. “Might be a you thing.”

You leaned back against the table, arms crossed, eyes still on him. “You’re not from here.”

“No.”

“Where you from then?”

He wiped his hands on a cloth. “East of here. Little colder. Little quieter.”

You nodded. “You miss it?”

He hesitated. Then, “Sometimes. But I like the quiet here better.”

That answer sat heavy between you.

You didn’t push.

Instead, you moved to the back shelves, grabbed the pan for the morning’s tart shells. The silence was easy now—like the space between verses in a hymn. You heard your father in the next room, cussin’ at a dented tray. Remmick didn’t flinch.

It wasn’t until an hour later, as the tarts cooled and the steam rolled thick from the stovetop, that he finally asked, “You ever think about leavin’? This town, I mean.”

You blinked. Caught off guard. “Sometimes,” you admitted. “Not ‘cause I hate it. Just… feels like there’s more.”

“More what?”

“More me, maybe. Someplace else.”

He nodded, like he understood.

“Why?” you asked, settin’ a cherry beside each tart. “You plannin’ on leavin’?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared down at the flour on his palms.

Then, quiet: “I used to think I had to.”

You looked at him.

“And now?” you asked.

He looked back.

His eyes were softer than you expected.

“Now I don’t know,” he said.

And neither of you said much else that morning.

But later, you caught him hummin’ under his breath when he thought you weren’t listenin’.

And the tune—

It was the same one your mama used to sing when she pressed your hair and said love was somethin’ that crept in quiet.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The day your father asked you to do the market run with Remmick, you almost dropped the basket of scones.

Not because it was a surprise—he’d been makin’ you do those runs since you were tall enough to carry a tray without fallin’ in the dirt. But because your father never let you go with anyone. Especially not with a man, and certainly not with the quiet one he still didn’t trust with the register.

“Town’s too busy today,” he’d muttered, rubbin’ flour off his fingers. “And that last batch of lemon braid’s too fresh to go to waste.”

You didn’t ask why Remmick couldn’t go alone. You didn’t care.

You just tied your scarf a little tighter and tried to hide the flutter beneath your ribs.

He was already waitin’ out front, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the crate of bread settled easy against his hip. He nodded when he saw you, eyes flickin’ to the basket you carried.

“That all of it?”

You nodded, pretendin’ you didn’t just count the number of words he said to you.

It was five.

Five whole words. More Progress.

The road to the market was dirt and stone, a half-hour’s walk if you didn’t stop. The heat was startin’ to lean toward summer, not so bad yet, but enough that the shade under the poplar trees looked like mercy.

You walked a little ahead at first, mostly to hide your nerves. He didn’t talk. Didn’t hum like he sometimes did in the kitchen. But you noticed he always stayed just behind you—close enough to be polite, far enough not to crowd.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at the market before,” you said after a while, tryin’ to make it casual.

“Only been once,” he said. “Didn’t like the crowd.”

“Too many people?”

He nodded. “Too many lies.”

That made you glance over. “You can tell when people are lyin’?”

He shrugged. “Most folk lie with their hands. Or their shoulders.”

You laughed, not unkind. “You ever see me lie?”

He didn’t look at you. Just walked another step, then said, “Not yet.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you stayed quiet the rest of the way, listenin’ to the wind fuss with the trees and the scuff of your shoes against the road.

The market was already hummin’ when you got there. Stalls lined the square, fruit and cloth and tins of spices from traders who’d crossed more land than you could name. Remmick didn’t seem like he belonged there—his posture too straight, his eyes too sharp—but no one questioned him. You made the sale quick, passin’ off the braid and scones to Miss Tilda, who always paid in coin and news.

“Y’all hear about the wine maker wife?” she whispered, slippin’ your father’s payment into your palm. “Swears there’s a ghost sleepin’ in her rafters.”

“Maybe it’s just her husband snorin’ again,” you said.

Miss Tilda cackled, teeth flashin’. “That’s why I like you, girl.”

You turned to find Remmick standin’ by the edge of the stall, hands in his pockets, eyes on the fountain at the center of the square.

“Done?” he asked.

“Just about,” you said, tucking the coin away. “You want to look around?”

He shook his head. “I’ve seen enough.”

But he didn’t move right away.

He watched the fountain for a long moment, brows drawn, like it reminded him of somethin’ he couldn’t place.

On the way back, the clouds rolled in low and sudden.

You cursed under your breath when the first drop hit your cheek. “Didn’t bring a coat,” you muttered.

“Here,” he said.

And without waitin’ for you to answer, he slid his overcoat from his arms and held it out.

You hesitated. “You’ll get soaked.”

“I’ve been wet before.”

You took it.

It smelled like flour and smoke and something faintly bitter—like cloves, or old sorrow.

He didn’t say nothin’ the rest of the way home.

Didn’t ask for the coat back.

Didn’t look at you twice.

But that night, you hung the coat by the hearth and stood starin’ at it long after the fire died.

Like maybe it’d remember the way he looked at you before the storm came.

And maybe—just maybe—he was startin’ to see you, too.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Two days passed quiet.

Remmick didn’t say more than needed, and you didn’t push. Not yet. But that coat still hung by the fire—his coat—and every time you caught sight of it, a warmth stirred in your chest that had nothin’ to do with the embers.

You were elbow-deep in flour when he came rushin’ through the back door, boots scuffed with mud and the edge of his tunic dusted in pollen.

“I need a blade,” he muttered, half to himself.

Your brow lifted as you dusted your hands on your apron. “We’re in a bakery, not a smithy.”

“I need a small one—sharp. For fruit.” His eyes flicked to the table where your father’s old knives rested.

You tilted your head. “What for?”

He held up his hand. Cradled in it was the most pitiful, sun-dented apricot you’d ever seen—bruised, half-cracked, but gold as anything.

You stared.

Then burst out laughin’. “You nearly tore the door off its hinges for a fruit?”

He looked almost embarrassed, cheeks flushin’ faint beneath his scruff. “I dropped the whole basket. This was the only one that didn’t split.”

“You gonna carve it a throne, then?”

“No,” he muttered, looking away. “You mentioned once… apricots were your favorite.”

Your breath caught.

“I found a stall near the town edge,” he added quickly. “Traded for ‘em. Was gonna surprise you.”

Your hands stilled on the flour bin. “You remembered that?”

He nodded once, setting the apricot on the table like it was holy. “Didn’t think it’d matter.”

You reached for it, thumb brushing the bruised side. “It does.”

He watched you like he weren’t used to bein’ looked at. Like he didn’t know where to put his hands, or how to stand.

You took a paring knife from the wall and sliced it clean, placing one half back into his palm without a word.

He blinked down at it. Then up at you.

“Share it with me,” you said softly.

He sat.

You leaned against the counter beside him, your shoulders almost touchin’. The bakery smelled of clove and almond, and the soft crackle of the oven filled the silence as you both bit into your halves.

It was sweet.

Overripe and imperfect.

But sweet.

And when your fingers brushed his, reachin’ for the seed, neither of you pulled away.

That apricot changed things.

Not with words. Not with confessions.

But with glances that lingered half a second too long. With the way your fingers would brush as you kneaded dough side by side. With the way Remmick started coming in earlier—never saying why, just sweeping out the ashes and relighting the hearth before you’d even tied your apron.

You noticed how he moved now—how he stood when he thought no one was watchin’, arms folded across his chest, back to the door like he needed to know what was behind him at all times. How he mumbled to himself when he measured flour, or how he smiled under his breath when you teased the village boys who came sniffin’ round for scraps.

He’d never laugh out loud.

But sometimes you’d catch him mid-chuckle, lookin’ like he’d startled himself.

Then one afternoon, it rained.

The kind of rain that comes down slow but steady, soakin’ into the thatch, drippin’ from the eaves like the sky itself was sighin’.

You’d been rollin’ dough while he stoked the fire, and your shawl had fallen off your shoulder. He stepped up behind you without speakin’, lifted it gently, and laid it back across your back.

It should’ve been nothin’.

But his fingers brushed your skin—bare for just a moment.

You froze.

So did he.

The warmth of him lingered even as he stepped back, and when you turned, he wasn’t lookin’ at you.

His eyes were on the window.

On the rain.

On anything but you.

“Remmick,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer.

You stepped toward him. Just one pace. Bare feet whisperin’ across the flour-dusted stones.

“You’re not just quiet,” you said, watching him. “You’re hiding.”

Still, he didn’t look at you.

So you took another step.

His hands were at his sides—tense. You reached for one, gently, like you were taming a frightened horse.

His fingers twitched. He let you take it.

For a second, he let you hold it.

Then—he pulled away.

Not harsh. Not sudden.

But like it hurt.

Like it took every bit of him to do it.

“I should check the ovens,” he muttered, already halfway to the back room.

“Remmick,” you called after him, but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

You stood alone in the quiet.

Heart in your throat.

Hand still open where his had been.

Outside, the rain kept fallin’.

Inside, the warmth of his touch had already gone cold.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

After the rain, he changed again.

Not all at once.

But in small, stubborn ways.

He stopped comin’ in early. Stopped hummin’ under his breath when he swept. Kept to his side of the worktable like there was an invisible line drawn between your flour and his.

He still spoke—when spoken to. Still fixed the oven when it groaned too loud. Still rolled the dough with his sleeves pushed up just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the veins in his forearms.

But he didn’t look at you.

Not really.

And not for long.

You tried not to let it show. You joked like you always did. Plucked herbs from the windowsill and tucked them behind his ear when he reached for the mixing bowl. You asked about his past, about the village he’d come from. He answered with half-truths and shrugs, eyes always driftin’ to the fire or the door.

Still, you didn’t stop.

You offered him warm crusts from the first loaf out the oven—burnin’ your fingers just to get to them before they cooled.

You pressed a plum into his palm one afternoon, sticky-sweet and soft. “You looked like you needed somethin’ sweet,” you said.

He didn’t eat it.

But he didn’t throw it away, either.

He just held it for a long while—then set it down gently beside the water basin.

When he thought you weren’t lookin’, you saw him roll it in his hand. Thumb draggin’ over the skin like he was rememberin’ the weight of your voice.

That night, you found a plum pit tucked in the hearth ashes.

He’d eaten it alone.

You told yourself that meant something.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Another day passed. Then two.

He moved like someone with weights tied to his ribs. Still kind. Still careful. But distant.

And you?

You felt like you were reachin’ through a crack in the stone, tryin’ to coax light into a place where it hadn’t been welcome for a long, long time.

So you tried a different way.

You brought him tea at closing. Not because he asked. Just because you knew his hands ached from kneadin’. Just because you knew it’d been three days since he’d smiled.

He looked at the cup.

Then at you.

And for the first time in days, he held your gaze longer than a heartbeat.

“You don’t have to keep tryin’,” he said, voice low. “Some folk got walls for a reason.”

You smiled, soft and steady. “Yeah,” you said. “And some walls ain’t built right. All it takes is the right hand to press the right stone.”

He didn’t answer.

But he took the tea.

And didn’t look away.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The afternoon sun had dipped just low enough to send a soft gold hue through the windows, casting long, warm shadows across the flour-dusted floors. The scent of almond oil and orange peel lingered in the air, from the morning’s pastries still cooling near the window.

Y/N stood on the old wooden stool near the corner shelf, arm stretched high, fingers barely grazing the edge of the tin she needed. Her father had told her time and time again not to use that stool—it wobbled when the floor creaked, and today was no different.

“Just a little more,” she muttered, biting her lip.

Below, Remmick was bent near the prep table, stacking trays with quiet precision, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled to the elbow. He glanced up at the sound of wood groaning.

She’d grown used to climbing the wobbly stool, balancing on her toes, fingers stretching to graze the dusty edge of a jar or tin. But today, something shifted—maybe the wood had warped, maybe she’d rushed it.

Whatever the cause, her footing slipped.

The heel of her boot skated off the stool’s rim, and a startled yelp caught in her throat as her balance tipped forward into open air.

She didn’t hit the floor.

A pair of strong hands caught her—rough palms curling around her waist, steady and firm like the earth had risen up beneath her. Her chest hit his, breath knocked clean from her lungs, the scent of flour and firewood clinging to his shirt, to the warmth of him beneath it.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Remmick’s breath hitched in her ear, close enough that she felt the shift of his chest rise against hers. His fingers gripped tighter without meaning to—possessive, startled, lingering.

She tilted her head just slightly, eyes meeting his at close range. His were wide, a storm of something unreadable behind them. Fear, maybe. Or something older. Something heavier.

“I—” she started, breathless. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he murmured, voice low, rough at the edges.

She hadn’t realized she was trembling until his thumb twitched against her side, grounding her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He held her gaze a beat longer, eyes flickering between hers and her mouth. His own parted—just a little—but no sound came.

And then he stepped back.

The air between them cooled like a sudden draft. His hands fell away, jaw tight, eyes averted.

“You ought not to climb that stool,” he muttered, turning away too fast. “It’s not steady.”

She stood still, heart hammering beneath her apron.

“It held just fine last week,” she said, more softly than she meant to.

He didn’t answer.

Just went back to the counter, hands moving with an urgency that didn’t match the task, kneading dough like it might silence the pulse in his veins.

She watched him for a while, eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and something else—something that had begun curling warm and stubborn in her belly ever since he’d started to unravel.

He could shut himself off again if he liked.

She wasn’t done pulling.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The days that followed moved slow and golden.

Remmick didn’t speak of the fall, or the way he’d caught you like it mattered. But you felt it all the same—in the way his shoulders eased when you entered the room, in the way he stopped pretendin’ not to listen when you hummed.

He started bringin’ things again. Quiet offerings.

A bundle of mint from the woods behind the chapel. A coin smoothed flat by the river. A handful of berries so ripe they burst in your palm.

“You ever eat these with honey?” he asked one morning, setting them on the prep table.

You looked at him, surprised. “You cookin’ now?”

He shrugged. “No. Just thought you might like ‘em.”

You did. And he knew it.

That night, you shared them at the fire, fingers stained red, knees nearly touchin’ beneath the table.

He watched you lick juice from your thumb and looked away fast—like he was ashamed of wantin’ to keep watchin’.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away when your foot brushed his under the bench.

Didn’t flinch when your head tipped just a little closer than before.

And when you leaned into him, quiet and warm and full of some ache you didn’t yet have words for—he let you rest there.

That was the night he started hummin’ again.

A tune you didn’t know. Low and rough and holy.

He left before the song finished. But his eyes stayed on you as he closed the door behind him.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Long days in the heat of the kitchen. Evenings where you lingered outside with bread still warm in your apron and sweat curling at your brow.

He stayed longer now. Helped sweep. Helped lock up. Sometimes walked you partway home before turning off toward the woods, sayin’ nothin’ but leaving a shadow behind that always clung to your heels.

Once, you found a carved wooden charm on your windowsill. Small. Crooked. Like someone had whittled it in the dark.

You kept it under your pillow.

Didn’t ask.

Didn’t need to.

Then came the harvest fire.

The whole town gathered in the square. Bonfires in every corner, sparks catchin’ in the dusk like stars had fallen too low. The day filled with baking and selling and positivity then night came.The fire crackled low.

You and Remmick sat side by side on the bench outside the bakery, the heat from the ovens drifting out the stone vent behind you. The Harvest fire had long gone out, but the scent of smoke clung to his sleeves and your scarf.

You handed him the last of the berry loaf. Still warm. Crust sugared just right.

He took it slow, careful, like everything he ever touched.

You watched him eat in silence for a moment, then asked softly, “Did you ever have this, growin’ up?”

He blinked. “What—sweet bread?”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t have the sugar for it. We got day-old crusts from the inn if we were lucky.”

You bit your lip, thinking. “What about a fire like this? Family around, music, food?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared out across the dark fields, thumb brushing the edge of the crust like he’d forgotten he was holding it.

“No music,” he said eventually. “No fire. Just a lotta cold. A lotta yellin’. My da had hands quicker than his temper. And his temper weren’t ever slow.”

You turned to him fully, your heart twistin’. “Remmick…”

His voice was distant now. Like he was speakin’ to the ghosts of it.

“We had this window,” he said. “Cracked in the corner. Let in the wind even in summer. I used to sit beside it at night, pretendin’ I was somewhere else. Somewhere warm. Somewhere with music. Where the bread didn’t taste like ash and the air didn’t stink of fightin’.”

You reached for his hand. He didn’t flinch.

He let you take it.

“I used to pray,” he murmured. “Not to God. Just… to anything. For someone to see me. Not fix me. Just see me. Know I was there.”

His eyes met yours then.

And they were wide. Bare. No shields left.

“I see you,” you whispered.

His breath caught.

You leaned closer, thumb brushing his knuckles. “I see the way you hold your breath when you enter a room. The way you flinch when doors close too loud. I see the boy who sits by windows and wishes for warm.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

You touched his cheek. Gentle. Sure.

“You ain’t alone anymore, Remmick.”

He closed his eyes. Just for a second. Like your words hurt. Like they healed.

“Every time I think I’m gettin’ better,” he said, voice rough, “something in me remembers I don’t deserve it.”

You shook your head. “That ain’t true.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t care what you’ve done.”

“You should.”

You leaned in, forehead almost touchin’ his. “I care who you are now. And I know what I see.”

“And what’s that?” he asked, barely breathin’.

You smiled, voice trembling but firm. “A man who catches people even when he’s fallin’ apart himself.”

He made a sound then—choked, quiet.

You reached for him again, arms open now, and for a moment he didn’t move.

Then he folded into you.

Not quick.

Not easy.

But like it took everything in him to let himself be held.

You wrapped your arms around him, felt the tension shake through his ribs, felt his breath stutter at your neck.

And you held him.

Not like he was fragile.

But like he was real.

And worthy.

And here.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet.

He didn’t apologize.

You were glad he didn’t.

He just whispered, “Thank you.”

You nodded.

And in your chest, a bloom unfurled—warm and aching and full of hope.

You loved him.

You knew it then.

And when you walked back inside that night, your hands brushed. He didn’t pull away.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

It started with a sneeze.

You were dustin’ the countertop when the flour puffed straight into your face. Remmick looked up from the proving baskets and froze.

“You alright?” he asked, already smilin’.

You swiped your sleeve across your cheek, squinting through the cloud. “Just swallowed half the sack, I think.”

He chuckled under his breath, and you narrowed your eyes.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothin’.”

“What?”

He leaned on the counter, mouth twitchin’. “You got flour in your lashes.”

“So?”

“So you look like a ghost who died makin’ biscuits.”

You grabbed a handful of flour and tossed it.

You missed.

He didn’t.

You didn’t see him throw his until it landed right in your hair, a full moon of white dustin’ your curls.

“Remmick!” you gasped, coughing through laughter.

He grinned—actually grinned—eyes crinkling in a way you hadn’t seen before. “That for the apricot throne comment,” he said.

“Oh, it’s war now.”

By the end of it, the prep table was a battlefield. You both coughed and wheezed and laughed ‘til your bellies hurt, backs against the oven, covered in flour like sugar ghosts.

And when the laughter faded, he looked at you—really looked.

“You’ve got light freckles,” he said, eyes soft.

You blinked. “Really? Never noticed.”

“Me either.” His voice dropped. “They’re real pretty.”

You forgot how to breathe.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The storms rolled in without thunder that night—just grey on grey, wind howlin’ low like a dog missin’ home.

You and Remmick were closin’ up when the candles flickered.

Then went out.

You paused by the hearth, hands mid-way through sweepin’ crumbs.

Remmick set the tray down. “I’ll check the shutters.”

He didn’t move.

You glanced over. “Remmick?”

“I hate the dark,” he said softly.

Your brow furrowed. “Why?”

He hesitated. Then, “When I was young, we lost my little brother. Wandered out one night. No moon, no lantern. By the time we found him…”

He didn’t finish.

You crossed the room, silent but sure, and slid your hand into his.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “You ain’t in it alone.”

He didn’t speak.

But he didn’t let go, either.

You stood there a long time, two silhouettes lit by the oven’s glow.

No stars.

Just warmth.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Late summer brought the laziest kind of heat—the kind that made everything feel dipped in syrup. That afternoon, you dragged a stool out back and poured Remmick a glass of the sun tea you’d left brewin’ on the sill.

He sipped, lips quirkin’.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Mint and peach,” you said, smug. “With a little somethin’ extra.”

“Poison?”

“Rosewater,” you huffed, swattin’ at his arm.

He winced. “That’s worse.”

You laughed, kickin’ your feet up on the crate between you.

“Tell me a secret,” you said.

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“’Cause I just gave you my prize tea, and I’m sweatin’ through two layers of cotton.”

He leaned back. Looked at the sky.

“…I’m afraid I’ll ruin this,” he said.

You blinked.

“This?” you echoed.

“You. This. Us.” He swallowed. “I don’t always know how to be… safe.”

Your voice softened. “You don’t have to be safe. Just honest.”

He turned to you, eyes shaded but shining. “Then I’ll tell you another secret.”

You leaned in. “Go on.”

He smiled. “I like your rosewater tea.”

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Late evening. The ovens are off. The fire’s low. The world’s asleep—except for you and him.

You were hummin’.

Just a little thing. Barely a tune. Something your mama used to sing when her back ached and the bread was risin’.

Remmick was stackin’ trays when he paused.

“What is that?” he asked, wiping flour off his palms.

You blinked up from the washbasin. “What?”

“That song. You hum it all the time.”

You shrugged, grinnin’. “Don’t even know if it’s a real song. Could be somethin’ Mama made up to keep from swearin’ when the yeast didn’t rise.”

Remmick leaned his hip against the table, eyes still on you. “Sounds like somethin’ you’d dance to.”

You froze. Half a breath. Then:

“You know how to dance, Remmick?”

He looked mildly offended. “I ain’t a corpse.”

“No, but you act like one most mornings.”

His mouth twitched. “I’ll have you know, I once danced at a harvest festival. Spun a girl so hard she threw up on my boots.”

You burst out laughin’. “Lord, I hope you take that as a cautionary tale.”

He stepped closer, holding out a hand like it wasn’t shakin’. “One dance. No vomit.”

You raised a brow. “Ain’t no music.”

“We’ll make our own.”

You stared at him.

Then, slowly, you set your rag down and took his hand.

It was warm. A little calloused. A little unsure.

You placed your other hand on his shoulder, and he hesitated before resting his palm against your waist.

The bakery felt quieter than it ever had.

The only sound was the soft creak of the wood beneath your feet and the ghost of your hum between you.

You took the first step.

So did he.

In opposite directions.

You stumbled.

He stepped on your foot.

You both froze.

“I warned you,” he muttered, ears turnin’ pink.

You covered your mouth to keep from laughin’. “You did not.”

He exhaled, shakily. “Alright, let’s try again.”

You reset. Hands back where they belonged. This time, you moved slower.

Left. Right. A turn that was more a shuffle than a twirl.

But you didn’t care.

He was holdin’ you like you mattered.

And he was smilin’.

Really smilin’. A little crooked. A little shy. But real.

“You’re not bad,” you whispered.

“I’m terrible,” he whispered back.

You grinned. “But you’re tryin’.”

And when you rested your head on his chest, just for a moment, you felt it:

The way his breath hitched.

The way his heart stuttered once—

Then steadied.

Like he’d been waitin’ his whole life to be held this gentle.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The day had been long. The heat had broken. The kitchen was quiet. And neither of you had moved from the flour-dusted table in twenty minutes.

You were sittin’ side by side, ankles bumped beneath the bench, pickin’ raisins out of the last loaf like children who’d sworn they were full five minutes ago.

Remmick leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, watchin’ you like you were far more interestin’ than anything else this side of the river.

“You always eat the tops first,” he said.

You popped a piece in your mouth. “It’s the softest part.”

“That’s criminal behavior.”

You shrugged. “Bold talk from someone who eats crusts like it’s a job.”

He gave a mock scoff. “It is my job.”

You laughed, leanin’ sideways into his shoulder. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned a little, too.

“Gonna tell me my loaf manners ain’t proper now?” you teased.

Remmick smirked, real slow. “No,” he said. “But you’re lucky you’re cute.”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

His face turned red like an oven coil, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe he said it either.

“I mean—uh—”

You leaned closer, grinnin’. “Go on.”

“I… meant that in a respectful, deeply professional, non-criminal way,” he mumbled, lookin’ anywhere but your face.

You bit your lip. “So you think I’m cute?”

“I think,” he said carefully, “you’re real hard not to look at.”

The silence stretched.

And then, soft and certain, you leaned in.

So did he.

And somewhere between the smell of molasses and the warm press of his palm against your knee, your lips touched.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was a little clumsy.

Your nose bumped his.

You giggled into his mouth.

But his hand cupped your cheek after that, thumb dusted in flour, and he kissed you like he wasn’t sure the world would let him do it twice.

It was sweet.

And soft.

And then—

“Mornin’ run’s late,” came your father’s voice as the back door swung open hard against the wall.

You and Remmick shot apart like bread tossed in a grease fire.

You both turned.

He was already halfway across the room, hangin’ his coat like nothin’ happened.

You grabbed a broom that wasn’t even yours, pretendin’ to sweep like your life depended on it.

Your dad stopped.

Squinted.

Raised one brow.

“…Why’s there a raisin on the floor?” he asked flatly.

You and Remmick answered at the same time.

“Slipped.”

“Fell.”

Your father just grunted.

Walked past you both.

Didn’t say a word.

But as he grabbed a tray off the shelf, you saw it.

The hint of a frown at the corner of his mouth.

He knew.

He knew.

And he said nothin’.

Just went about his business like his daughter hadn’t just been kissed breathless by the bakery hand with flour on his lips.

Remmick shot you a sideways glance.

You mouthed, we’re dead.

And he mouthed back, worth it.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

It started with your legs tangled up in his, both of you sittin’ on the flour-dusted floor behind the prep table, laughin’ ‘til your sides ached.

Remmick had just confessed he once got caught deliverin’ bread to the wrong house and ended up feedin’ a rooster instead of a customer. You were wheezin’, folded over, tears in your eyes.

He was leanin’ back on his elbows, watchin’ you with that rare, lazy smirk you’d only started earnin’ lately.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured.

You caught your breath and turned toward him. “You like trouble.”

He didn’t deny it. Just looked at you like he couldn’t remember what air tasted like before you came along.

You crawled over, slid into his lap without askin’. His hands found your hips like they were meant to live there.

“You keep starin’ at me like that,” you whispered, “you’re gonna have to do somethin’ about it.”

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbin’.

“I’m tryin’ to be good.”

“You already are,” you said, breath warm against his jaw. “But I don’t want good right now.”

And that was all it took.

He kissed you—hard. Nothing tentative this time. Just mouths collidin’, hands roamin’, breath comin’ sharp. He gripped your thighs, pullin’ you flush against him, and you moaned into his mouth when you felt the thick press of him, already hard beneath his trousers.

“Fuck,” he muttered, like the word slipped out uninvited. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout this every damn night.”

You ground down on him slowly, smilin’ as his breath hitched.

“Then do it right,” you whispered.

He stood, still holdin’ you, and set you down on the prep table like you were the finest thing he’d ever handled. His hands slid under your skirt, pushin’ it up around your waist, thumbs brushing over your thighs.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I’ll slap you if you do.”

That made him grin—but it faded fast as he dropped to his knees, draggin’ your panties down your legs slow. Real slow. Watchin’ every inch of skin he revealed like it might vanish if he blinked too fast.

“Pretty,” he said, more like a groan than a compliment.

Then his mouth was on you.

You gasped, head fallin’ back, hand grippin’ the table edge. His tongue moved soft at first—circlin’, explorin’—then firm, steady, rhythmic. He groaned against your pussy when you moaned his name, and the vibration made your knees damn near buckle.

“Remmick—” you panted. “God—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He licked you like he meant to make you fall apart. Like he was starvin’ and you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to taste.

When you came, it was with a cry into your forearm, thighs clenchin’ around his head, body shakin’.

He kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and sweet, then stood—lickin’ his lips with a look that should’ve been a sin.

You reached for his belt.

“Take it off,” you said.

He obeyed without a word, fingers fumblin’ slightly, breath shallow as he shoved his pants down and his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leakn’ at the tip.

Your eyes widened. “Remmick…”

“What?” he asked, brows drawin’ down.

“You’re… big.”

He flushed hard, mouth open like he didn’t know what to say.

You pulled him close. “Good thing I’m brave.”

He kissed you, deep and messy, while you guided him between your legs. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, grippin’ the table behind you with white-knuckled fists.

“Ready?” he breathed.

You nodded. “Need you.”

And he pushed in.

Slow.

Stretchin’ you open inch by inch, your walls clenchin’ around him as your fingers dug into his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “You’re tight—fuckin’ hell—”

You whimpered. “Keep goin’.”

He paused once he was fully seated inside, tryin’ not to lose it right there.

“Look at me,” you said.

He did.

And he started to move.

Each stroke was deep, slow, fillin’ you up so good you forgot where you were. His hips rocked steady, his breath ragged against your mouth, his hands all over you—your waist, your thighs, your ass.

“Feel so fuckin’ good,” he muttered, voice guttural. “Could die like this.”

You clung to him, legs wrapped around his hips, heels diggin’ in to pull him deeper.

“Harder,” you whispered.

He obeyed.

The table creaked.

Your cries grew louder.

He kissed your neck, your mouth, your shoulder—sayin’ your name like a prayer between thrusts.

You came again, this time clenchin’ around him so hard he cursed into your collarbone.

“I—shit—Y/N—” he choked out, and then he came with a low groan, hips jerkin’, cock pulsin’ deep inside you.

You both stayed there a moment, breathless, his head buried in your neck.

“I think,” you panted, “we might’ve burnt the night rolls.”

He laughed—weakly. “Worth it.”

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The table still creaked when you leaned against it the next night, memories fresh in your bones.

You’d cleaned the flour off it, wiped every trace, but some things don’t wash out easy. Especially not heat. Not touch.

Not the sound of Remmick gasping your name against your neck.

He was late comin’ in, which wasn’t like him.

But when he finally pushed through the door, coat tugged close and hair tousled from wind, you smiled like your heart already knew how to beat faster just for him.

“Evenin’, stranger,” you teased, nudgin’ a bowl of peaches toward him.

He grinned, tired but genuine. “Got caught up. Had a few things to see to.”

You tilted your head. “Like what?”

He hesitated. Then shrugged. “Nothin’ bad. Just… personal.”

You didn’t press. Not tonight.

He helped you close up—quiet but present—hands brushing yours when you passed him the trays. There was a softness between you now, unspoken but undeniable. He didn’t look away when you caught his gaze. Didn’t hide the way his fingers lingered when he tucked a loose curl behind your ear.

When the last lantern was out, he reached for his coat again.

“You ain’t stayin’ late?” you asked, tryin’ not to sound disappointed.

He gave you a sheepish look. “Wish I could. But I gotta take care of somethin’. I’ll be back before dawn.”

You nodded, stepping closer.

“Hold still.”

He blinked. “What for—”

You stood on your toes and kissed him. Quick. Light. Barely a breath of it.

But it made him exhale like you’d knocked the wind clean from his lungs.

He looked at you like he might stay after all.

But he didn’t.

He kissed your knuckles slow, then stepped back with a whisper of a smile.

“Sweet dreams, darlin’.”

Then he was gone.

And the door clicked shut.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

Your father was waitin’ in the front room.

You didn’t notice him at first—just went about stackin’ the last of the linen, still flushed from the kiss.

“Y/N,” he said, voice sharp enough to still the air.

You turned. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

He was sittin’ with his ledger in his lap, pen still in hand, eyes fixed.

“I been thinkin’, and it’s time you heard it straight.”

You blinked. “Heard what?”

“You’re marryin’ Thom Hensley.”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came.

“I already gave my word,” he said flatly. “Arranged it last week. His daddy’s providin’ two barrels of flour a month and coverin’ the roof repair.”

You took a step back. “No.”

“It’s done.”

“You didn’t even ask me,” you said, voice crackin’.

“Didn’t need to. You’re a smart girl, Y/N. You know love don’t pay for shingles and sugar. This here’s survival.”

You felt the heat rise in your chest.

Your lips still tasted like Remmick.

Your thighs still ached from him.

And now?

Now your world was shatterin’ in your hands like a dropped dish on stone.

“I’m not marryin’ him,” you whispered.

“You will,” your father said, standing. “You’ll thank me someday when your belly’s full and you ain’t beggin’ for scraps.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t soften.

Didn’t see the girl in front of him—just the deal already signed.

You ran.

Out the back door, apron still on, breath catchin’ in your throat like ash.

But Remmick was already gone.

And the stars above were too quiet to answer.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

The Next Day – Just Before Sunset

The bell above the bakery door jingled.

Once.

Sharp as a knife drawn too fast.

Her father looked up from the broom in his hand, brows raisin’ at the sound. The sun was already sinkin’ behind the buildings, spillin’ red through the windows. The sign on the door said Closed.

But there he was.

Remmick.

Leanin’ in the doorway like a shadow that had learned how to walk.

His coat hung clean, but his eyes looked wrong. Darker than nightfall. Like the world inside him had stopped makin’ sense.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” her father said. “I thought you ran off like a whipped pup.”

Remmick didn’t smile.

Didn’t speak.

Just stepped inside, boots quiet on the wood, until they stood near the counter where her hands used to press the dough flat each morning.

Her father squinted. “You here for more beggin’? Thought I told you, she’s not yours.”

“You don’t get to own her,” Remmick said, voice low.

“Don’t gotta own her. Just gotta protect her from fools like you who can’t offer nothin’ but promises.”

“Stop the wedding,” Remmick said, stepping closer. “Tell him it’s off. Give her back.”

Her father barked a laugh, full of spite. “Give her back? What’re you, some kind of prince now? You got land? You got title? Hell—you got a pulse worth bettin’ on?”

“I’ll take her away. Far from here. She loves me.”

“She don’t know what love is!” he shouted, slammin’ his palm against the counter. “You think touchin’ her in the dark gives you a claim? You’re a ghost, boy. You were always just passin’ through.”

Remmick’s breath caught.

His jaw clenched.

And somewhere under his skin—something shifted.

He didn’t remember moving.

Didn’t remember the sound of bone splitting.

But he felt it—claws, black as ash, slippin’ out from his fingertips like knives born from hunger.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he growled.

The air went still.

Her father took a step back.

And that’s when it happened.

A blur.

A flash.

A sound like meat tearin’.

Remmick’s hand moved before his mind did.

The claws slashed across the man’s chest—deep, red spillin’ out like wine uncorked in one sudden breath.

The broom hit the floor.

Her father stumbled back, gaspin’, eyes wide with shock. He reached for the counter, missed, and collapsed onto his side with a heavy thud.

Remmick stood frozen.

Shit. Shit—

He dropped to his knees, heart poundin’ in a chest that didn’t beat anymore.

“No, no, no—” he whispered, hands tryin’ to press against the wound, to hold somethin’ in that was already spillin’ out too fast.

“I didn’t mean—I didn’t mean—”

Her father’s lips parted once. No words. Just a long, shaky breath that rattled in his throat.

And then…

Stillness.

Remmick’s hands were soaked to the wrists.

“God—no—”

But what broke him wasn’t the blood.

It was the gold pendant in the old man’s hand.

Still clutched tight.

A necklace.

Simple.

Oval-shaped.

And inside—behind the glass—a faded sketch of a woman’s face.

Y/N’s mother.

Remmick stared at it, chest hollowed out, eyes wild with something worse than fear.

He was trying to hold onto her memory when he died.

She was all he had left.

Footsteps.

Fast.

Too close.

Someone was comin’.

Remmick snatched the pendant, hand shakin’, eyes wide.

He ran.

Out the back.

Into the dark.

Heartless and hunted.

Blood on his coat.

Love on his tongue.

And a curse bloomin’ in his chest that no power in the woods could ever undo.

꧁༺༻꧂ 

One week later. After the funeral. The sun sets behind the chapel.

They buried her father under the willow near the chapel’s edge, the one with roots so deep the grave digger cursed under his breath the whole morning.

The wedding never came.

The flowers meant for the aisle withered in the corner of the bakery, forgotten.

People murmured their sympathies like gossip dressed up in black. So sorry. So sudden. Such a shame.

Y/N didn’t hear a word of it.

She stood through the service dry-eyed and stone-still, clutching the locket that had been pressed into her hand by the seamstress who’d cleaned her father’s coat.

Inside was a sketch of her mother.

Old. Smudged.

She hadn’t known he still carried it.

She hadn’t known a lot of things.

꧁༺༻꧂

The sun was settin’ by the time she was alone.

She stayed behind after everyone else had gone, lettin’ the silence sit heavy around her like the heat after a fire.

Her boots sank slightly into the soft dirt as she stepped away from the grave. Her veil had been black instead of white. Her hands still smelled like lilies and earth.

Then—

She felt it.

That weight in the air. That strange pull, like the wind had stopped breathin’.

She turned.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Standin’ just beyond the tree line, half-shadowed in the gold light.

Not movin’.

Not speakin’.

Just there.

Her breath caught sharp in her throat.

She hadn’t seen him since… before.

Before the blood.

Before the screaming silence in her chest.

“Remmick,” she whispered.

He stepped closer.

And in the light, she saw him fully.

His face was the same. But not.

Eyes darker. Skin paler. A stillness in him that hadn’t been there before. Like the world moved and he stayed behind.

“You’re alive,” she said, the words trembling out of her.

“Mostly,” he murmured.

Her mouth opened.

Then closed.

Then opened again—but what came out wasn’t what she expected.

It was anger.

“You weren’t there.”

His brow furrowed.

“I waited,” she said, voice crackin’ now. “I needed you, and you left.”

“Y/N—”

“You left me with him. With the man who told me I was a burden. Who sold me off like a sack of flour and didn’t even ask me.”

“I didn’t know—”

“And now he’s gone.”

She took a step forward, hands balled at her sides.

“He’s gone, and I never got to say goodbye. Never told him I forgave him. Never got to yell at him or hug him or—anything. He died thinkin’ I hated him. And you—”

Her voice broke completely.

“You weren’t there.”

Remmick’s mouth parted, eyes glassin’.

“I wanted to be.”

“Then why weren’t you?” she demanded, tears spillin’ now, hot down her cheeks.

He took another step, slower this time.

“Because I thought I had nothin’ left to give you,” he whispered. “I went looking for a way to fix it. To make things right. But all I did was break more.”

She stared at him, breathin’ hard, her grief and fury twisted together like a storm that had no place left to land.

And somewhere deep inside her—

She felt it.

Something was wrong.

Different.

Off.

“What did you do?” she asked, barely audible.

Remmick looked at her.

And said nothing.

But the look in his eyes—

The look of a man who would damn himself to keep her safe—

That said everything.

꧁༺༻꧂  

The wedding never came.

Not after the funeral.

Not after the letters stopped.

Not after she sat alone in her room for three days straight, the white dress hangin’ limp in her wardrobe like a ghost she hadn’t invited.

Y/N called it off herself.

Didn’t wait for Thom’s answer.

Didn’t care what the town whispered when she took off the ring and walked into the chapel barefoot and unbothered.

She’d already buried enough that week.

Remmick found her in the garden behind the bakery a few days later, sittin’ in her mama’s old rocking chair with her knees tucked up, a blanket draped around her shoulders and her eyes swollen from cryin’.

She didn’t speak when he approached.

Didn’t flinch when he sat beside her.

She just leaned into him like she’d been waitin’ for his warmth all day, and he let her.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

Held her when she trembled.

Didn’t offer false comforts.

Didn’t rush her grief.

He was quiet—but present.

And that meant more than any apology ever could.

“I still feel him in the walls,” she whispered one night, curled up on the old settee in the back room, Remmick sittin’ beside her with his fingers in her hair. “The way he’d mutter when the jam boiled too fast. The way his boots hit the floor when he was pissed.”

Remmick just nodded, soft and slow.

“I hated him,” she said. “And I loved him. And now I don’t know what to do with any of it.”

He looked at her, expression unreadable.

“You forgive yourself,” he said. “That’s where you start.”

She turned toward him, eyes bleary. “But what if I’m the reason he died angry?”

“He chose what he chose,” Remmick said quietly. “That don’t belong to you.”

Y/N broke then, and Remmick caught her—again.

Time passed like that.

She began movin’ more. Smilin’ again in pieces. Her hands found rhythm in baking once more. She laughed softer, held her own silence better.

And Remmick was always near.

She clung to him like a raft in the flood.

Let him kiss her slow, unhurried. Let him whisper how proud he was. How strong she was.

He kissed her scars like blessings.

And she loved him.

Loved him so much it made her forget sometimes.

Forget how he never stepped into the sunlight.

Forget how he flinched when she brought garlic into the kitchen.

Forget how cold his hands stayed even when he was holdin’ her tight.

She chalked it up to grief. To change. To the weight of all they’d been through.

Love made shadows softer.

Until the day she cleaned his room.

꧁༺༻꧂

She wasn’t lookin’ for nothin’.

Just a fresh blanket. The edge of summer was nippin’ cold again, and Remmick’d been workin’ harder than usual—stayin’ up late, disappearin’ at odd hours with excuses about woodcutters or errands that didn’t quite line up.

She went to fold his spare coat.

It was heavier than usual.

She reached into the inner pocket—

And pulled out the gold locket.

Her mother’s.

Her chest seized.

The sketch inside—familiar.

The smear of dried blood along the hinge—undeniable.

Her breath caught.

The room spun.

Her father had died holdin’ that locket.

And now it was here.

In Remmick’s coat.

Not lost. Not returned.

Hid.

She stared at it for a long, shaking moment, thumb brushin’ the dried edge of what had once been her father’s blood.

Her heart wanted to say no.

Wanted to deny it.

But love didn’t stop truth.

Didn’t erase instincts.

And in the pit of her stomach—

She already knew.

꧁༺༻꧂

She didn’t ask him about the locket.

Not that night.

Not the next.

Not even when he kissed her temple and whispered her name like it still meant safety instead of suspicion.

She tucked it away. Literally.

Wrapped it in linen and shoved it in the bottom of her wardrobe, like maybe if she buried it far enough under her dresses and grief, it’d lose the weight it carried.

But it didn’t.

It burned there.

A tiny, gold fire at the root of everything.

And she felt it every time he walked into a room.

Every time he smiled too slow.

Every time he touched her like she might disappear.

꧁༺༻꧂

She started noticin’ things she’d brushed off before.

The way he moved—too quiet.

The way his eyes gleamed too sharp in the dark.

The way he always smelled faintly of ash, even after a wash.

And the way animals seemed to avoid him now—especially the old stray cat that used to love sleepin’ under the bakery window. It hissed when he got too close last Thursday.

Remmick had laughed.

She hadn’t.

꧁༺༻꧂

Her sleep got strange.

Sweeter, then darker.

Dreams of blood on fresh dough. Of her father’s boots walkin’ across the floor without a man wearin’ them. Of Remmick touchin’ her with hands that didn’t end in fingers.

She’d wake up breathless.

Heart poundin’.

Sometimes with him watchin’ her.

And always—always—the locket called to her like it had a voice.

Like it remembered how her father died even if no one else did.

꧁༺༻꧂

She started foldin’ distance between them in daylight.

Small things.

A slower smile. A turned shoulder. A delay in reachin’ for his hand.

Remmick noticed.

Of course he did.

“You alright, dove?” he asked one evening, brow furrowed as he handed her a warm tart.

“Just tired,” she lied.

He watched her like he didn’t believe it.

But he said nothin’.

That scared her more.

Because Remmick always said somethin’. Even if it was low.Even if it was too late.

Now?

He just nodded. Quiet.

Too quiet. And that kind of silence?

That wasn’t natural.She didn’t know what scared her more. The thought of losin’ him…

Or the thought that she already had—and just hadn’t realized what took his place.

꧁༺༻꧂

Late evening. The fire’s near out. The locket’s hidden. But her grief is not.

The coals had gone low in the hearth, leavin’ only that orange-red flicker across the stone floor. The bakery’s back room was quiet save for the creak of beams and the occasional drip from the roof where the thatch never held. Y/N sat on the edge of the cot, hands wrapped in her shift, locket still buried beneath her dresses upstairs.

She couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t cry anymore either. The ache in her chest had hollowed her out—left nothin’ but embers where her heart used to sit. So when Remmick entered, boots muddy, eyes tired, shoulders broader than they’d been before the grief, she stood.

Said nothin’.

Just walked to him in the dark. He opened his mouth to speak—maybe to ask what was wrong. But she silenced him with her mouth.

Kissed him hard.

Desperate. And he caught her like instinct, hands grippin’ her waist, shift slippin’ beneath his fingers as they stumbled toward the wall. She tore at the laces of his tunic like she hated the thing. Like she wanted bare skin or nothin’ at all.

“Y/N—” he breathed, voice hoarse.

“Don’t speak,” she whispered.

He didn’t. He just kissed her deeper, tongue slick against hers, his breath catchin’ when her hand slipped down the front of his trousers and wrapped around him, already hot and heavy in her palm.

“God’s wounds,” he groaned.

She shoved his tunic down his arms, then turned and braced herself against the table. The same table where they once made bread. Tonight, it was for breakin’.

“Take me,” she said. “Don’t ask. Just do it.”

He hesitated—but only for a moment.Then his hands were on her hips, her shift shoved up to her waist, her legs partin’ for him like they’d done a dozen times in dreams, not enough in life.

When he slid into her, slow and thick, she gasped—but she didn’t stop him. She wanted to feel. Wanted to split apart on him if it meant forgettin’ for a while. He grunted, teeth sinkin’ into her shoulder as he bottomed out, her body clenchin’ tight ‘round him.

“Harder,” she whispered, fingers white on the edge of the table.

He obeyed.

The table rocked with each thrust, her feet liftin’ from the ground, his cock drivin’ into her deep, fast, brutal—just how she needed. She cried out his name, and he kissed the back of her neck like it might undo the pain they both carried. She came like that—half bent, mouth open, skin sweat-slick and marked by his hands.

But it wasn’t enough. She turned, grabbed him by the throat, and pulled him down to the floor. He followed her like a man caught in spellwork. She climbed on top, sank down on him again with a gasp. He gritted his teeth. “You’ll ruin me.”

“I already have,” she said.

She rode him slow and hard, breasts bared to the candlelight, thighs tight around his hips, her mouth on his as they chased oblivion.When he came, he held her like a dying man—arms tight, body shaking, a curse whispered into her shoulder that sounded too ancient to be human.

꧁༺༻꧂

After, they lay together on the cold floor, the stone stealin’ the heat from their skin. She watched him through the flicker of flame, heart still hammerin’, chest sticky with sweat and seed.

And then—

He stood. Dressed in silence.

“You’re leavin’ again,” she said flatly, not lookin’ at him. He didn’t lie.Just fastened his cloak and said, “There’s a matter I’ve to see to. I’ll return before cock’s crow.”

She nodded.

Didn’t stop him.

Didn’t say don’t go.

Didn’t ask where.

And when the door shut behind him, the wind howled under the sill. She pulled the blanket to her chin, eyes burnin’. But she didn’t cry. She just stared at the locket’s hiding place. And wondered how many more lies could live inside the body of the man she loved.

꧁༺༻꧂

Just after sundown. The locket’s in her hand.

The fire had gone cold.

So had she.

She stood in the back room of the bakery, the air thick with silence, her cloak still damp from the rain. In her hand was the locket. Cleaned. Dried. Heavy with memory. The gold caught what little light was left. She heard his boots before she saw him—soft steps over stone. Remmick stepped into the doorway, brow furrowed. “You left the door unbarred. I thought—”

“You lied to me.” He froze. Her voice was low. Even. Not broken. Not yet. His jaw clenched. “Y/N…” She held up the locket. He didn’t move.

“Found it in your coat,” she said. “Tucked between your shirts. Still had his blood on it.” He said nothing. The silence dragged until it suffocated the breath in her chest.

“I asked myself a hundred ways,” she whispered. “Maybe you found it. Maybe you tried to save him. Maybe it got caught in your clothes by mistake.” Her hand shook. “But that ain’t what happened… is it?”

Remmick stepped forward once. She stepped back.

“Tell me the truth.” Her voice cracked. “Did you kill him?” His mouth parted—then closed again. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“I didn’t mean to.”

Her world went still. Just those five words. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“You killed him,” she said, voice numb. “I lost control.”

“You murdered him.”

“I loved you!” he shouted.

That broke it. Broke the last bit of stillness between them.

“You loved me?” she spat, chest heaving. “You loved me and left me to bury the man you butchered like an animal? You loved me and lied every single day since?”

“I did it for you!” His voice was ragged. “He was going to sell you off like stock—he took everything from you. From us. I was trying to give you a future.”

“You took my past,” she whispered. “You took my father. My chance to forgive him. To fight him. To understand him.”

He stepped closer, eyes dark with something ancient. “I’d do it again.” Her mouth trembled. “Then I don’t know you.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, reaching for her. “You know every part of me.”

She slapped his hand away. He snapped. His temper—his grief—his hunger flared too fast. Faster than it ever should have.

In a blink, his hand gripped her wrist, hard. Too hard. The force of it slammed her against the wall, a dull thud knocking the wind from her chest. Her eyes went wide. He froze. She gasped, trying to twist away—but he held her still.

And then—

He looked down.

Saw the bruise already blooming beneath his fingers. His expression shattered. He let go like he’d been burned.

“Y/N,” he whispered, stepping back. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t think—”

She backed away, eyes filled with something worse than tears.

Fear.

Real, gut-deep fear.

“Don’t,” she said, voice small. “Don’t come near me.”

“Please—”

“Get out.”

He stood there—bloodless, breathless, the monster inside finally naked in the light of her pain. Then he turned. And fled. Like he had the night he killed her father. Only this time, he wasn’t running from rage.

He was running from what he’d become in the eyes of the only person he ever loved.

꧁༺༻꧂

Some endings never choose a shape. They simply… wait. The forest breathed in silence.

No birds. No beasts. Only the hush of twilight pressing down like a prayer unsaid. Remmick stood at the edge of the ruin—where ivy strangled stone and the altar loomed like a half-buried sin.

He had followed the path without knowing why. No map. No lantern. Just grief carving trails into his mind, and the sound of her name pounding beneath his ribs. Y/N was gone. Not buried. Not wed.

Just… gone.

Some said she left on foot at dawn. Others swore they’d seen her enter the woods in her nightdress, barefoot, like she’d been sleepwalking toward something she couldn’t name.

He hadn’t seen her since the night she looked at him with eyes full of heartbreak. Eyes full of fear. He still heard her voice in dreams.

“You killed him.”

“You lied to me.”

“I don’t know what you are anymore.”

And maybe she was right. Maybe he didn’t know either.

But here he was again, drawn back to the place where he’d first bartered pieces of his soul in exchange for something he didn’t yet understand. The altar waited. And so did the voice.

“You return,” it rasped, from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Remmick said nothing at first. Just reached beneath his tunic and pulled the chain from his neck. The locket. Her mother’s portrait, sealed behind glass. Still warm from his skin. He laid it on the altar.

“I want her back,” he said softly.

A pause. Then a chuckle made of leaves and wind.

“She’s not something to own, boy.”

“I know.”

“She made her choice. As you did.”

He looked to the trees. To the dark curling inward like a closing fist.

“What would you give now?” the voice asked.

And for a moment, he couldn’t answer. Because he didn’t know what he had left. His love? It had become his ruin. His power? It had never been enough.

And her?

Maybe she still breathed somewhere. Maybe she’d never forgive him. Maybe she waited.

Or maybe she had already chosen a path that never looped back to him.The air thickened. The altar pulsed.And Remmick—aching, desperate, changed—spoke only one word.

“Tell me how.” What answer the forest gave…

…was never heard aloud.

Only the wind knows now what bargain was struck.Only the shadows remember whether he chose redemption……or revenge.

______

Taglist(LMK if you want out): @jakecockley, @alastorhazbin

[cherry-lala]

another remmick fic…i would like to see it

Me too👾👾😆

[cherry-lala]

Got some inspiration and energy to write some Bo Chow or Remmick or Both. Haaalppp😵‍💫

[cherry-lala]

Miss ma'am I don't know how many times I've reread your fics but I just wanna say thank you for blessing us w/ them. I typically avoid reader's pov fics but the way you wrote yours had me hooked and the fact that it's a poc/non white reader pulled me in even more. You just write so...beautifully???? (Sorry if that sounds cringe). We know you're busy with school and stuff but I can't wait to read some more of your stuff 🥵

do you know how hard I smiled reading this?! 😭 The fact that you don’t usually read reader POV but still gave mine a shot (and liked it??!)?? I’m gonna be riding that high for days.

Thank you so much for taking the time to say this — it seriously made my day 💖. School’s been dragging me 😩 but messages like this make me wanna drop everything and go write. You’re the real blessing here!!

[cherry-lala]

Whispers of Memories, Chains of Time

Parings: human-turned-vampire!Remmick x human-turned-vampire!Poc fem reader

Genres: Southern Gothic ,Vampire Romance ,Dark Angst,Supernatural Tragedy, Fluff(..)

Wordcount:14.8k+

Content warning: vampire transformation (non-consensual), blood, emotional manipulation, obsession, toxic romance, grief, PTSD, trauma aftermath, sexual tension, implied sex, body horror, hunting/killing, possessiveness, violence (not glorified), slow descent into monsterhood

A/n: this was a request from @0angel-tears0 , and i truly poured my heart into bringing it to life. i tried to weave in every detail that was asked for, and i hope it resonates with you the way it did with me while writing. thank you for the inspiration—i really hope you enjoy it. And thank you for the support^^

He was on his knees.

Not like a man prayin’, but like one beggin’ the grave to let him stay buried.

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” Remmick rasped, voice low and cracked, like gravel dragged through honey. His hands hovered near mine, never quite touchin’. “You want me gone, I’ll disappear. You want me dead, well… you know better than most, darlin’. That ain’t never been easy.”

The rain hit the ground like it was tryin’ to drown out the past.

I stood there, silent. Watchin’ the same man who once turned my blood to fire now tremble like he ain’t felt warmth in centuries. His eyes flickered red. Still beautiful. Still dangerous. Still mine—once.

And then the memory came back sharp as bone:

His mouth at my throat.

My scream shatterin’ the quiet.

The taste of betrayal on my tongue before I ever knew what betrayal truly was.

The night he turned me.

The night I stopped bein’ his salvation and became his punishment.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Remmick's Pov

The smoke from the baker’s chimney curled lazy into the grey mornin’, twistin’ up toward a sky that hadn’t yet made up its mind. Pale, dull, hangin’ low like grief. I shifted the crate on my shoulder, feelin’ the dig of wood through damp wool. My boots were slick with yesterday’s rain, slippin’ now and then on the cobbles that shone like a drunkard’s teeth—wet and crooked.

I passed the butcher, same as always. He gave me a nod stiff as his apron. Behind him, the meat swung on hooks, pink and heavy, lookin’ like saints in some holy place I’d never set foot in. I hated that shop. Too many flies. Too many mouths left open, waitin’ for a prayer that’d never come.

The crate weren’t much—few bottles of oil, sacks of dried lavender, and somethin’ sealed in wax I didn’t bother askin’ after. I just hauled it. Dropped it off with the woman behind the counter who didn’t look me in the eye, and left. No lingerin’. Places that smelled like sickness and sorrow weren’t ones I liked to haunt long.

I’d lived in this village long enough that most folks stopped whisperin’. Didn’t mean they trusted me. Just meant I was another fixture—like a broken fence or an old gate that still held up in a storm. I worked. Didn’t drink myself blind. Didn’t steal. Kept to myself. That was enough for them.

But it weren’t enough for me.

Some days I wondered if I was real at all. Or just a shadow they let move through the fog.

I took the back path out, cuttin’ ‘round the edge of the market square. Didn’t care for crowds. The noise. The eyes.

That’s when I saw her.

Not all at once. Just a flicker first—somethin’ movin’ slow near the trees where the path opened wide. A figure bent low, rearrangin’ a basket. Her movements were deliberate, like the world could wait its turn. Like she had all the time God ever gave.

Her dress was simple, but it carried different. Lighter. Like she came from somewhere the sun hit softer. And her—

Christ.

I don’t know the word for what she was.

Not just beautiful. No.

Marked.

Like the earth itself had touched her, pressed a thumbprint right into her soul, and said: this one.

I should’ve kept walkin’. I didn’t.

She straightened, basket shiftin’ easy on her hip like it belonged there. The light caught her skin, and it weren’t fair, how it looked. Her eyes passed over me once—just a blink—but they didn’t flinch. Didn’t linger.

That’s what did it.

She didn’t look at me like I was strange. Or cursed. Or nothin’. She looked past me. Like she’d seen worse. Lived through more. Like she carried the memory of fire behind her ribs and still breathed easy through the smoke.

And me?

I forgot the path. Forgot the ache in my shoulder and the filth on my hands. Forgot the hinge I was meant to fix, the roof that needed patchin’. Forgot the name I answered to.

She turned.

Walked into the crowd and was gone.

And my chest—quiet near a decade—stirred like somethin’ old had woken up in it.

Somethin’ dangerous.

Somethin’ like hunger.

Or recognition.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The next time I saw her, it was rainin’.

Not the sort that passed in a hush and vanished clean. No, this was the old kind. The kind that settled in your bones and made the village feel more graveyard than home. Clouds hung low, heavy as guilt. The air smelled like peat, smoke, and wet wool.

I hadn’t planned on cuttin’ through the square. Meant to head straight to the chapel—Father Callahan’d cracked a hinge clean off the sacristy door again, and I’d promised to fix it. Hammer tucked under my coat, hands still black with soot from cleanin’ out the baker’s flue that mornin’. My back ached. My boots were soaked.

And then—

I saw her.

She stood quiet as a shadow in front of the apothecary, tucked beneath the narrow eave that dripped steady at her feet. Her dress was simple, the color of river clay, clingin’ to her like the rain knew better than to touch her skin. A basket sat on the crook of her arm, filled with wild garlic and herbs, and her other hand held a cloth to her lips—like she was keepin’ something back.

A cough. Or a secret.

I oughta have kept walkin’.

But I didn’t.

I stood there like a daft fool in the muck, starin’ at her like the rain could wash the sense back into me.

She looked up.

And this time, she saw me.

Really saw me.

Her eyes—dark as peat, clear as glass—locked with mine. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t carry the same weight in her stare that most folks did when they looked my way. There was no pity. No suspicion.

Just stillness.

She wore it like armor.

Like maybe the storm belonged to her.

“You alright there?” I called, my voice louder than I meant over the hiss of rain.

Her gaze dipped for a breath, then came back. She lowered the cloth. “Far as I can be, considerin’,” she said. Her voice was even, lower than I remembered. The words came proper enough, but the sound of her was not local. Something about it curled at the edges. Like she’d learned the language well but carried a different song in her throat.

“You’re not from here,” I said. The words left me before I could think to swallow ‘em.

Her lips twitched, not quite smilin’. “Neither are you.”

She weren’t wrong.

Folk around here called me the outsider. Came in after my brother passed, and I stayed—fixin’ broken fences, sharpenin’ shears, patchin’ roofs after windstorms. I kept to myself. Said little. Answered less. Most folks left me be. Grief has a way of makin’ ghosts of the livin’.

But she—she was no ghost.

She was too solid. Too certain.

“You deal in herbs?” I asked, noddin’ toward her basket.

She glanced down, then back. “Some for trade. Some for me. Depends who’s askin’.”

“Folk here don’t always take kindly to unfamiliar hands mixin’ medicine.”

“They don’t take kindly to much at all,” she said. Her tone didn’t shift. Didn’t get sharp or soft. “But I’m not here to please them.”

My mouth twitched. Could’ve been a smile. Could’ve been a warning.

“They call me Remmick,” I offered, though I don’t know why. She hadn’t asked.

She nodded slow, like she was tuckin’ the name somewhere safe. “I’ve heard of you. Fix things, don’t you?”

I gave a short nod. “Try to.”

She tilted her head, studyin’ me like I was a nail half-driven. “Can you fix what ain’t made of wood or iron?”

I blinked. “Suppose that depends on how broke it is.”

That made her pause. Her eyes lingered, like she was weighin’ my words on a scale only she could read.

“Good answer,” she murmured, and stepped out into the rain.

She moved like dusk—quiet, certain, untouched by the cold. Her shoes sank into the mud, her hair clung to her nape, and still she didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter. Didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

I stood there a long while after she’d gone, hammer still clutched in my hand, like I’d forgotten what I was doin’.

Something about her wouldn’t let go.

It wasn’t just her face, though it was a face worth rememberin’.

It was the way she made the world feel like it wasn’t mine anymore.

Like she’d stepped out of some place older than time.

And my soul—fool that it is—reached for her like it already knew the fall was comin’.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The next time I saw her, I was carryin’ a sack of empty flour tins and cussin’ at the wind. The path out toward the edge of town had turned near to muck from the week’s worth of rain, and the soles of my boots were caked thick with it. I’d been sent by old Mr. Fallon to fetch a bundle of dried thyme and wild caraway for his bread—claimed the flavor wouldn’t be worth spit without it. Gave me a half-torn scrap with the address written in crooked scrawl and waved me off like I didn’t have ten other things to fix today.

I followed the directions, takin’ the narrow road past the blacksmith’s, past the place where the woods leaned too close to the path, until the town itself felt far behind me. When I reached the cottage, it was tucked back in a thicket of elder trees, vines curlin’ up its stone sides like time was tryin’ to reclaim it.

Didn’t seem like the sort of place anybody lived.

But there was smoke risin’ from the chimney, soft and pale.

I knocked on the door. Didn’t expect her to answer.

But she did.

The door creaked open slow, and there she stood. Same earth-toned dress, sleeves rolled up this time, fingers stained green from somethin’ she’d been grinding. Her hair was wrapped back, loose pieces stickin’ to her temple from sweat.

I blinked. She didn’t.

“You here for the baker’s herbs?” she asked, before I could speak.

“Aye,” I said, a little too quick. “Didn’t know it was you who put ‘em together.”

She gave a small shrug, half-turning back into the house. “I make do with what I can. Come on in. It’s dry, at least.”

I hesitated on the threshold.

Then stepped inside.

The cottage smelled like cedar smoke and mint, sharp with somethin’ bitter beneath it—wormwood, maybe, or sorrow. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass jars and cloth bundles, herbs hangin’ to dry like prayer strings. Light came in soft through the foggy windows, catchin’ on the motes floatin’ in the air.

I watched her move through the space like she belonged to it. Like the walls were built to her shape.

“You live alone out here?” I asked, settin’ the tin sack down by the door.

She nodded without lookin’ back. “Folk don’t visit much. Suits me fine.”

“Bit far from everything, don’t you think?”

Her hands didn’t stop as she tied a bundle of dried leaves with twine. “Distance keeps peace. Or at least quiet.”

I hummed low. “Seems lonely.”

She paused, just a moment. “Lonely’s better than bein’ caged.”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

She turned then, handin’ me the bundle wrapped in cloth. “Here. Tell Fallon I added wild rosemary. He’ll complain, but he’ll use it anyway.”

I took the bundle, our fingers brushin’ again. Brief, but not unremarkable.

“Thank you,” I said. “For this.”

She nodded. Her eyes lingered on mine longer than they should’ve.

“You always this polite, or just when you’re in someone’s home?”

I let a ghost of a smile tug at my mouth. “Only when I’m talkin’ to someone who don’t scare easy.”

She raised an eyebrow, a corner of her lip curlin’. “Good. I don’t trust men who only speak sweet to the meek.”

There was a silence then—an easy one, somehow, but it sat heavy with things unspoken.

“You never gave me your name,” I said, shifting the weight of the herbs in my hands.

She looked down, then back up. “That’s ‘cause I haven’t decided if you’ve earned it.”

And damn me, but I liked the sound of that.

“Well,” I said, stepping back toward the door, “if you ever reckon I have, I’ll be around. Usually fixin’ things folk’ve broken.”

She tilted her head, arms crossed now. “Maybe I’ll break somethin’ just to see if you’ll come.”

The door creaked shut behind me before I could think of somethin’ clever to say.

Outside, the air smelled like wet leaves and woodsmoke. I walked back down the muddy path with her words echoing in my chest—soft as silk, sharp as flint.

And somewhere in the quiet between my heartbeats, I realized I’d be lookin’ for reasons to come back.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The morning stretched soft and gold over the village, sun filterin’ through a sky still patched with the pale hush of dawn. It’d rained heavy the night before, and now the earth smelled like moss and old stone, like every breath belonged to something older than me.

I took the same path I always did, worn into the hills by habit and need. A leather satchel slung cross my shoulder, tools knockin’ gentle against one another with each step. The hammer I used for roofs, the little brush I used for oilin’ hinges—all packed like I was some saint come to bless broken things.

Only I wasn’t goin’ to the chapel today.

The note had come from the baker, scribbled mess of ink sayin’ one of the herb women needed her ceilin’ patched. Didn’t give a name, just said “the dark-eyed one what don’t smile easy.” I knew then.

Didn’t tell myself that out loud, but my chest said it plain.

Her.

The woman who spoke like secrets. Moved like the rain followed her for warmth. I’d seen her twice now, and still she sat behind my eyes like a prayer I couldn’t finish.

Her cottage sat just beyond the low bend of the road, tucked behind a line of cypress trees with their roots grippin’ the wet soil like they feared bein’ torn up. Ivy climbed the corners of the stone, and a little row of jars lined the windowsill—dried flowers, maybe. Bits of lavender. Or bones.

I knocked soft. Once. Twice. No answer. I knocked again, louder this time, the wood thuddin’ beneath my fist.

“Comin’,” came her voice, muffled but steady.

The door creaked open and there she was, standin’ barefoot on the wood floor with sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her dress was a muted brown, plain as river mud, but it clung to her like she’d shaped it herself from dusk and silence.

“You’re the one with the leak,” I said, tryin’ to keep my voice level, casual. “I was sent from the bakery to patch it up proper.”

Her eyes flicked down to my satchel, then back to me. “Figured someone would show. Just didn’t think it’d be you.”

I raised a brow. “That a complaint?”

She didn’t smile, but her lips twitched at the corners. “Not yet.”

She stepped aside, lettin’ me in with a tilt of her head. The air inside her cottage was warm—herby, thick with dried thyme and somethin’ sweeter beneath it, like burnt sugar.

“Ceilin’s in the back room,” she said. “It leaks when the rain hits from the east.”

I followed her down the narrow hall, tools shiftin’ with each step. The floor creaked beneath our weight, and the walls held the quiet hum of a lived-in place—one made by hand, not bought with coin.

As I entered the room, I looked up at the corner where the water had left its mark—dark ring bloomin’ like rot in the ceiling. I set my satchel down near the edge of a low table and rolled up my sleeves.

“You don’t strike me as the sort who sends for help,” I said, climbin’ onto the little stool below the leak. “Let alone a village man.”

“I’m not,” she replied, movin’ to the table and startin’ to sort herbs into small bundles. “But I’m also not the sort who lets water make a home where it don’t belong.”

“That so?” I grinned. “Maybe you oughta carve that on a stone outside. Might keep trouble at bay.”

Her hands stilled a moment on the stems before resummin’. “Trouble always finds its way back. Whether you carve warnings or not.”

There was somethin’ in her tone—like she knew the feel of trouble’s hands around her throat and had stopped bein’ afraid of it.

I scraped at the softened wood, lettin’ silence settle between us, comfortable as an old coat.

I was halfway through tightening the last hinge when she spoke again.

“You always this quiet when you work?” she asked, voice soft, but not shy. There was somethin’ in it—like a cat stretchin’ in a sunbeam. Casual. Watchin’.

I glanced down from the stool I’d set beneath her ceiling, my sleeve wet with old rainwater and plaster dust stickin’ to my arms.

“Only when the job’s worth concentratin’ on,” I muttered, brows knit, screwin’ the final nail in. “And when the roof don’t behave.”

She made a small sound—almost a laugh. “Should I apologize on its behalf?”

“If it gives me a bit o’ peace, then aye.”

She leaned her shoulder to the doorframe, arms folded, basket still on the table behind her. The light from the window framed her in pieces—forehead, cheekbone, collarbone. Dust floated between us, and outside, the wind shifted the branches in her little garden.

“You’re better at this than the last fella they sent,” she said after a while. “Didn’t even last long enough to hammer twice before he said the house gave him a bad feelin’.”

“Most things give folk a bad feelin’ when they ain’t lookin’ hard enough,” I answered, setting the hammer down and wiping my hands on my trousers. “Or when they’re daft.”

“And what about you?” she asked, that same not-smile flirtin’ at the corners of her mouth. “You get any feelin’ from this place?”

I turned, finally facing her proper. “Aye,” I said. “That you’re hidin’ somethin’.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her gaze sharpened.

“I mean,” I added, before she could speak, “that you don’t talk much, yet you’ve got books stacked on herbs that don’t grow this side of the sea. Things bundled in your basket most folks wouldn’t know to pick. You knew I’d come back for the ceiling before I even told you I would.”

She tilted her head, lips pressing together. “I listen. I pay attention,” she said simply. “People show who they are even when they don’t mean to.”

“And what have I shown, then?” I asked, stepping down from the stool, slow.

She hesitated only a breath. “That you’re more than you say,” she said. “And you carry your grief like it’s welded to your spine.”

I stopped cold. And for once, I didn’t have somethin’ clever to say. Just stood there, feelin’ the weight of her words settle where they landed—deep.

She walked past me then, to the table, and pulled a small dark glass jar from the corner beside a bound book. Set it in my hands.

“For the cold,” she said. “Rain’ll catch up with you sooner than you think, and you smell like someone who won’t rest long enough to sweat it out.”

I looked down at the jar, then up at her again.

“You trust me not to drop dead drinkin’ this?” I asked, eyebrow cocked.

“If I wanted you dead,” she said plainly, “I’d’ve let the ceiling fall.”

That made me laugh, a dry sound I hadn’t heard in my own throat in some time.

“Fair ‘nough.”

She moved toward the door to open it for me, but I didn’t walk out just yet. Still holdin’ the jar, I looked back at her, searching her face like the name might rise from her skin if I stared long enough.

“You gonna tell me your name, or do I keep callin’ you Moonflower in my head?” I asked, the smirk creepin’ up despite myself.

She blinked at that. “Moonflower?”

“You only bloom at night. Got a scent that lingers. And I reckon you’ll poison a man if he ain’t careful.”

That made her pause. Then, a smile—real this time, curved and quiet.

“Don’t know if I oughta be flattered or offended.”

“Both, maybe.”

She nodded, opening the door wider. “See you next time, then… handyman.”

“Remmick,” I reminded her, steppin’ out into the daylight again.

“I know,” she said, leaning on the frame. “Still deciding if you deserve to be called by it.”

And then she shut the door.

But the air behind me stayed full of her voice. Of rain. And herbs. And somethin’ that hadn’t yet been named.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The woods had a hush to ’em that day—like even the birds were holdin’ their tongues to listen. Not a drop of rain on the ground, but the air was thick with damp, like the earth’d been cryin’ in secret. I weren’t lookin’ for her. Not exactly. But I took the long path from town anyhow, boots slippin’ over moss and roots, hands deep in my coat like I didn’t care where I was headed.

Truth was, I hadn’t seen her in three days. And it felt like somethin’ gnawin’ at the hollow in my ribs.

I told myself she was off gatherin’ or restin’, that folk like her didn’t owe nothin’ to folk like me. But the stillness where she ought to’ve been—it sat too long in the pit of my chest.

Then I saw her. Perched on a fallen log off the trail, elbow on her knee, chin in her palm. Her basket laid beside her, near empty, just a few stringy greens hangin’ on like stubborn ghosts. The wind played gentle at her scarf, and she looked like she’d been carved outta stillness. A woman built from pause and ache.

“Thought the trees’d gone and swallowed you,” I said, easin’ around the bend with a crooked smile tryin’ to pass as casual.

Her gaze met mine. Slow. Sure. “They tried,” she said. “But I told ’em I still had things to finish.”

A laugh threatened my throat. I let it sit behind my teeth.

“Was beginnin’ to think I imagined you,” I said, shiftin’ my weight through the soft earth. “Like somethin’ dreamt up on a fevered night.”

She looked me over like she could tell I meant it. “You dream often, Remmick?”

“Only when I’ve got somethin’ heavy on the soul.”

She didn’t answer that. Just scooted over and tapped the space beside her.

So I sat.

We let the silence settle between us for a time, let it stretch long and deep. She played with a blade of grass, foldin’ it in half, then again, ’til it split. I watched the way her fingers moved, careful but worn.

“I been thinkin’,” she said after a while, voice quiet but steady. “How a place can be full of people and still feel empty.”

My eyes shifted to her, to the way her jaw set like she’d swallowed too many truths. “This place do that to you?”

She shrugged. Not quite yes, not quite no. Then after a beat, “My home wasn’t kind either. But it was mine. Then it weren’t.”

I didn’t say nothin’. Just let her speak.

“There was a war. Not one with drums and soldiers, but somethin’ quieter. Slower. Took everything soft and left the bones.”

Her fingers stilled. Her face didn’t change, but I saw the weight behind her eyes.

“I ran,” she said. “Kept runnin’. Learned to talk like I belonged. Learned to walk like I wasn’t watchin’ every step.”

“You shouldn’t’ve had to,” I muttered, voice rough. “No one should.”

She looked at me then, like she weren’t expectin’ that.

“Folk back home say runnin’ makes you weak,” she said. “But it’s what saved me.”

I nodded slow. “I ran, too. When my brother died, I packed what little I had and left. Not just the grief, but… the hunger. Crops were failin’. Bellies were empty. We were ghosts by winter.”

She blinked, brows drawin’ together.

“Ireland’s a beautiful place, but she’s cruel when she wants to be. The year before I left, there was rot in the potatoes—black and wet, like somethin’ cursed the fields. Folks buried more kin than crops that year.”

I swallowed.

“I couldn’t stay and starve with the bones of my family.”

She watched me. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

“So I came here,” I went on, voice low. “Thought maybe fixin’ things might fix me, too.”

She tilted her head. “Has it?”

I looked down at my hands. Calloused. Dirty. Then I looked at her.

“I’m still cracked,” I said. “But I don’t feel so hollow when you’re nearby.”

Her lips parted, just a little. Eyes softenin’, like she didn’t know what to do with that.

“You always say things like that?”

“Only when I mean ’em.”

The breeze stirred again. Her scarf lifted and fell.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” she said, voice low. “What I’ve seen. I’m not made of mercy, Remmick. I’ve got sharp edges.”

“I ain’t afraid of a cut,” I said, leanin’ forward. “Not if it means gettin’ close to somethin’ real.”

She reached into her basket then, pullin’ out a folded cloth with a little vial inside—amber-glass, stoppered with care.

“More, For the rain,” she said. “To keep the cold outta your bones.”

I took it from her gently, thumb brushing hers. “You always takin’ care of me.”

She smiled, barely. “You look like someone who don’t know how to ask for help.”

“And you look like someone who’s tired of watchin’ folk suffer.”

She stood, dustin’ off her skirts.

“Walk me home?” she asked.

I stood too, tucking the vial safe in my coat. “Aye. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And I meant it. From the ache behind my ribs to the silence between her words—I meant every damn word.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Days passed as I began to see her more and more. Every time was like a dream I didn’t want to end—just like today.

The clearing sat just beyond the old stone wall, tucked where the trees thinned and the wild things dared bloom without asking permission. The sun poured itself across the earth like warm cream, catchin’ on petals and blades of grass, paintin’ everything gold.

She was already there when I arrived—kneelin’ low, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, fingers brushin’ through stalks of green like she were coaxin’ secrets from the dirt. Some of the flowers were in full bloom, heads high like they knew they were worth praisin’. Others drooped, wilted from the heat or time. Still, she moved between them with care, never avoidin’ the ones that’d gone soft at the edges.

“You’re late,” she said without lookin’ at me, voice light but pointed.

I knelt beside her, restin’ my tools down with a soft thump. “Was mendin’ a crooked stair, not flirtin’ with the baker’s daughter if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

She smirked. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Aye, but you thought it.”

She shook her head, then held up a stem with tiny white buds. “Chamomile. You pick it now, when the sun’s at its highest. Any later, and it starts losin’ its strength.”

I took it from her, turnin’ the stem between my fingers. “Looks like nothin’ special.”

She raised a brow. “And yet it calms nerves, soothes bellies, and can ease nightmares.”

My lips curled. “Maybe I oughta be stuffin’ my pillow with it.”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

The way she said it made me glance sideways at her—how the sun lit up her cheekbones, how the wind caught loose strands of hair and played with ‘em like a lover. She looked too alive to belong to the quiet.

“Which one’s next?” I asked, clearin’ my throat.

She reached out, pluckin’ a stem from the base of a nearby cluster. “Yarrow. Good for wounds.”

“That for folk like me who get in fights with doors and lose?”

She gave me a sidelong look. “It’s for those who carry hurts they don’t speak on.”

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

We moved in silence for a while, fingers grazin’ blooms, knees in the soft earth. I watched her more than I watched the plants, truth be told. There was a rhythm to her. A kind of stillness that weren’t born from silence but from knowledge. Like she knew exactly where she stood and why the world moved around her.

“Why d’you teach me this?” I asked finally.

She shrugged. “Because most folk pluck what’s pretty and leave what’s useful.”

“And you think I’m worth teachin’?”

She looked at me then. Really looked. “I think you listen when I speak,” she said. “That’s rare enough.”

My chest pulled tight at that. Not from surprise. From feelin’ seen.

“I like hearin’ you talk,” I said, softer than I meant. “Even when you don’t say much.”

She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away either. “What else do you like?”

“Your hands,” I said before thinkin’. “How sure they are. How you never flinch when you touch things other folk avoid.”

Her gaze flicked down to the herbs between us. “And what if I touch somethin’ dangerous?”

“Then I reckon it’d be lucky to be held by you.”

The wind stirred again, rustlin’ the trees, bendin’ the tall grass in waves. A butterfly danced between us and didn’t land.

She exhaled slow, like maybe she’d been holdin’ her breath. “You’re a strange man, Remmick.”

“Aye,” I said, smilin’. “But I’m learnin’ from the best.”

We sat there till the sun dipped just low enough to cast long shadows. The air thickened with the smell of lavender and crushed thyme. She handed me one last sprig—something bitter, sharp to the nose.

“For the headaches you pretend not to have,” she said.

I tucked it behind my ear like a fool.

She laughed, the sound as soft as the breeze through yarrow leaves.

And I thought—if this were all I ever had of her, it’d be enough.

But some part of me already knew I’d want more.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The sun was dippin’ low, spillin’ orange light across the field like it was tryin’ to make somethin’ holy outta the ordinary. We’d wandered farther than usual — past the woods, down near where the blackberry bushes crept wild along the stone fences. Grass brushed at our ankles, and the air smelled like dust, crushed fruit, and late summer.

She’d been hummin’ under her breath again. I never knew the tune, but it stuck in my head all the same.

“Careful now,” she said, glancin’ back at me with that half-grin. “These brambles’ll catch your trousers and your pride in one go.”

I muttered somethin’ about her bein’ the real menace, not the bushes, which made her laugh — that soft, real kind that made my chest feel too small.

We settled on a slope where the hill dipped shallow. She sat cross-legged without a care, skirt flared, one hand restin’ against a warm rock. I sat beside her, knees bent, boots diggin’ into the earth. Not too close. Not too far.“You always find the best places,” I said, watchin’ the horizon melt.She shrugged like it weren’t nothin’. “Places don’t gotta be grand to be good. Just quiet. Just safe.”

I glanced at her, and for a second, she looked made of the light itself — all gold and shadow, like she belonged to a world I hadn’t earned yet.

“How come you never told me your name?” I asked, leanin’ back on my elbows. “Might start thinkin’ you ain’t got one.”

She chuckled, pickin’ a stem of clover and twistin’ it between her fingers. “Maybe I was waitin’. Maybe I needed to know if you’d ruin it.”

I arched a brow. “Ruin it how?”

“Some folk take your name like it’s a possession,” she said, serious now. “Say it too often. Say it wrong. Say it like they own it.”

I nodded slow. “And you think I’d do that?”

She looked at me then — really looked — and whatever she saw there must’ve settled somethin’.

“No,” she said soft. “I don’t think you would.”

The breeze picked up. She reached into her basket, pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Bread and somethin’ sharp-smellin’, maybe a bit of goat cheese.

“Payment,” she said, handin’ me the bread. “For carryin’ all my baskets last week like a proper mule.”

I grinned. “Best damn mule you ever met.”

“You might be right.” She took a bite of her own bread, chewin’ slow, like she had all the time in the world.

Silence sat easy between us, stitched together by cicadas and the rustle of the grass.

Then she said it, casual as the weather.

“My name’s Y/N.”

I turned to her, blinkin’. “Y/N,” I repeated, like it was a word I already knew but hadn’t tasted proper yet.

“Don’t wear it out,” she warned, smirkin’ over her bite of cheese.

“I wouldn’t dare,” I said, and meant it.

We watched the last of the sun sink behind the ridge, the sky bruisin’ with twilight.

“Y/N,” I murmured again, like a prayer I hadn’t realized I’d needed.

She didn’t look at me this time. But I saw the way her smile turned soft at the edges.

And that was enough.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The sun sat high, spillin’ gold all across the yard like it’d been poured straight from God’s own pitcher. Cicadas were hummin’, lazy and loud, and the stump tree in front of her little place offered just enough shade to make sittin’ there feel like somethin’ sacred.

She was bent over a wide wooden bowl in her lap, sleeves rolled to her elbows, grindin’ the herbs we’d gathered just the day before. Her wrists moved smooth, slow—like she was coaxin’ the medicine out with patience instead of pressure. The scent of rosemary and dry lavender clung to the air. I sat nearby on the grass, a small pile of weeds beside me I’d promised to pull up while she worked, though I’d barely made a dent.

Didn’t matter much.

I wasn’t here to work.

I was here to watch her.

To listen to her hum low under her breath, not a tune I knew, but soft enough to settle the ache that’d been coiled in my chest since the last time she’d gone quiet on me.

She reached for another bundle of dried stalks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist.

“You done plannin’ on helpin’ or you just gonna keep starin’?” she asked, not lookin’ up.

“Both, maybe,” I said, leanin’ back on my elbows with a grin. “Can’t blame a man for admirin’ the view.”

She snorted, but her lips twitched. “If you’re tryin’ to be smooth, you’re slippin’, Remmick.”

“Me? Slippin’?” I let my accent thicken, feignin’ offense. “I’ll have you know I was voted most charming back home. ’Course, that was by a goat and my granda.”

That earned me a laugh. Not loud, but enough to stir the birds in the tree overhead.

I watched her as she went back to work, the sun catchin’ on her skin and her voice hummin’ again. My hand found a stray flower near my boot, tugging it from the grass. Yellow, scraggly thing. Not as pretty as the ones she kept hung dry above her stove, but it reminded me of her in some crooked way—sturdy and soft at the same time.

“You ever think about stayin’?” I asked, real quiet. “In one place, I mean. Lettin’ somethin’ root you instead of always runnin’?”

She paused, mortar stillin’ in her hand. “You mean lettin’ people in?”

“I mean lettin’ one in,” I said, twirlin’ the flower between my fingers. “Just one.”

She turned her head toward me, squintin’ a little like the light was in her eyes and not the words. “That what you’ve been gettin’ at this whole time?”

I didn’t answer. Just tucked the flower behind my ear with mock grace.

“What d’you think?”

She looked at me for a long time. Then smiled. Not wide. Not coy. Just somethin’ soft and real, like the kind of smile you give someone you ain’t afraid of no more.

“I think you talk too much,” she said, goin’ back to grindin’. “But I like it.”

I didn’t need more than that.

Didn’t need her to say the thing out loud.

Not yet.

The breeze picked up, stirrin’ the dust, the herbs, the ache in my chest that didn’t feel quite so heavy no more.

I pulled the flower from its place on behind ear and putting it neatly on hers and she smiles shyly.

And beneath that old stump tree, under the watchful hush of midday, I let myself believe—just a little—that maybe I weren’t the only one feelin’ it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The smell of sugar and sun-warmed fruit clung to the cottage like a promise. Late afternoon spilled through the kitchen window in golden sheets, catching in the little dust motes that danced above the wooden counter. The bowl between us was nearly full—fat blueberries she’d hand-picked that morning, now tossed in flour and cinnamon, waiting for their crusted cradle.

I stood elbow-deep in dough, arms dusted white, sweat at my brow and not just from the heat.

“Careful,” she said, reaching across me. Her hand brushed mine. “You’re foldin’ it too hard. Gotta coax it, not fight it.”

I glanced up.

Sunlight hit the side of her face, turned her lashes gold. She was smiling soft—barely there—but it pulled somethin’ straight outta my ribs.

“Aye,” I muttered. “Didn’t know you trained with the Queen’s pastry cooks.”

She snorted. “Didn’t need to. Just had a gran who’d bite your fingers if you got heavy-handed with her dough.”

“Sounds like a wise woman.”

“She was mean as vinegar and twice as sharp.”

I tried again, slower now, and she nodded her approval. The next few minutes passed with quiet hums and giggles. I couldn’t help but sneak glances—at the curve of her neck, the smudge of flour on her cheek, the way her fingers moved like she were tellin’ a story only she knew.

Then I caught her lookin’ at me.

We both froze.

Neither of us said nothin’, but somethin’ heavy and warm unfurled between us, soft as steam off a pie fresh from the oven.

She turned first, busyin’ herself with the tin. I took the chance to toss a pinch of flour at her back.

It hit her scarf.

She whirled. “Oh, you didn’t—!”

I grinned. “Didn’t what?”

She grabbed a handful and threw it square at my chest. The puff exploded, dustin’ my shirt and the air between us. I lunged with a laugh, and she shrieked, giggling as she dodged around the table.

We wrestled, gently. My hands found her waist, hers pressed against my chest, and when she stumbled, I caught her.

Held her.

Our breath caught in the same place.

“You’ve got… flour,” I murmured, brushing her cheek.

“So do you,” she whispered, staring up at me.

I don’t remember leanin’ in. Just that my lips found hers like they’d been waitin’ their whole life.

She kissed me back slow—like she weren’t sure she should, but couldn’t help herself.

Then it changed.

Got deeper. Hungrier.

She tugged my shirt, I backed her into the counter. My hands ran over her hips, then up, tanglin’ in her hair as she moaned into my mouth.

“Y/N…” I whispered against her jaw.

She didn’t answer. Just pulled me toward the bedroom like it was a decision already made.

The room was dim and warm, the last of the sun stretchin’ long through the window. She peeled her top away first, the thin cotton fallin’ to the floor. I watched her chest rise, eyes dark with want but soft, too.

I pulled my shirt over my head, dropped it, then stepped close.

“Sure ‘bout this?” I asked, voice low.

She nodded. “Been sure.”

That’s all I needed.

I kissed her again, slower this time, carryin’ her back until her knees hit the bed. We sank down together.

Our clothes came off like pages turned, deliberate and slow. My hands traced every inch of her, commitin’ it to memory like scripture. She gasped when I kissed her collarbone, whimpered when I moved down, when my mouth found the place that made her hips jerk and thighs tremble.

“Remmick,” she breathed, fingers in my hair, head tipped back.

I could’ve died in that moment and called it heaven.

When I slid inside her, she clung to me like she’d fall apart otherwise.

We moved together like we’d been doin’ it forever. Like we were born for it. Her nails scraped down my back, my mouth found her throat. I whispered her name like a hymn, like a confession.

She cried out when she came—legs locked around me, eyes wet, lips parted.

I followed close behind, buryin’ my face in her neck with a groan, her name spillin’ from my mouth like a prayer I’d never learned to say right.

After, we didn’t speak.

Just laid tangled in each other, the sound of our breath and the warm hush of evening wrappin’ around us.

I pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

And I swear—right then—I could’ve stayed there forever.

But forever’s a long time.

And fate, as I’ve learned, don’t ever keep still.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The first whisper came from the well.

A woman claimin’ her husband’d died after takin’ a tincture from Y/N. Said it were meant to calm his fever, but he didn’t see the next mornin’. She left out the weeks of coughin’ blood, the yellow tint in his eyes, the black along his gums. She left out the death already settin’ up house in his chest. No, she only spoke of the bottle. And the woman who brewed it. The quiet one, with dark hands and darker eyes, and a garden full o’ herbs no one dared name.

By midday, more tales grew teeth.

A child gone pale after tastin’ sweetroot she’d sold. A cow miscarryin’ out near the woods. An old man mutterin’ in his sleep that he���d seen a shadow slip past his window—and his joints ain’t been right since.

That evenin’, someone carved a jagged symbol into the bark of the tree outside her home.

The kind meant to ward off evil.

Or invite it.

I heard the talk at the forge. At the tavern. At the bloody baker’s shop, while I were settin’ a hinge right on their back door.

“She don’t age,” one man whispered.

“She don’t bleed,” said another.

“Heard her kiss tastes like rusted iron,” a third muttered, voice thick with ale and foolishness.

“She’s a witch.”

“She’s the reason the sickness won’t lift.”

I laid the hammer down slow. Let the nails clatter onto the bench one by one. Didn’t say a word. Just slipped out the back, fists clenched so tight I damn near split my own skin.

By the time I made it to her cottage, dusk had painted the sky grey and mean. I found her in the back garden, tendin’ her herbs like nothin’ was crumblin’ ‘round her.

“Evenin’,” she said when I stepped through the gate. Her voice soft, same as always, but her shoulders were stiff.

“You been into town lately?” I asked.

“Two mornings past,” she said, still kneelin’. “Why?”

I moved closer, my jaw grindin’. “Folk are talkin’. Sayin’ you’re the reason that man’s dead.”

She stood slow, wiped her hands on her apron. “He was already dyin’. The brew was to ease his passin’. I ain’t the one who filled his lungs with rot.”

“I know that. But they don’t. And they’re lookin’ for someone to blame.”

“They always are.”

I swallowed hard, shakin’ my head. “They carved a mark outside your gate.”

She turned to me fully then. “Let ‘em.”

“They’re callin’ you a witch.”

“And what do you call me?”

My throat tightened. “I call you brave. Foolish, maybe. But brave.”

She held my gaze. “I’ve run before, Remmick. I’ll do it again if I must.”

“Don’t,” I said, louder than I meant to. “Don’t run.”

She looked back to the herbs. “I won’t beg to keep a life I built with my own hands.”

“You won’t have to.” My voice dipped low. “But promise me—no more goin’ into town alone.”

She hesitated. “Alright.”

But I knew, right then, she were already thinkin’ of leavin’.

Three days passed.

She didn’t listen.

Said she needed sugar. Cinnamon bark. Said she’d be quick.

A boy came runnin’ to my door before midday, breathless. “She’s been hurt,” he gasped. “They said she cursed their land. Threw stones. She bled.”

I didn’t ask. Just ran.

When I reached her home, she was packin’. A bandage round her brow, blood stainin’ the edge of it. Her hands moved fast, throwin’ jars and vials into her satchel.

“You went alone?” I barked, stormin’ into the room.

“I didn’t think—”

“No,” I snapped, “you didn’t.”

She didn’t stop movin’.

“You plannin’ on runnin’, then?”

“What choice do I have?” she hissed. “You said it yourself—they’ll burn the source.”

My chest hurt. “Don’t go.”

She paused. Just for a moment.

Then kept packin’. “You can’t save me from all this.”

“I can try.”

That night, I left.

Didn’t tell her where I was goin’. Only knew one place left to turn.

Deep in the hills, past the boglands and the stone-faced ruins. A place folk didn’t speak of unless drink loosened their tongues. Said there was a woman there, old as death, who could grant power—if you paid the price.

And I paid it.

Gave up my last ounce o’ peace for it.

“Give me what I need to protect her,” I said, kneelin’ in the dirt.

The voice that answered sounded like it had no mouth, no shape.

You’ll have it. But you’ll never be what you were.

I woke with fire behind my eyes.

With hunger in my chest.

And power under my skin.

I ran back.

Too late.

Blood painted the porch. A poisoned arrow stickin’ out her side. Her breath shallow. Barely holdin’ on.

“Y/N,” I choked, fallin’ beside her. “No, no, no—stay with me, darlin’, please.”

“They came,” she rasped. “Said I brought plague…”

“We’ll leave. I’ll carry you. I’ll get you out—”

She smiled. Weak. “You’ve got to live, Remmick.”

“I ain’t livin’ without you.”

She tried to lift her hand. Failed.

And I broke.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears runnin’. “Forgive me.”

I sank my teeth into her throat.

She gasped.

Horrified.

“You didn’t…” she whimpered as blood began spraying a bit from the wound. “You didn’t ask…”

“I couldn’t lose you, Moonflower.”

The torches were comin’. Voices behind the trees.

But I held her tighter than I’d ever held anythin’ as she stopped breathing.

And I cursed myself with every breath.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Y/N’s Pov

I woke with my mouth dry and the taste of iron sittin’ heavy on my tongue.

The ceiling above me weren’t my own. It sloped too sharp, boards too clean, the scent of smoke and earth clingin’ to the beams like old ghosts. The air was still—too still—like the house itself was holdin’ its breath.

I sat up slow. My limbs moved strange—lighter, too light, like my body forgot how much it used to weigh. My skin felt tight over my bones, raw at the seams, like somethin’ inside me had been stretched too far and stitched back wrong.

The blanket slid off my shoulders.

I was wearin’ someone else’s dress.

Not mine. Not torn. Not bloodstained.

But that’s what I remembered last.

Blood. The color of it flashin’ under the moonlight. The ache of it tearin’ through my ribs. The sound of Remmick’s voice, tremblin’ as he cradled me like I was already gone. And then—

My throat closed.

I remembered his mouth on my neck.

His whisper. His kiss.

The bite.

And suddenly it hit—like a storm comin’ in sideways.

The pain. The fire. The way my body twisted from the inside out, like my soul didn’t wanna be here no more but the rest of me refused to let go. My hands clutched the mattress. Breath comin’ fast, sharp.

He turned me.

He turned me without askin’.

I swung my legs off the side of the bed, bare feet hittin’ cool wood. The room around me was dim but familiar in a way that made my stomach knot. It was his. It had to be. One of the places he used—clean, hidden, a house that didn’t remember its own name.

A chair was pulled close to the bed. A half-burnt candle melted into the table beside it.

He’d been watchin’ me.

Waitin’ for me to wake.

And yet he was gone now.

Good.

I didn’t want him to see me like this—split open from the inside, grief sittin’ heavy in my chest like a second heart.

I rose, legs unsteady beneath me, and caught sight of my reflection in the small mirror above the wash basin.

I froze.

My eyes—black at the center, rimmed in red like coals just startin’ to burn. My skin a bit discolored as early frost, no warmth left to hold. My lips, faintly stained.

I touched them.

They still felt like mine.

But they weren’t.

A sound left me. Not a sob. Not quite.

Somethin’ between a growl and a cry—like grief wearin’ new teeth.

I should’ve been dead.

That’s what I chose. That’s what I meant.

I told him to run.

I told him to live.

And instead, he tethered me to this life—this curse—with his own teeth.

My hand found the edge of the basin and gripped it tight.

The wood cracked under my fingers.

I let go, heart poundin’ louder than thought.

This wasn’t love.

This was control.

A man holdin’ too tight to what he couldn’t bear to lose.

He’d rather unmake me than grieve me.

And yet—beneath the rage, beneath the betrayal—somethin’ else stirred.

Somethin’ I hated more than him in that moment.

I didn’t feel dead.

I felt strong.

Feral.

Awake.

Every sound in the woods outside was clearer. The creak of the beams. The wind slippin’ under the door. I could smell the ash in the hearth and the echo of blood that once lived in these floorboards.

And that scared me more than anything.

Because I knew what came next.

The hunger.

The ache.

The war I’d have to fight inside myself, every minute, every hour.

All because he couldn’t let me go.

I stepped away from the mirror.

The next time I saw Remmick, I wasn’t sure if I was gonna kiss him…

or kill him.

So I ran.

Not for the first time.

But this time, I crossed oceans.

The Atlantic didn’t welcome me. It didn’t whisper comfort. It roared—salt-raw and cruel, like it knew what I was carryin’. Not just the hunger. Not just the curse. But the truth: I wasn’t runnin’ from a man.

I was runnin’ from the memory of one.

I didn’t look back when Europe disappeared behind fog. Too many ghosts in the soil. Too many names I couldn’t say anymore. Too many faces I’d borrowed and buried.

I took the long way to nowhere.

Lived beneath borrowed roofs and behind shuttered windows. Spain. France. Portugal. I spoke like them, walked like them, bent like them. But my voice never quite fit right. My skin whispered stories the villagers didn’t know how to read. And when they couldn’t read you, they made you into somethin’ to fear.

So I disappeared again.

City to countryside. From the coast to quiet farms. I slept in cellars. Fed in alleyways. Hid my teeth like a shame. Covered my eyes when they burned too bright. But no matter where I went, I couldn’t bury what he’d done to me. What I’d become.

Vampire. Woman. Stranger.

Sin.

Then came America.

I heard tales of it in the mouths of men too poor to own boots but rich enough to dream. A place where no one knew your name unless you gave it. Where you could vanish on purpose. So I boarded a ship under another name and crossed a second ocean.

They didn’t see me.

Didn’t ask what land I came from.

Only that I kept quiet. Paid in coin. Kept to my corner.

And I did.

I stepped off that boat like a shadow lookin’ for a body.

Years blurred. The states changed names and faces. I moved where the fear was low and the sun easier to dodge. Pennsylvania. Georgia. Louisiana. Tennessee.

But nothin’ felt like mine.

Not until Mississippi.

The Delta didn’t ask questions. It didn’t blink twice at a woman whose hands knew how to soothe fever, or whose voice carried like river water over stone. It didn’t care where I came from—just that I came with honesty and stayed with my head down.

And Lord, the pain here… it sang.

You could hear it in the soil. In the fields. In the bones of folk who worked the land like they were tryin’ to forgive it for all it had taken. The joy didn’t come easy here—but it came. It bled through laughter, through music, through bodies swayin’ in defiance of grief.

Here, sorrow didn’t hide from joy.

They danced together.

And for someone like me, that meant maybe I could belong.

I found a room behind a narrow house with warped floorboards and a window I never opened. Miss Adele, who owned it, looked me over long and low before passin’ me the key.

“You ain’t from here,” she said.

“No, ma’am.”

She nodded. “But you wear the heat like it’s home. Just don’t bring no trouble through my door.”

I didn’t make promises. But I paid in full.

I stayed quiet. Covered my skin when the sun rose. Fed when I had to—clean, discreet, never twice in the same place. I helped when I could. Tinctures, poultices, teas. I kept to myself. Most folk didn’t know my story.

Didn’t know I once had a man.

Didn’t know he turned me with a kiss and a curse and then begged me to thank him for it.

Didn’t know I used to love him.

I didn’t even know if he was still alive.

I hadn’t seen Remmick in over a century. Hadn’t heard whispers of him. Sometimes, when the wind shifted just right, I swore I could smell the cold of his coat, the copper of his breath. But that was just memory. Just the mind playin’ cruel.

He could’ve turned to dust for all I knew.

I prayed he had.

Still, I never let myself settle too deep.

The room I rented had no roots.

The name I gave was borrowed.

But the juke joint?

That felt like a church.

When Annie smiled at me and Stack nodded toward the dance floor, when the music rolled through me like a hymn with no preacher—I felt human again. I let my body move. I let myself forget. Just for a night. Just for a song.

And when it was over, I stepped back into shadow like I never left it.

They didn’t know what I was.

Not yet.

But I knew what they were.

Wounded. Brave. Alive.

Mississippi didn’t need my past. It didn’t ask for blood oaths or confession. It let me be.

And for the first time in over a hundred years, that was enough.

But peace?

Peace don’t last for things like me.

Because the past got claws.

And I knew, deep down—

if he was still out there, he’d find me.

What I didn’t know… was that he already had.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The air smelled of fried grease, wet moss, and wood smoke—the kind of southern night that clung to your skin like sweat and memory. I’d just left Miss Lila’s porch, her boy burnin’ up with fever again, and her nerves worn thin as dishwater. I’d left her with a small jar of bark-root and clove oil, told her to steep it slow and keep a cool cloth on his head. She didn’t ask what was in it. Folks rarely did when they was desperate.

The street stretched quiet before me, the dirt packed down by bare feet and Sunday wagons. My boots scuffed low as I walked, the hem of my skirt brushing the edge of dust and dew. The stars hung low tonight, strung like pinholes across a sky too tired to hold itself up.

I passed shuttered windows and sleeping dogs. Passed rusted signs and flickering lamps, the ones that leaned crooked like they were listenin’. I clutched my shawl tighter, the chill sneakier in the spring—evenin’s cool breath slidin’ down the back of my neck.

And then I saw it—the juke joint. It sat tucked behind a bend in the road like a secret meant to be found. Light spilled out through the cracks in the wood like it couldn’t bear to be kept in. Music pulsed low from inside—bluesy and slow, like sorrow had found its rhythm.

Cornbread stood out front like always, arms crossed, leanin’ on the doorframe with that half-grin like he owned the night.

He spotted me before I hit the steps. “Well now,” he said, voice smooth like creek water. “Evenin’, Miss Y/N. Came to bless us with your presence?”

I gave a quiet chuckle, noddin’. “Only if I’m welcome.”

He laughed soft, pushin’ the door open. “Girl, you family by now. Don’t need to be askin’ no more.”

“Still,” I said, steppin’ closer. “Mama always said it’s good manners to ask ‘fore walkin’ into a space that ain’t yours.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna question your manners,” he muttered, wavin’ me through. “Now get in ‘fore the music runs out.”

Inside was a rush of warmth—smoke, sweat, the sweet bite of corn liquor, and somethin’ else… somethin’ close to joy. The music crawled under your skin ‘til your hips remembered how to sway without askin’. Voices buzzed like bees in summer heat, laughter rollin’ like dice across the room.

I eased onto the barstool I always took—third from the left, right where the fan overhead spun lazy—and let my bag fall soft at my boots. Didn’t order nothin’. I never did.

Annie caught sight of me behind the bar, swayin’ easy as ever with a tray of empty glasses tucked on her hip.

“You bring what I asked for?” she asked, duckin’ behind the counter.

I reached into my satchel and handed her the cotton-wrapped bundle. “Steep it slow. Sip, don’t gulp. Should ease you through the worst of it.”

She winked. “Law, I owe you my life.”

“Nah,” I said, settlin’ onto the stool near the end of the bar. “Just owe me a plate of cornbread next time you cookin’.”

That got a laugh out of her, quick and sweet, before she vanished into the back.

I turned back toward the floor, just as Mary’s voice cut through the buzz of conversation like a blade through hushpuppies.

“Y’all hear ‘bout the farmer boy gone missin’?” she said, leanin’ into the group crowded ‘round the far end of the bar. Smoke was there, elbow propped, brows knit low. Two more men sat hunched close—quiet, listening.

“Wasn’t just him,” one said. “Old Mabel from the creek road said her nephew ain’t been seen in two days. Said his boots still sittin’ on the porch like he vanished mid-step.”

Smoke grunted. “I say it’s a man gone mad. Roamin’ through the woods, takin’ what he pleases. We’ve seen worse.”

One of the others leaned in, voice hushed. “The natives been whisperin’ it ain’t a man.”

That brought stillness. Even the music in the back room seemed to hush a beat.

“What they say?” Mary asked, brows raised.

“They say somethin’ old woke up,” the man said, voice nearly swallowed by the crackle of heat and distance. “Somethin’ that walks like a man, but ain’t. They leave herbs and ash circles at the edge of the trees again—like back in the old days.”

Mary scoffed, but it sounded unsure. “Old tales. Spirits don’t need bodies to raise hell.”

“They said this one’s lookin’ for somethin’,” he continued, eyes flickin’ toward the windows like the night itself might be listenin’. “Or someone. Been walkin’ the land with hunger in its bones and a face nobody can seem to remember after seein’ it.”

I sat quiet, still as dusk.

“Could just be some drifter,” Smoke said. “Folks get riled when trouble comes and ain’t got no face to pin it on.”

“Then why the sudden vanishings?” Mary pressed. “Why now?”

“Maybe it ain’t sudden,” I said before I could stop myself, my voice low and calm. “Maybe it’s just the first time we’re payin’ attention.”

Four heads turned my way.

Mary squinted. “You heard somethin’ too?”

I shook my head slow. “Just a feelin’. The kind that settles in your back teeth when the wind shifts wrong.”

They didn’t say nothin’ to that. Not directly. But Smoke nodded once, solemn, like he’d felt it too.

The conversation drifted back to softer things—music, cards, the preacher’s crooked fence—but I sat still. That ache behind my ribs hadn’t let up since the moon turned last. The way the air felt heavy even when it wasn’t humid. The way dogs stopped barkin’ at shadows like they knew they couldn’t win.

It weren’t just madness.

And it sure as hell weren’t random.

I could feel it deep.

Like breath on the back of my neck.

Something was here.

Something was comin’.

And this time, I didn’t know if I’d be able to outrun it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Remmick’s Pov

It started with the absence.

Not the kind that’s loud—grief flung sharp across the soul. No. This one crept in slow, like rot behind the walls. Quiet. Patient. The kind of missing that don’t scream. It whispers.

I walked to an empty room. No blood on the floor, no broken window, no fight to mark the leaving. Just cold air where her warmth used to linger. Her scent still clung to the linens. The floor creaked where she last stood.

I called her name.

Once.

Twice.

A third time—barely a whisper. Like maybe she’d come back if I said it soft.

But she didn’t.

And God help me, I searched.

I turned over every rock in that cursed country. Asked after a woman with a strange voice and steady hands. A healer. A ghost. I heard stories that might’ve been her—always just a breath behind. A girl boardin’ a carriage to Marseille. A woman leavin’ a parcel at a chapel in Lisbon. A stranger with dark eyes and no surname passin’ through Antwerp.

I missed her by hours. Days. Once, by a damned blink.

The trail always went cold. But I kept followin’. Because somethin’ in me—somethin’ older than this cursed body—knew she was still out there.

I stopped feedin’ off folk unless I had to. Couldn’t stomach it. Not with her voice echoing in my head, the way she looked at me that night—betrayal writ clear on every bone in her face.

I never meant to hurt her.

I only meant to save her.

But what I gave her weren’t salvation. It was a cage.

A century passed me like smoke through fingers. I lost track of time, faces, cities. Learned to blend into the edges. Changed my name more than once. The world changed, and I watched it like a man outside a window he couldn’t break through.

Then word came.

A dockhand in Barcelona. Drunk off his ass. Said he’d seen a woman walkin’ off a freighter bound for the States. Said she didn’t belong to nobody’s country. Said she looked like a shadow stitched to the sea.

That was all I needed.

I took the next ship out. Didn’t care where it landed—so long as it took me west. Toward her.

The ocean ain’t merciful.

The waves came like judgment. Ripped through the hull on the second week. Screams. Salt. Fire where it shouldn’t be. They said none survived.

They were wrong.

I clung to the wreckage ‘til the sky cracked open with morning. Drifted on broken boards and rage. Burned here and there by the time I reached land—ain’t proud of that. But grief makes monsters outta men, and I already was halfway there.

I moved through towns like a ghost with teeth. New York. Georgia. Tennessee. Small towns and big cities, never settlin’. I listened to whispers in back alleys and watched for her in every market, every dusk-lit chapel, every face turned away from the sun.

Nothing. For years.

But I could feel her.

She was here.

Like the heat before a storm. Like a name you ain’t heard in decades but still makes your gut twist.

It led me to Mississippi.

The Delta pressed down heavy on the chest, thick with memory and blood. And that’s when I knew—she was close. Her scent was buried in the clay. In the river. In the music that throbbed outta them joints deep in the trees.

I watched from the shadows first. Didn’t trust myself not to shatter somethin’ if I saw her too soon.

She danced now. She smiled. But I could see the armor in her eyes. She never looked back when she left a room. Never stepped through a door without pausin’. Still runnin’. Even after all this time.

And me?

I’d come too far.

Burned too much.

So I waited. Watched.

And when the moment was right, I’d step out of the dark…

…and she’d never be able to leave me again.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

There was somethin’ stirrin’ in the wind lately. Not loud, not sharp—just enough to make the back of my neck prickle, enough to keep my eyes glancin’ twice at shadows I used to pass without a care. Folks round here would say it’s just the season changin’. The cotton bloomin’ slow. The river swellin’ with too much rain. But I knew better.

I knew what it felt like when the past came knockin’.

It started with a weight I couldn’t name. Not sorrow, not fear. Just… a tightness in the air. Like the calm right before a storm that don’t care how long you prayed.

I was sweepin’ the porch when it hit strongest. Sun had already gone down behind the trees, but the sky still held that warm blue gold, thick and low, like honey drippin’ off the edge of the world. The breeze carried the scent of pine, of distant smoke and a sweetness I couldn’t quite place. My broom slowed. My breath did too.

I didn’t see nobody. Didn’t hear a damn thing.

But I knew. Somethin’ was watchin’.

I didn’t flinch. Just kept sweepin’, let the wind pull at the hem of my skirt and carried myself like I hadn’t just felt old ghosts shift under my ribs.

Come nightfall, I made my way to the juke. Same as always. Parcel of dried herb tucked in my satchel for Grace. A wrapped cloth of rosehip and sassafras root for Annie. Folks counted on me for that, and I didn’t mind. Gave me a reason to keep movin’. Gave me an excuse to slip past the ache.

Cornbread tipped his chin at me when I reached the door. “You late, sugar.”

I grinned easy, lifting the edge of my shawl. “Didn’t know there was a curfew.”

He stepped aside with a smirk. “Ain’t one. But if you keep showin’ up this late, I’m gon’ start worryin’. Com’ in.”

“Now you sound like Adele,” I teased, brushin’ past him.

Inside, the world came alive. Warm wood floors thrummin’ underfoot. Smoke curlin’ from rolled cigars. Sweat glistenin’ on cheeks mid-laugh. A fiddle cried through the room like it’d been born from somebody’s bones, and I breathed deep. I needed that sound.

I didn’t dance. Not tonight. Just eased myself onto the stool at the far corner and let my satchel rest on the floor. The room buzzed around me, voices rollin’ like riverwater.

Then I felt it again.

That chill. That soft press of a stare at my back. Not unkind. But heavy.

I didn’t turn. Didn’t let it show on my face. But somethin’ old shifted inside me. Somethin’ I’d buried centuries deep.

Not here, I thought. Not now.

I caught Annie passin’ and handed her the pouch. She squeezed my arm with a thank-you, unaware of how tight my chest had gone.

“You feelin’ alright?” she asked.

“Just tired,” I lied, soft. “Been a long week.”

She nodded and moved on, bless her.

But my eyes didn’t move from the corner of the room, where the light barely touched.

Nothin’ was there.

But I felt him.

Or maybe I was just tired.

Maybe.

I left earlier than usual, sayin’ my goodbyes with a smile that didn’t quite touch the bone. The walk back was quiet—too quiet for a town this close to midnight. I kept to the edge of the trees, let the dark wrap around me like a veil.

At my door, I paused. Looked over my shoulder.

Still nothin’.

Still that weight.

Inside, I lit one lamp and sat down slow on the edge of the bed, unwrappin’ my scarf. My hands were shakin’, just a little.

There’s a certain kind of fear that don’t come with panic. Don’t scream in your ears or rush your breath.

It settles.

Like a coat. Like a second skin.

And I knew that fear.

I knew it like I knew the taste of ash on my tongue. Like I knew the look in his eyes the night he chose for me what I would never have chosen for myself.

I leaned back, arms crossin’ my chest.

If it was him, he wouldn’t show yet.

Not ‘til he was ready.

Not ‘til I couldn’t run again.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I waited.

And in the silence, my soul whispered one word.

Remmick.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The grass whispered under my steps as I walked. Basket on my arm. Sun barely peekin’ through the trees. I’d meant only to gather herbs ‘fore the day grew too hot—rosemary, some goldenrod, a few stubborn mint sprigs for Annie’s cough. But the air felt… wrong.

Not wrong like danger.

Wrong like memory.

Like grief wearin’ another man’s skin.

The woods around me were still—too still. The birds had hushed. Even the wind held its breath. And I knew. Same way you know a snake’s behind you without seein’ it. Same way your spirit clenches when the past is near.

I stopped by the creekbed, crouched low like I was studyin’ the mint. But my breath’d already gone shallow. I didn’t need to see him to feel him. The air had thickened, the way it always did before a summer storm. Thick like honey gone too long. Like hunger waitin’ in a dark room.

“I know it’s you,” I said, not even botherin’ to turn. My voice didn’t shake. Not even once. “Ain’t no use hidin’ in the shade. You was never no shadow.”

No answer.

Not yet.

But I felt him in the stillness. In the hush between my heartbeats.

“Come on out, Remmick.”

His name cracked the air open like thunder.

And then—branches shifted.

I turned slow.

He was leanin’ against a tree like he’d been grown there. Pale, still, boots clean despite the mud. Hair tousled like sleep or war. Those eyes—red as dusk and just as dangerous. But his face…

His face looked like grief tryin’ to wear calm like a disguise.

“You always did know how to find me,” he said, voice low and silk-slick, but it cracked under the weight of memory.

“I didn’t find you,” I snapped. “You been followin’ me.”

He smiled—sad and sharp. “Reckon I have.”

The basket slipped from my hand, landin’ soft in the dirt. My jaw clenched.

“You survived.”

“Aye,” he said, never lookin’ away. “Didn’t think I would. But I’ve always been hard to kill.”

I laughed, bitter. “Too stubborn for death, too stupid to know when to quit.”

He took a step. Measured. Careful.

“I looked for you,” he said, breath catchin’.

“And when you found me,” I cut in, “you hid.”

He flinched. “I wasn’t ready. You left, Y/N. After everythin’—”

“You turned me!” I snapped, voice shakin’. “You took my choice and dressed it up like mercy.”

“I saved you.”

“You cursed me.”

Silence. Heavy and wet like the air.

“I woke up hungry, Remmick,” I whispered. “Starvin’. Scared. Watchin’ my own hands do things I couldn’t stop. You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t know what it would do to you,” he said. “But I couldn’t bury you. Not you.”

I took a step back. My heart was thunderin’ in my ears.

“You should’ve let me die.”

His eyes shone then—not from the red glow, but from somethin’ older. Somethin’ breakin’.

“I couldn’t,” he breathed. “I’d already lost everythin’. My brother. My home. And then you—” He stopped, jaw tight. “I’d have nothin’ left if you died.”

I stared at him, tears burnin’ the backs of my eyes. “So instead you dragged me into this hell and called it love?”

“I loved you.”

“I loved you too,” I said. “And that’s what makes it worse.”

His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach out, but didn’t dare.

“You think I ain’t felt you watchin’ me these last few weeks?” I said, steady now. “Think I didn’t know the air changed when you came near?”

“I didn’t know how to face you,” he admitted, voice ragged. “Not after what I did. Not after you ran.”

“I had to,” I said. “You made me a monster. I couldn’t look at you without hearin’ the scream I let out when I woke up.”

We stood there, tangled in the ache of a hundred years.

Then he said quiet, “I didn’t want to own you. I just wanted to belong to someone again.”

I closed my eyes. And Lord, that was the worst part.

Because some part of me still did ache for him. Still remembered the feel of his hand in mine when we were both still human. Still remembered that look he gave me like I hung the moon crooked just to keep him wonderin’.

But ache ain’t the same as love.

“You got no right,” I whispered. “Not to this town. Not to me.”

His jaw flexed.

“Then why’d you call my name?”

“Because I felt you,” I said. “And I’d rather look the devil in the eye than let him haunt me from the trees.”

He smiled then, soft and bitter.

“I ain’t the devil.”

“No,” I said. “But you sure learned how to dance like him.”

He stared at me a long time.

And I knew, right then, this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

But I’d bought myself a moment.

And in a life like mine, a moment might just be the thing that saves you.

“Go,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Before I decide to hate you more than I already do.”

He took a breath. Then turned.

Walked back into the woods without a word.

But I knew that weren’t the last of him.

Because men like Remmick?

They don’t come to say goodbye.

They come to take back what they think belongs to them.

And this is the point when patience isn’t known to him.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The joint was hummin’.

Music slid through the floor like syrup, thick with bass and heat. Somebody’s uncle was hollerin’ over a blues tune on the piano, Annie behind the bar crackin’ jokes while slippin’ flasks under the table. Sweat glistened on the back of my neck, curls stickin’ to my skin, and laughter rolled up from the dance floor like smoke. I was leanin’ into a conversation with Josephine at the bar, her eyes wide as she told me about a man she caught slippin’ out her window barefoot just before his wife came knockin’.

I chuckled low, brows raised. “And you didn’t slap him upside the head first?”

She rolled her eyes. “I had better things to do than waste my strength on a fool.”

“Amen to that,” I said, liftin’ my glass, though I hadn’t drunk a drop.

Then I felt it.

A cold ripple slid down the length of my spine—so sudden, it stole the breath right out my lungs. It weren’t fear, not quite. But the kind of dread that came from knowin’ something was wrong before your eyes could prove it.

I didn’t see the door.

But I saw Stack.

He was on his feet, jaw tight, walkin’ past me with that slow kind of purpose. Smoke followed close behind, his eyes narrowin’ toward the open entrance. Cornbread had gone quiet at the door, and that alone was enough to knot my gut.

Josephine kept talkin’, but her voice faded into nothin’.

My body moved on its own.

I stood, heart poundin’ like a war drum behind my ribs. The music didn’t stop, but everything inside me did. I walked past the tables, past the girls, through the perfume and pipe smoke and scent of sweat and spilt whiskey.

And then—

His voice.

Smooth. Mockin’. Sugar over glass.

“Evenin’,” Remmick drawled, like he’d been invited to church supper and meant to charm the whole congregation. “Lovely place y’all got here. Full of… soul.”

My blood turned to ice.

He was speakin’ to Cornbread, who stood stiff as a gatepost, eyes narrowin’ as the air seemed to stretch thin between ‘em.

“Think you might be lost,” Cornbread said slowly, not movin’ from his post. “There’s places in town for your kind. This ain’t one.”

“Oh, but I’m right where I need to be,” Remmick smiled, sharp and hollow. “Heard tale of music, drink, and dancin’. Figured I’d see it for myself. Can’t a man enjoy the night?”

His eyes flicked past Cornbread—landin’ square on me.

Like he’d planned it. Like he’d waited for the silence in my soul to find the crack just wide enough to step through.

“Y/N,” he said.

My stomach dropped.

Stack stepped in front of me. “You know this man?”

“I do,” I said. My voice came out steady, but my hands curled into fists at my sides. “I know him.”

“Name’s Remmick,” he said, glancin’ at the twins with a false-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Old friends with the lady. We go back.”

“Too far,” I muttered.

He took a step forward, and Stack shifted, blockin’ him.

“Easy now,” Remmick said, hands liftin’. “I’m just here to talk. That all right with you, darlin’?”

His tone curled around that word like it meant everything and nothin’ at all. The same way it used to when he wanted me quiet. Wanted me pliant.

“No,” I snapped. “You ain’t supposed to be here.”

Cornbread’s hand twitched toward the bat leanin’ beside the door.

Remmick chuckled. “Didn’t know you needed permission to visit old flames. Thought we were past pretendin’, Y/N.”

My jaw clenched. I stepped in front of Stack and Smoke, meetin’ Remmick’s eyes dead on.

“You’re pushin’ it,” I said low, “and you know it.”

He tilted his head. “I’m just tryin’ to make amends. Catch up. Maybe remind you of what we—”

“Shut up,” I snapped. “Not here.”

He didn’t shut up.

Instead, he smirked and said, “What? Afraid somebody might recognize what you really are?”

That was it.

I moved fast. My hand gripped his arm hard, draggin’ him back from the door ‘fore anyone else could hear. His boots scraped the dirt as I yanked him past the porch, into the woods just beyond the edge of the firelight.

We didn’t stop ‘til the juke faded behind us, til the only sound was the hiss of the crickets and the rasp of my breath.

Then I let go.

He stumbled back, laughin’ low.

“You always were the fiery sort,” he muttered. “Mouth full of ash and thunder.”

My eyes flared, shiftin’ to that color I only saw when my blood ran too hot. “Are you outta your damn mind, comin’ up in there like that?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t figure you’d come callin’ again. Had to make the introduction myself.”

“You could’ve blown everything,” I hissed. “You wanna waltz in there flashin’ teeth and riddles, but these people don’t forget what monsters look like once they get wind of it. You forgot that part?”

His face twisted, somethin’ cruel and wounded all at once. “You forgot I ain’t been welcome in any place for centuries. You found a home. I found shadows. You danced while I starved.”

I stepped close, close enough to see the red flicker in his eyes again.

“You don’t get to turn this on me,” I said, voice droppin’ into a tremble of fury. “You made me this way. You left me this way. And now you think you can show up with your coy words and puppy eyes and take what ain’t yours anymore?”

He leaned in, voice barely breathin’.

“You were always mine, darlin’. Long ‘fore the blood ever touched your lips.”

I slapped him.

The sound cracked like a pistol in the hush.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t raise his voice.

But that smile—the slow, dangerous one he wore like armor—slipped off his face like a mask too heavy to hold.

I was breathin’ hard. Fists clenched. Rain gatherin’ on my skin like it had permission. Like even the sky had been waitin’ for us to come undone.

“You don’t get to say that,” I seethed, chest heavin’. “You don’t ever get to say that to me.”

Remmick stayed where he stood—still, calm. Too calm. Like the eye of a storm that knew the ruin already circlin’ it.

“I reckon I just did,” he said low, almost kind. “And I meant it.”

My jaw shook. “You think this is love? You think this is some twisted soul-bind you can drag behind you like a dog on a chain?”

His brow ticked, barely. “No chain ever held you, Y/N. You cut every one yourself.”

I took a step toward him, finger pointed like it might draw blood.

“You turned me without askin’. You let me wake up alone. You watched me starve. And now you show up actin’ like I owe you somethin’?”

He didn’t move. Just tilted his head, watchin’ me unravel.

“I didn’t say you owed me. I came to see if there was anythin’ left.”

“There wasn’t!” I shouted, voice crackin’. “There ain’t! Not after what you did.”

He exhaled slow through his nose, like he’d been expectin’ this. Like he’d already played it out a thousand ways in the hollows of his mind.

“You always did throw fire when your heart got loud.”

“You got no right to talk about my heart,” I hissed. “Not after the way you crushed it and called it savin’ me.”

He stepped closer—just one step. Careful. Calm.

“You think I ain’t spent the last hundred years crawlin’ through the world lookin’ for pieces of you? You think I didn’t see the wreck I left behind? I know what I did.”

“Then why are you here?” My voice trembled. “Why now?”

He looked at me like I was still the only song he remembered the words to.

“Because even now,” he said, soft and razor-sharp, “you’re still the only thing that makes me feel like I didn’t die all the way.”

The rain started then—slow at first, then heavy. Soakin’ my dress. Mattin’ my hair to my face. But I didn’t move. Didn’t wipe the water from my eyes.

Because it wasn’t just rain.

It was rage.

It was heartbreak.

It was every scream I swallowed the night he turned me.

“You ruined me,” I said. “And now you want me to weep for you?”

“No.” He blinked once. Steady. “I want nothin’ from you you don’t give me freely.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I was,” he said. “But I ain’t lyin’ now.”

I laughed, bitter and sharp. “So what? You want redemption?”

He shook his head. “That ain’t a road I get to walk.”

The silence that followed was thick. Biblical.

And then, slow—too slow—Remmick sank to his knees.

Not like a man prayin’.

But like one beggin’ the grave to let him stay buried.

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” he said, voice quiet and cracked around the edges. “You want me gone, I’ll disappear. You want me dead, well… you know better than most, darlin’. That ain’t never been easy.”

Rain slammed the earth in waves now, like it meant to bury every word between us.

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just watched him kneel in the mud, pale hands open, head bowed like even he knew he didn’t deserve forgiveness.

His eyes flickered red in the stormlight.

Still beautiful.

Still dangerous.

Still mine—once.

And then the memory returned—

His mouth on my throat.

My scream breakin’ the sky.

The taste of betrayal before I even knew the word for it.

The night he turned me.

The night I stopped bein’ his salvation…

…and became his punishment.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t rise.

Just stayed there on his knees in the wet earth, eyes on me like I was a hymn he’d long forgotten how to pray, but still couldn’t stop hummin’.

“You don’t get to play the martyr,” I said, rain slidin’ down the slope of my jaw, voice low and level. “You don’t get to break somethin’ and call it love.”

His jaw worked, but he stayed quiet. Good. He was learnin’.

I stepped closer, slow enough for the mud to cling to my boots like memory.

“You think this—” I gestured at his posture, at the rain, the ache between us— “makes you smaller than me? It don’t. You still got teeth. Still got hunger. But now you got somethin’ else too.”

I let the silence hang for a breath.

Then another.

“My hand ain’t on your throat, Remmick. I ain’t pulled no blade. But you still follow, don’t you?”

His eyes flickered, faint red beneath the dark.

“You follow ‘cause you can’t help it,” I said, takin’ one more step. “Not ‘cause I told you to. But because I’m the ghost you ain’t never been able to bury.”

His mouth parted—like maybe he’d speak, maybe he’d beg again—but I beat him to it.

“You been searchin’ all these years thinkin’ I was the piece you lost.” My voice dipped lower, soft as a curse. “But maybe I was the punishment you earned.”

He flinched.

Just barely.

But I saw it.

Felt it.

“You ain’t on your knees ‘cause of guilt,” I said. “You’re down there ‘cause you know deep in your bones—I still got a leash on your soul.”

He looked up at me then.

Really looked.

And for the first time since he crawled back into my world, he didn’t reach.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t beg.

He just watched.

Like he knew I was right.

Like he knew that no matter how far I’d run or how cruel I’d grown…

…I’d always be the one holdin’ the reins.

I turned without another word, walked back through the trees, each step heavy with the truth we couldn’t outrun.

And though I didn’t hear him rise—

I knew he would.

I knew he’d follow.

Because men like Remmick?

They don’t vanish.

They linger.

They haunt.

They wait for the softest crack in your armor, then slip back in like they never left.

But this time, he’d have to wait.

This time, I wasn’t runnin’.

And I wasn’t lettin’ him in, either.

Let him kneel in the mud.

Let him feel what it’s like to want somethin’ that won’t break for him no more.

Because even monsters got leashes.

And some ain’t made of rope.

They’re made of memory.

Of ache.

Of the one person who walked away—and meant it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Taglist:@jakecockley,@alastorhazbin,

[cherry-lala]

Hi! I just read your "Whispers of Memories, Chains of Time" and I wanted to say that your writing is absolutely beautiful. Reading the part where the reader talked about the "war" brought to her land genuinely brought tears to my eyes and made me feel seen in a way that is quite rare. My family's country has suffered greatly at the hands of political corruption. Because of this, my family decided they needed to immigrate, as they knew they could not succeed in land that was destroying itself from within. When I read that portion about the "slow war, not fought with soldiers," and how they "took everything soft and left the bones" it reminded me of the place my family once called home. My family, much like the reader, felt the need to run from their version of "the war," and they did that by moving to America.

Additionally, the way the reader changed the way she talked in order to build a life, but was never truly trusted, is something that brings my family to mind as well. My family has learned English, gained their citizenships, given their blood, sweat, and tears to the states, and yet it still does not make them "true Americans" in the eyes of many. (Hell, I'm born and raised in the states, and even I am seen as "alien.") We have lived in this constant existence of being viewed as "foreign" and "other" in the American world, no matter how hard we try to assimilate.

So reading a piece like yours and seeing that discussion was something that hit me in the very depths of my soul. There was something about the readers grief of home lost/longing for the way things were combined with the acknowledgement that she has to go in order to survive, as well the perpetual space of "foreignness" that she exists in, that struck a chord within me. I feel like you perfectly encapsulated all those complex feelings in such a perfectly simple way, and that truly means a lot to me. Apologies for the long rant, and I'm not sure if any of this makes sense if I'm being honest. In no way do I expect you to respond to this, I just wanted to personally express my gratitude to you for writing this piece. Many thanks <3

this is so incredibly kind, thank you for sharing this with me— it’s not a rant at all❤️.i’m really honored the story spoke to you in that way. knowing that it resonated with you and your family’s story truly means a lot. you’re seen, and your words won’t be forgotten <3 now I feel all warm inside 😭❤️

[cherry-lala]

─ 🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒 ─ ─ 🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒 ─

🍒Fics🍒 (F)luff (M)ature (A)ngst

Remmick:

The Devil waits where Wildflowers Grow 15.7k+ (M) (A)

⤷ pt.2 Some things Don’t end, They Echo 11.4k+ (M) (A)

Whispers of Memories, Chains of Time 14.8k+ (F) (M) (A)

The Price of Keeping Everything 11.3k+ (F) (M) (A)

Bo Chow

⤷

(Nothing yet)

Stack

None…

Smoke

None…

─ 🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒 ─ ─ 🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒﹒⟡﹒🍒 ─

[cherry-lala]

Whispers of Memories, Chains of Time

Parings: human-turned-vampire!Remmick x human-turned-vampire!Poc fem reader

Genres: Southern Gothic ,Vampire Romance ,Dark Angst,Supernatural Tragedy, Fluff(..)

Wordcount:14.8k+

Content warning: vampire transformation (non-consensual), blood, emotional manipulation, obsession, toxic romance, grief, PTSD, trauma aftermath, sexual tension, implied sex, body horror, hunting/killing, possessiveness, violence (not glorified), slow descent into monsterhood

A/n: this was a request from @0angel-tears0 , and i truly poured my heart into bringing it to life. i tried to weave in every detail that was asked for, and i hope it resonates with you the way it did with me while writing. thank you for the inspiration—i really hope you enjoy it. And thank you for the support^^

He was on his knees.

Not like a man prayin’, but like one beggin’ the grave to let him stay buried.

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” Remmick rasped, voice low and cracked, like gravel dragged through honey. His hands hovered near mine, never quite touchin’. “You want me gone, I’ll disappear. You want me dead, well… you know better than most, darlin’. That ain’t never been easy.”

The rain hit the ground like it was tryin’ to drown out the past.

I stood there, silent. Watchin’ the same man who once turned my blood to fire now tremble like he ain’t felt warmth in centuries. His eyes flickered red. Still beautiful. Still dangerous. Still mine—once.

And then the memory came back sharp as bone:

His mouth at my throat.

My scream shatterin’ the quiet.

The taste of betrayal on my tongue before I ever knew what betrayal truly was.

The night he turned me.

The night I stopped bein’ his salvation and became his punishment.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Remmick's Pov

The smoke from the baker’s chimney curled lazy into the grey mornin’, twistin’ up toward a sky that hadn’t yet made up its mind. Pale, dull, hangin’ low like grief. I shifted the crate on my shoulder, feelin’ the dig of wood through damp wool. My boots were slick with yesterday’s rain, slippin’ now and then on the cobbles that shone like a drunkard’s teeth—wet and crooked.

I passed the butcher, same as always. He gave me a nod stiff as his apron. Behind him, the meat swung on hooks, pink and heavy, lookin’ like saints in some holy place I’d never set foot in. I hated that shop. Too many flies. Too many mouths left open, waitin’ for a prayer that’d never come.

The crate weren’t much—few bottles of oil, sacks of dried lavender, and somethin’ sealed in wax I didn’t bother askin’ after. I just hauled it. Dropped it off with the woman behind the counter who didn’t look me in the eye, and left. No lingerin’. Places that smelled like sickness and sorrow weren’t ones I liked to haunt long.

I’d lived in this village long enough that most folks stopped whisperin’. Didn’t mean they trusted me. Just meant I was another fixture—like a broken fence or an old gate that still held up in a storm. I worked. Didn’t drink myself blind. Didn’t steal. Kept to myself. That was enough for them.

But it weren’t enough for me.

Some days I wondered if I was real at all. Or just a shadow they let move through the fog.

I took the back path out, cuttin’ ‘round the edge of the market square. Didn’t care for crowds. The noise. The eyes.

That’s when I saw her.

Not all at once. Just a flicker first—somethin’ movin’ slow near the trees where the path opened wide. A figure bent low, rearrangin’ a basket. Her movements were deliberate, like the world could wait its turn. Like she had all the time God ever gave.

Her dress was simple, but it carried different. Lighter. Like she came from somewhere the sun hit softer. And her—

Christ.

I don’t know the word for what she was.

Not just beautiful. No.

Marked.

Like the earth itself had touched her, pressed a thumbprint right into her soul, and said: this one.

I should’ve kept walkin’. I didn’t.

She straightened, basket shiftin’ easy on her hip like it belonged there. The light caught her skin, and it weren’t fair, how it looked. Her eyes passed over me once—just a blink—but they didn’t flinch. Didn’t linger.

That’s what did it.

She didn’t look at me like I was strange. Or cursed. Or nothin’. She looked past me. Like she’d seen worse. Lived through more. Like she carried the memory of fire behind her ribs and still breathed easy through the smoke.

And me?

I forgot the path. Forgot the ache in my shoulder and the filth on my hands. Forgot the hinge I was meant to fix, the roof that needed patchin’. Forgot the name I answered to.

She turned.

Walked into the crowd and was gone.

And my chest—quiet near a decade—stirred like somethin’ old had woken up in it.

Somethin’ dangerous.

Somethin’ like hunger.

Or recognition.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The next time I saw her, it was rainin’.

Not the sort that passed in a hush and vanished clean. No, this was the old kind. The kind that settled in your bones and made the village feel more graveyard than home. Clouds hung low, heavy as guilt. The air smelled like peat, smoke, and wet wool.

I hadn’t planned on cuttin’ through the square. Meant to head straight to the chapel—Father Callahan’d cracked a hinge clean off the sacristy door again, and I’d promised to fix it. Hammer tucked under my coat, hands still black with soot from cleanin’ out the baker’s flue that mornin’. My back ached. My boots were soaked.

And then—

I saw her.

She stood quiet as a shadow in front of the apothecary, tucked beneath the narrow eave that dripped steady at her feet. Her dress was simple, the color of river clay, clingin’ to her like the rain knew better than to touch her skin. A basket sat on the crook of her arm, filled with wild garlic and herbs, and her other hand held a cloth to her lips—like she was keepin’ something back.

A cough. Or a secret.

I oughta have kept walkin’.

But I didn’t.

I stood there like a daft fool in the muck, starin’ at her like the rain could wash the sense back into me.

She looked up.

And this time, she saw me.

Really saw me.

Her eyes—dark as peat, clear as glass—locked with mine. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Didn’t carry the same weight in her stare that most folks did when they looked my way. There was no pity. No suspicion.

Just stillness.

She wore it like armor.

Like maybe the storm belonged to her.

“You alright there?” I called, my voice louder than I meant over the hiss of rain.

Her gaze dipped for a breath, then came back. She lowered the cloth. “Far as I can be, considerin’,” she said. Her voice was even, lower than I remembered. The words came proper enough, but the sound of her was not local. Something about it curled at the edges. Like she’d learned the language well but carried a different song in her throat.

“You’re not from here,” I said. The words left me before I could think to swallow ‘em.

Her lips twitched, not quite smilin’. “Neither are you.”

She weren’t wrong.

Folk around here called me the outsider. Came in after my brother passed, and I stayed—fixin’ broken fences, sharpenin’ shears, patchin’ roofs after windstorms. I kept to myself. Said little. Answered less. Most folks left me be. Grief has a way of makin’ ghosts of the livin’.

But she—she was no ghost.

She was too solid. Too certain.

“You deal in herbs?” I asked, noddin’ toward her basket.

She glanced down, then back. “Some for trade. Some for me. Depends who’s askin’.”

“Folk here don’t always take kindly to unfamiliar hands mixin’ medicine.”

“They don’t take kindly to much at all,” she said. Her tone didn’t shift. Didn’t get sharp or soft. “But I’m not here to please them.”

My mouth twitched. Could’ve been a smile. Could’ve been a warning.

“They call me Remmick,” I offered, though I don’t know why. She hadn’t asked.

She nodded slow, like she was tuckin’ the name somewhere safe. “I’ve heard of you. Fix things, don’t you?”

I gave a short nod. “Try to.”

She tilted her head, studyin’ me like I was a nail half-driven. “Can you fix what ain’t made of wood or iron?”

I blinked. “Suppose that depends on how broke it is.”

That made her pause. Her eyes lingered, like she was weighin’ my words on a scale only she could read.

“Good answer,” she murmured, and stepped out into the rain.

She moved like dusk—quiet, certain, untouched by the cold. Her shoes sank into the mud, her hair clung to her nape, and still she didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter. Didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

I stood there a long while after she’d gone, hammer still clutched in my hand, like I’d forgotten what I was doin’.

Something about her wouldn’t let go.

It wasn’t just her face, though it was a face worth rememberin’.

It was the way she made the world feel like it wasn’t mine anymore.

Like she’d stepped out of some place older than time.

And my soul—fool that it is—reached for her like it already knew the fall was comin’.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The next time I saw her, I was carryin’ a sack of empty flour tins and cussin’ at the wind. The path out toward the edge of town had turned near to muck from the week’s worth of rain, and the soles of my boots were caked thick with it. I’d been sent by old Mr. Fallon to fetch a bundle of dried thyme and wild caraway for his bread—claimed the flavor wouldn’t be worth spit without it. Gave me a half-torn scrap with the address written in crooked scrawl and waved me off like I didn’t have ten other things to fix today.

I followed the directions, takin’ the narrow road past the blacksmith’s, past the place where the woods leaned too close to the path, until the town itself felt far behind me. When I reached the cottage, it was tucked back in a thicket of elder trees, vines curlin’ up its stone sides like time was tryin’ to reclaim it.

Didn’t seem like the sort of place anybody lived.

But there was smoke risin’ from the chimney, soft and pale.

I knocked on the door. Didn’t expect her to answer.

But she did.

The door creaked open slow, and there she stood. Same earth-toned dress, sleeves rolled up this time, fingers stained green from somethin’ she’d been grinding. Her hair was wrapped back, loose pieces stickin’ to her temple from sweat.

I blinked. She didn’t.

“You here for the baker’s herbs?” she asked, before I could speak.

“Aye,” I said, a little too quick. “Didn’t know it was you who put ‘em together.”

She gave a small shrug, half-turning back into the house. “I make do with what I can. Come on in. It’s dry, at least.”

I hesitated on the threshold.

Then stepped inside.

The cottage smelled like cedar smoke and mint, sharp with somethin’ bitter beneath it—wormwood, maybe, or sorrow. Shelves lined the walls, filled with glass jars and cloth bundles, herbs hangin’ to dry like prayer strings. Light came in soft through the foggy windows, catchin’ on the motes floatin’ in the air.

I watched her move through the space like she belonged to it. Like the walls were built to her shape.

“You live alone out here?” I asked, settin’ the tin sack down by the door.

She nodded without lookin’ back. “Folk don’t visit much. Suits me fine.”

“Bit far from everything, don’t you think?”

Her hands didn’t stop as she tied a bundle of dried leaves with twine. “Distance keeps peace. Or at least quiet.”

I hummed low. “Seems lonely.”

She paused, just a moment. “Lonely’s better than bein’ caged.”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

She turned then, handin’ me the bundle wrapped in cloth. “Here. Tell Fallon I added wild rosemary. He’ll complain, but he’ll use it anyway.”

I took the bundle, our fingers brushin’ again. Brief, but not unremarkable.

“Thank you,” I said. “For this.”

She nodded. Her eyes lingered on mine longer than they should’ve.

“You always this polite, or just when you’re in someone’s home?”

I let a ghost of a smile tug at my mouth. “Only when I’m talkin’ to someone who don’t scare easy.”

She raised an eyebrow, a corner of her lip curlin’. “Good. I don’t trust men who only speak sweet to the meek.”

There was a silence then—an easy one, somehow, but it sat heavy with things unspoken.

“You never gave me your name,” I said, shifting the weight of the herbs in my hands.

She looked down, then back up. “That’s ‘cause I haven’t decided if you’ve earned it.”

And damn me, but I liked the sound of that.

“Well,” I said, stepping back toward the door, “if you ever reckon I have, I’ll be around. Usually fixin’ things folk’ve broken.”

She tilted her head, arms crossed now. “Maybe I’ll break somethin’ just to see if you’ll come.”

The door creaked shut behind me before I could think of somethin’ clever to say.

Outside, the air smelled like wet leaves and woodsmoke. I walked back down the muddy path with her words echoing in my chest—soft as silk, sharp as flint.

And somewhere in the quiet between my heartbeats, I realized I’d be lookin’ for reasons to come back.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The morning stretched soft and gold over the village, sun filterin’ through a sky still patched with the pale hush of dawn. It’d rained heavy the night before, and now the earth smelled like moss and old stone, like every breath belonged to something older than me.

I took the same path I always did, worn into the hills by habit and need. A leather satchel slung cross my shoulder, tools knockin’ gentle against one another with each step. The hammer I used for roofs, the little brush I used for oilin’ hinges—all packed like I was some saint come to bless broken things.

Only I wasn’t goin’ to the chapel today.

The note had come from the baker, scribbled mess of ink sayin’ one of the herb women needed her ceilin’ patched. Didn’t give a name, just said “the dark-eyed one what don’t smile easy.” I knew then.

Didn’t tell myself that out loud, but my chest said it plain.

Her.

The woman who spoke like secrets. Moved like the rain followed her for warmth. I’d seen her twice now, and still she sat behind my eyes like a prayer I couldn’t finish.

Her cottage sat just beyond the low bend of the road, tucked behind a line of cypress trees with their roots grippin’ the wet soil like they feared bein’ torn up. Ivy climbed the corners of the stone, and a little row of jars lined the windowsill—dried flowers, maybe. Bits of lavender. Or bones.

I knocked soft. Once. Twice. No answer. I knocked again, louder this time, the wood thuddin’ beneath my fist.

“Comin’,” came her voice, muffled but steady.

The door creaked open and there she was, standin’ barefoot on the wood floor with sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her dress was a muted brown, plain as river mud, but it clung to her like she’d shaped it herself from dusk and silence.

“You’re the one with the leak,” I said, tryin’ to keep my voice level, casual. “I was sent from the bakery to patch it up proper.”

Her eyes flicked down to my satchel, then back to me. “Figured someone would show. Just didn’t think it’d be you.”

I raised a brow. “That a complaint?”

She didn’t smile, but her lips twitched at the corners. “Not yet.”

She stepped aside, lettin’ me in with a tilt of her head. The air inside her cottage was warm—herby, thick with dried thyme and somethin’ sweeter beneath it, like burnt sugar.

“Ceilin’s in the back room,” she said. “It leaks when the rain hits from the east.”

I followed her down the narrow hall, tools shiftin’ with each step. The floor creaked beneath our weight, and the walls held the quiet hum of a lived-in place—one made by hand, not bought with coin.

As I entered the room, I looked up at the corner where the water had left its mark—dark ring bloomin’ like rot in the ceiling. I set my satchel down near the edge of a low table and rolled up my sleeves.

“You don’t strike me as the sort who sends for help,” I said, climbin’ onto the little stool below the leak. “Let alone a village man.”

“I’m not,” she replied, movin’ to the table and startin’ to sort herbs into small bundles. “But I’m also not the sort who lets water make a home where it don’t belong.”

“That so?” I grinned. “Maybe you oughta carve that on a stone outside. Might keep trouble at bay.”

Her hands stilled a moment on the stems before resummin’. “Trouble always finds its way back. Whether you carve warnings or not.”

There was somethin’ in her tone—like she knew the feel of trouble’s hands around her throat and had stopped bein’ afraid of it.

I scraped at the softened wood, lettin’ silence settle between us, comfortable as an old coat.

I was halfway through tightening the last hinge when she spoke again.

“You always this quiet when you work?” she asked, voice soft, but not shy. There was somethin’ in it—like a cat stretchin’ in a sunbeam. Casual. Watchin’.

I glanced down from the stool I’d set beneath her ceiling, my sleeve wet with old rainwater and plaster dust stickin’ to my arms.

“Only when the job’s worth concentratin’ on,” I muttered, brows knit, screwin’ the final nail in. “And when the roof don’t behave.”

She made a small sound—almost a laugh. “Should I apologize on its behalf?”

“If it gives me a bit o’ peace, then aye.”

She leaned her shoulder to the doorframe, arms folded, basket still on the table behind her. The light from the window framed her in pieces—forehead, cheekbone, collarbone. Dust floated between us, and outside, the wind shifted the branches in her little garden.

“You’re better at this than the last fella they sent,” she said after a while. “Didn’t even last long enough to hammer twice before he said the house gave him a bad feelin’.”

“Most things give folk a bad feelin’ when they ain’t lookin’ hard enough,” I answered, setting the hammer down and wiping my hands on my trousers. “Or when they’re daft.”

“And what about you?” she asked, that same not-smile flirtin’ at the corners of her mouth. “You get any feelin’ from this place?”

I turned, finally facing her proper. “Aye,” I said. “That you’re hidin’ somethin’.”

Her expression didn’t change, but her gaze sharpened.

“I mean,” I added, before she could speak, “that you don’t talk much, yet you’ve got books stacked on herbs that don’t grow this side of the sea. Things bundled in your basket most folks wouldn’t know to pick. You knew I’d come back for the ceiling before I even told you I would.”

She tilted her head, lips pressing together. “I listen. I pay attention,” she said simply. “People show who they are even when they don’t mean to.”

“And what have I shown, then?” I asked, stepping down from the stool, slow.

She hesitated only a breath. “That you’re more than you say,” she said. “And you carry your grief like it’s welded to your spine.”

I stopped cold. And for once, I didn’t have somethin’ clever to say. Just stood there, feelin’ the weight of her words settle where they landed—deep.

She walked past me then, to the table, and pulled a small dark glass jar from the corner beside a bound book. Set it in my hands.

“For the cold,” she said. “Rain’ll catch up with you sooner than you think, and you smell like someone who won’t rest long enough to sweat it out.”

I looked down at the jar, then up at her again.

“You trust me not to drop dead drinkin’ this?” I asked, eyebrow cocked.

“If I wanted you dead,” she said plainly, “I’d’ve let the ceiling fall.”

That made me laugh, a dry sound I hadn’t heard in my own throat in some time.

“Fair ‘nough.”

She moved toward the door to open it for me, but I didn’t walk out just yet. Still holdin’ the jar, I looked back at her, searching her face like the name might rise from her skin if I stared long enough.

“You gonna tell me your name, or do I keep callin’ you Moonflower in my head?” I asked, the smirk creepin’ up despite myself.

She blinked at that. “Moonflower?”

“You only bloom at night. Got a scent that lingers. And I reckon you’ll poison a man if he ain’t careful.”

That made her pause. Then, a smile—real this time, curved and quiet.

“Don’t know if I oughta be flattered or offended.”

“Both, maybe.”

She nodded, opening the door wider. “See you next time, then… handyman.”

“Remmick,” I reminded her, steppin’ out into the daylight again.

“I know,” she said, leaning on the frame. “Still deciding if you deserve to be called by it.”

And then she shut the door.

But the air behind me stayed full of her voice. Of rain. And herbs. And somethin’ that hadn’t yet been named.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The woods had a hush to ’em that day—like even the birds were holdin’ their tongues to listen. Not a drop of rain on the ground, but the air was thick with damp, like the earth’d been cryin’ in secret. I weren’t lookin’ for her. Not exactly. But I took the long path from town anyhow, boots slippin’ over moss and roots, hands deep in my coat like I didn’t care where I was headed.

Truth was, I hadn’t seen her in three days. And it felt like somethin’ gnawin’ at the hollow in my ribs.

I told myself she was off gatherin’ or restin’, that folk like her didn’t owe nothin’ to folk like me. But the stillness where she ought to’ve been—it sat too long in the pit of my chest.

Then I saw her. Perched on a fallen log off the trail, elbow on her knee, chin in her palm. Her basket laid beside her, near empty, just a few stringy greens hangin’ on like stubborn ghosts. The wind played gentle at her scarf, and she looked like she’d been carved outta stillness. A woman built from pause and ache.

“Thought the trees’d gone and swallowed you,” I said, easin’ around the bend with a crooked smile tryin’ to pass as casual.

Her gaze met mine. Slow. Sure. “They tried,” she said. “But I told ’em I still had things to finish.”

A laugh threatened my throat. I let it sit behind my teeth.

“Was beginnin’ to think I imagined you,” I said, shiftin’ my weight through the soft earth. “Like somethin’ dreamt up on a fevered night.”

She looked me over like she could tell I meant it. “You dream often, Remmick?”

“Only when I’ve got somethin’ heavy on the soul.”

She didn’t answer that. Just scooted over and tapped the space beside her.

So I sat.

We let the silence settle between us for a time, let it stretch long and deep. She played with a blade of grass, foldin’ it in half, then again, ’til it split. I watched the way her fingers moved, careful but worn.

“I been thinkin’,” she said after a while, voice quiet but steady. “How a place can be full of people and still feel empty.”

My eyes shifted to her, to the way her jaw set like she’d swallowed too many truths. “This place do that to you?”

She shrugged. Not quite yes, not quite no. Then after a beat, “My home wasn’t kind either. But it was mine. Then it weren’t.”

I didn’t say nothin’. Just let her speak.

“There was a war. Not one with drums and soldiers, but somethin’ quieter. Slower. Took everything soft and left the bones.”

Her fingers stilled. Her face didn’t change, but I saw the weight behind her eyes.

“I ran,” she said. “Kept runnin’. Learned to talk like I belonged. Learned to walk like I wasn’t watchin’ every step.”

“You shouldn’t’ve had to,” I muttered, voice rough. “No one should.”

She looked at me then, like she weren’t expectin’ that.

“Folk back home say runnin’ makes you weak,” she said. “But it’s what saved me.”

I nodded slow. “I ran, too. When my brother died, I packed what little I had and left. Not just the grief, but… the hunger. Crops were failin’. Bellies were empty. We were ghosts by winter.”

She blinked, brows drawin’ together.

“Ireland’s a beautiful place, but she’s cruel when she wants to be. The year before I left, there was rot in the potatoes—black and wet, like somethin’ cursed the fields. Folks buried more kin than crops that year.”

I swallowed.

“I couldn’t stay and starve with the bones of my family.”

She watched me. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

“So I came here,” I went on, voice low. “Thought maybe fixin’ things might fix me, too.”

She tilted her head. “Has it?”

I looked down at my hands. Calloused. Dirty. Then I looked at her.

“I’m still cracked,” I said. “But I don’t feel so hollow when you’re nearby.”

Her lips parted, just a little. Eyes softenin’, like she didn’t know what to do with that.

“You always say things like that?”

“Only when I mean ’em.”

The breeze stirred again. Her scarf lifted and fell.

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” she said, voice low. “What I’ve seen. I’m not made of mercy, Remmick. I’ve got sharp edges.”

“I ain’t afraid of a cut,” I said, leanin’ forward. “Not if it means gettin’ close to somethin’ real.”

She reached into her basket then, pullin’ out a folded cloth with a little vial inside—amber-glass, stoppered with care.

“More, For the rain,” she said. “To keep the cold outta your bones.”

I took it from her gently, thumb brushing hers. “You always takin’ care of me.”

She smiled, barely. “You look like someone who don’t know how to ask for help.”

“And you look like someone who’s tired of watchin’ folk suffer.”

She stood, dustin’ off her skirts.

“Walk me home?” she asked.

I stood too, tucking the vial safe in my coat. “Aye. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And I meant it. From the ache behind my ribs to the silence between her words—I meant every damn word.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Days passed as I began to see her more and more. Every time was like a dream I didn’t want to end—just like today.

The clearing sat just beyond the old stone wall, tucked where the trees thinned and the wild things dared bloom without asking permission. The sun poured itself across the earth like warm cream, catchin’ on petals and blades of grass, paintin’ everything gold.

She was already there when I arrived—kneelin’ low, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, fingers brushin’ through stalks of green like she were coaxin’ secrets from the dirt. Some of the flowers were in full bloom, heads high like they knew they were worth praisin’. Others drooped, wilted from the heat or time. Still, she moved between them with care, never avoidin’ the ones that’d gone soft at the edges.

“You’re late,” she said without lookin’ at me, voice light but pointed.

I knelt beside her, restin’ my tools down with a soft thump. “Was mendin’ a crooked stair, not flirtin’ with the baker’s daughter if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”

She smirked. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Aye, but you thought it.”

She shook her head, then held up a stem with tiny white buds. “Chamomile. You pick it now, when the sun’s at its highest. Any later, and it starts losin’ its strength.”

I took it from her, turnin’ the stem between my fingers. “Looks like nothin’ special.”

She raised a brow. “And yet it calms nerves, soothes bellies, and can ease nightmares.”

My lips curled. “Maybe I oughta be stuffin’ my pillow with it.”

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

The way she said it made me glance sideways at her—how the sun lit up her cheekbones, how the wind caught loose strands of hair and played with ‘em like a lover. She looked too alive to belong to the quiet.

“Which one’s next?” I asked, clearin’ my throat.

She reached out, pluckin’ a stem from the base of a nearby cluster. “Yarrow. Good for wounds.”

“That for folk like me who get in fights with doors and lose?”

She gave me a sidelong look. “It’s for those who carry hurts they don’t speak on.”

I didn’t answer. Not right away.

We moved in silence for a while, fingers grazin’ blooms, knees in the soft earth. I watched her more than I watched the plants, truth be told. There was a rhythm to her. A kind of stillness that weren’t born from silence but from knowledge. Like she knew exactly where she stood and why the world moved around her.

“Why d’you teach me this?” I asked finally.

She shrugged. “Because most folk pluck what’s pretty and leave what’s useful.”

“And you think I’m worth teachin’?”

She looked at me then. Really looked. “I think you listen when I speak,” she said. “That’s rare enough.”

My chest pulled tight at that. Not from surprise. From feelin’ seen.

“I like hearin’ you talk,” I said, softer than I meant. “Even when you don’t say much.”

She didn’t smile, but she didn’t look away either. “What else do you like?”

“Your hands,” I said before thinkin’. “How sure they are. How you never flinch when you touch things other folk avoid.”

Her gaze flicked down to the herbs between us. “And what if I touch somethin’ dangerous?”

“Then I reckon it’d be lucky to be held by you.”

The wind stirred again, rustlin’ the trees, bendin’ the tall grass in waves. A butterfly danced between us and didn’t land.

She exhaled slow, like maybe she’d been holdin’ her breath. “You’re a strange man, Remmick.”

“Aye,” I said, smilin’. “But I’m learnin’ from the best.”

We sat there till the sun dipped just low enough to cast long shadows. The air thickened with the smell of lavender and crushed thyme. She handed me one last sprig—something bitter, sharp to the nose.

“For the headaches you pretend not to have,” she said.

I tucked it behind my ear like a fool.

She laughed, the sound as soft as the breeze through yarrow leaves.

And I thought—if this were all I ever had of her, it’d be enough.

But some part of me already knew I’d want more.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The sun was dippin’ low, spillin’ orange light across the field like it was tryin’ to make somethin’ holy outta the ordinary. We’d wandered farther than usual — past the woods, down near where the blackberry bushes crept wild along the stone fences. Grass brushed at our ankles, and the air smelled like dust, crushed fruit, and late summer.

She’d been hummin’ under her breath again. I never knew the tune, but it stuck in my head all the same.

“Careful now,” she said, glancin’ back at me with that half-grin. “These brambles’ll catch your trousers and your pride in one go.”

I muttered somethin’ about her bein’ the real menace, not the bushes, which made her laugh — that soft, real kind that made my chest feel too small.

We settled on a slope where the hill dipped shallow. She sat cross-legged without a care, skirt flared, one hand restin’ against a warm rock. I sat beside her, knees bent, boots diggin’ into the earth. Not too close. Not too far.“You always find the best places,” I said, watchin’ the horizon melt.She shrugged like it weren’t nothin’. “Places don’t gotta be grand to be good. Just quiet. Just safe.”

I glanced at her, and for a second, she looked made of the light itself — all gold and shadow, like she belonged to a world I hadn’t earned yet.

“How come you never told me your name?” I asked, leanin’ back on my elbows. “Might start thinkin’ you ain’t got one.”

She chuckled, pickin’ a stem of clover and twistin’ it between her fingers. “Maybe I was waitin’. Maybe I needed to know if you’d ruin it.”

I arched a brow. “Ruin it how?”

“Some folk take your name like it’s a possession,” she said, serious now. “Say it too often. Say it wrong. Say it like they own it.”

I nodded slow. “And you think I’d do that?”

She looked at me then — really looked — and whatever she saw there must’ve settled somethin’.

“No,” she said soft. “I don’t think you would.”

The breeze picked up. She reached into her basket, pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Bread and somethin’ sharp-smellin’, maybe a bit of goat cheese.

“Payment,” she said, handin’ me the bread. “For carryin’ all my baskets last week like a proper mule.”

I grinned. “Best damn mule you ever met.”

“You might be right.” She took a bite of her own bread, chewin’ slow, like she had all the time in the world.

Silence sat easy between us, stitched together by cicadas and the rustle of the grass.

Then she said it, casual as the weather.

“My name’s Y/N.”

I turned to her, blinkin’. “Y/N,” I repeated, like it was a word I already knew but hadn’t tasted proper yet.

“Don’t wear it out,” she warned, smirkin’ over her bite of cheese.

“I wouldn’t dare,” I said, and meant it.

We watched the last of the sun sink behind the ridge, the sky bruisin’ with twilight.

“Y/N,” I murmured again, like a prayer I hadn’t realized I’d needed.

She didn’t look at me this time. But I saw the way her smile turned soft at the edges.

And that was enough.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The sun sat high, spillin’ gold all across the yard like it’d been poured straight from God’s own pitcher. Cicadas were hummin’, lazy and loud, and the stump tree in front of her little place offered just enough shade to make sittin’ there feel like somethin’ sacred.

She was bent over a wide wooden bowl in her lap, sleeves rolled to her elbows, grindin’ the herbs we’d gathered just the day before. Her wrists moved smooth, slow—like she was coaxin’ the medicine out with patience instead of pressure. The scent of rosemary and dry lavender clung to the air. I sat nearby on the grass, a small pile of weeds beside me I’d promised to pull up while she worked, though I’d barely made a dent.

Didn’t matter much.

I wasn’t here to work.

I was here to watch her.

To listen to her hum low under her breath, not a tune I knew, but soft enough to settle the ache that’d been coiled in my chest since the last time she’d gone quiet on me.

She reached for another bundle of dried stalks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist.

“You done plannin’ on helpin’ or you just gonna keep starin’?” she asked, not lookin’ up.

“Both, maybe,” I said, leanin’ back on my elbows with a grin. “Can’t blame a man for admirin’ the view.”

She snorted, but her lips twitched. “If you’re tryin’ to be smooth, you’re slippin’, Remmick.”

“Me? Slippin’?” I let my accent thicken, feignin’ offense. “I’ll have you know I was voted most charming back home. ’Course, that was by a goat and my granda.”

That earned me a laugh. Not loud, but enough to stir the birds in the tree overhead.

I watched her as she went back to work, the sun catchin’ on her skin and her voice hummin’ again. My hand found a stray flower near my boot, tugging it from the grass. Yellow, scraggly thing. Not as pretty as the ones she kept hung dry above her stove, but it reminded me of her in some crooked way—sturdy and soft at the same time.

“You ever think about stayin’?” I asked, real quiet. “In one place, I mean. Lettin’ somethin’ root you instead of always runnin’?”

She paused, mortar stillin’ in her hand. “You mean lettin’ people in?”

“I mean lettin’ one in,” I said, twirlin’ the flower between my fingers. “Just one.”

She turned her head toward me, squintin’ a little like the light was in her eyes and not the words. “That what you’ve been gettin’ at this whole time?”

I didn’t answer. Just tucked the flower behind my ear with mock grace.

“What d’you think?”

She looked at me for a long time. Then smiled. Not wide. Not coy. Just somethin’ soft and real, like the kind of smile you give someone you ain’t afraid of no more.

“I think you talk too much,” she said, goin’ back to grindin’. “But I like it.”

I didn’t need more than that.

Didn’t need her to say the thing out loud.

Not yet.

The breeze picked up, stirrin’ the dust, the herbs, the ache in my chest that didn’t feel quite so heavy no more.

I pulled the flower from its place on behind ear and putting it neatly on hers and she smiles shyly.

And beneath that old stump tree, under the watchful hush of midday, I let myself believe—just a little—that maybe I weren’t the only one feelin’ it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The smell of sugar and sun-warmed fruit clung to the cottage like a promise. Late afternoon spilled through the kitchen window in golden sheets, catching in the little dust motes that danced above the wooden counter. The bowl between us was nearly full—fat blueberries she’d hand-picked that morning, now tossed in flour and cinnamon, waiting for their crusted cradle.

I stood elbow-deep in dough, arms dusted white, sweat at my brow and not just from the heat.

“Careful,” she said, reaching across me. Her hand brushed mine. “You’re foldin’ it too hard. Gotta coax it, not fight it.”

I glanced up.

Sunlight hit the side of her face, turned her lashes gold. She was smiling soft—barely there—but it pulled somethin’ straight outta my ribs.

“Aye,” I muttered. “Didn’t know you trained with the Queen’s pastry cooks.”

She snorted. “Didn’t need to. Just had a gran who’d bite your fingers if you got heavy-handed with her dough.”

“Sounds like a wise woman.”

“She was mean as vinegar and twice as sharp.”

I tried again, slower now, and she nodded her approval. The next few minutes passed with quiet hums and giggles. I couldn’t help but sneak glances—at the curve of her neck, the smudge of flour on her cheek, the way her fingers moved like she were tellin’ a story only she knew.

Then I caught her lookin’ at me.

We both froze.

Neither of us said nothin’, but somethin’ heavy and warm unfurled between us, soft as steam off a pie fresh from the oven.

She turned first, busyin’ herself with the tin. I took the chance to toss a pinch of flour at her back.

It hit her scarf.

She whirled. “Oh, you didn’t—!”

I grinned. “Didn’t what?”

She grabbed a handful and threw it square at my chest. The puff exploded, dustin’ my shirt and the air between us. I lunged with a laugh, and she shrieked, giggling as she dodged around the table.

We wrestled, gently. My hands found her waist, hers pressed against my chest, and when she stumbled, I caught her.

Held her.

Our breath caught in the same place.

“You’ve got… flour,” I murmured, brushing her cheek.

“So do you,” she whispered, staring up at me.

I don’t remember leanin’ in. Just that my lips found hers like they’d been waitin’ their whole life.

She kissed me back slow—like she weren’t sure she should, but couldn’t help herself.

Then it changed.

Got deeper. Hungrier.

She tugged my shirt, I backed her into the counter. My hands ran over her hips, then up, tanglin’ in her hair as she moaned into my mouth.

“Y/N…” I whispered against her jaw.

She didn’t answer. Just pulled me toward the bedroom like it was a decision already made.

The room was dim and warm, the last of the sun stretchin’ long through the window. She peeled her top away first, the thin cotton fallin’ to the floor. I watched her chest rise, eyes dark with want but soft, too.

I pulled my shirt over my head, dropped it, then stepped close.

“Sure ‘bout this?” I asked, voice low.

She nodded. “Been sure.”

That’s all I needed.

I kissed her again, slower this time, carryin’ her back until her knees hit the bed. We sank down together.

Our clothes came off like pages turned, deliberate and slow. My hands traced every inch of her, commitin’ it to memory like scripture. She gasped when I kissed her collarbone, whimpered when I moved down, when my mouth found the place that made her hips jerk and thighs tremble.

“Remmick,” she breathed, fingers in my hair, head tipped back.

I could’ve died in that moment and called it heaven.

When I slid inside her, she clung to me like she’d fall apart otherwise.

We moved together like we’d been doin’ it forever. Like we were born for it. Her nails scraped down my back, my mouth found her throat. I whispered her name like a hymn, like a confession.

She cried out when she came—legs locked around me, eyes wet, lips parted.

I followed close behind, buryin’ my face in her neck with a groan, her name spillin’ from my mouth like a prayer I’d never learned to say right.

After, we didn’t speak.

Just laid tangled in each other, the sound of our breath and the warm hush of evening wrappin’ around us.

I pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t pull away.

And I swear—right then—I could’ve stayed there forever.

But forever’s a long time.

And fate, as I’ve learned, don’t ever keep still.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The first whisper came from the well.

A woman claimin’ her husband’d died after takin’ a tincture from Y/N. Said it were meant to calm his fever, but he didn’t see the next mornin’. She left out the weeks of coughin’ blood, the yellow tint in his eyes, the black along his gums. She left out the death already settin’ up house in his chest. No, she only spoke of the bottle. And the woman who brewed it. The quiet one, with dark hands and darker eyes, and a garden full o’ herbs no one dared name.

By midday, more tales grew teeth.

A child gone pale after tastin’ sweetroot she’d sold. A cow miscarryin’ out near the woods. An old man mutterin’ in his sleep that he’d seen a shadow slip past his window—and his joints ain’t been right since.

That evenin’, someone carved a jagged symbol into the bark of the tree outside her home.

The kind meant to ward off evil.

Or invite it.

I heard the talk at the forge. At the tavern. At the bloody baker’s shop, while I were settin’ a hinge right on their back door.

“She don’t age,” one man whispered.

“She don’t bleed,” said another.

“Heard her kiss tastes like rusted iron,” a third muttered, voice thick with ale and foolishness.

“She’s a witch.”

“She’s the reason the sickness won’t lift.”

I laid the hammer down slow. Let the nails clatter onto the bench one by one. Didn’t say a word. Just slipped out the back, fists clenched so tight I damn near split my own skin.

By the time I made it to her cottage, dusk had painted the sky grey and mean. I found her in the back garden, tendin’ her herbs like nothin’ was crumblin’ ‘round her.

“Evenin’,” she said when I stepped through the gate. Her voice soft, same as always, but her shoulders were stiff.

“You been into town lately?” I asked.

“Two mornings past,” she said, still kneelin’. “Why?”

I moved closer, my jaw grindin’. “Folk are talkin’. Sayin’ you’re the reason that man’s dead.”

She stood slow, wiped her hands on her apron. “He was already dyin’. The brew was to ease his passin’. I ain’t the one who filled his lungs with rot.”

“I know that. But they don’t. And they’re lookin’ for someone to blame.”

“They always are.”

I swallowed hard, shakin’ my head. “They carved a mark outside your gate.”

She turned to me fully then. “Let ‘em.”

“They’re callin’ you a witch.”

“And what do you call me?”

My throat tightened. “I call you brave. Foolish, maybe. But brave.”

She held my gaze. “I’ve run before, Remmick. I’ll do it again if I must.”

“Don’t,” I said, louder than I meant to. “Don’t run.”

She looked back to the herbs. “I won’t beg to keep a life I built with my own hands.”

“You won’t have to.” My voice dipped low. “But promise me—no more goin’ into town alone.”

She hesitated. “Alright.”

But I knew, right then, she were already thinkin’ of leavin’.

Three days passed.

She didn’t listen.

Said she needed sugar. Cinnamon bark. Said she’d be quick.

A boy came runnin’ to my door before midday, breathless. “She’s been hurt,” he gasped. “They said she cursed their land. Threw stones. She bled.”

I didn’t ask. Just ran.

When I reached her home, she was packin’. A bandage round her brow, blood stainin’ the edge of it. Her hands moved fast, throwin’ jars and vials into her satchel.

“You went alone?” I barked, stormin’ into the room.

“I didn’t think—”

“No,” I snapped, “you didn’t.”

She didn’t stop movin’.

“You plannin’ on runnin’, then?”

“What choice do I have?” she hissed. “You said it yourself—they’ll burn the source.”

My chest hurt. “Don’t go.”

She paused. Just for a moment.

Then kept packin’. “You can’t save me from all this.”

“I can try.”

That night, I left.

Didn’t tell her where I was goin’. Only knew one place left to turn.

Deep in the hills, past the boglands and the stone-faced ruins. A place folk didn’t speak of unless drink loosened their tongues. Said there was a woman there, old as death, who could grant power—if you paid the price.

And I paid it.

Gave up my last ounce o’ peace for it.

“Give me what I need to protect her,” I said, kneelin’ in the dirt.

The voice that answered sounded like it had no mouth, no shape.

You’ll have it. But you’ll never be what you were.

I woke with fire behind my eyes.

With hunger in my chest.

And power under my skin.

I ran back.

Too late.

Blood painted the porch. A poisoned arrow stickin’ out her side. Her breath shallow. Barely holdin’ on.

“Y/N,” I choked, fallin’ beside her. “No, no, no—stay with me, darlin’, please.”

“They came,” she rasped. “Said I brought plague…”

“We’ll leave. I’ll carry you. I’ll get you out—”

She smiled. Weak. “You’ve got to live, Remmick.”

“I ain’t livin’ without you.”

She tried to lift her hand. Failed.

And I broke.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears runnin’. “Forgive me.”

I sank my teeth into her throat.

She gasped.

Horrified.

“You didn’t…” she whimpered as blood began spraying a bit from the wound. “You didn’t ask…”

“I couldn’t lose you, Moonflower.”

The torches were comin’. Voices behind the trees.

But I held her tighter than I’d ever held anythin’ as she stopped breathing.

And I cursed myself with every breath.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Y/N’s Pov

I woke with my mouth dry and the taste of iron sittin’ heavy on my tongue.

The ceiling above me weren’t my own. It sloped too sharp, boards too clean, the scent of smoke and earth clingin’ to the beams like old ghosts. The air was still—too still—like the house itself was holdin’ its breath.

I sat up slow. My limbs moved strange—lighter, too light, like my body forgot how much it used to weigh. My skin felt tight over my bones, raw at the seams, like somethin’ inside me had been stretched too far and stitched back wrong.

The blanket slid off my shoulders.

I was wearin’ someone else’s dress.

Not mine. Not torn. Not bloodstained.

But that’s what I remembered last.

Blood. The color of it flashin’ under the moonlight. The ache of it tearin’ through my ribs. The sound of Remmick’s voice, tremblin’ as he cradled me like I was already gone. And then—

My throat closed.

I remembered his mouth on my neck.

His whisper. His kiss.

The bite.

And suddenly it hit—like a storm comin’ in sideways.

The pain. The fire. The way my body twisted from the inside out, like my soul didn’t wanna be here no more but the rest of me refused to let go. My hands clutched the mattress. Breath comin’ fast, sharp.

He turned me.

He turned me without askin’.

I swung my legs off the side of the bed, bare feet hittin’ cool wood. The room around me was dim but familiar in a way that made my stomach knot. It was his. It had to be. One of the places he used—clean, hidden, a house that didn’t remember its own name.

A chair was pulled close to the bed. A half-burnt candle melted into the table beside it.

He’d been watchin’ me.

Waitin’ for me to wake.

And yet he was gone now.

Good.

I didn’t want him to see me like this—split open from the inside, grief sittin’ heavy in my chest like a second heart.

I rose, legs unsteady beneath me, and caught sight of my reflection in the small mirror above the wash basin.

I froze.

My eyes—black at the center, rimmed in red like coals just startin’ to burn. My skin a bit discolored as early frost, no warmth left to hold. My lips, faintly stained.

I touched them.

They still felt like mine.

But they weren’t.

A sound left me. Not a sob. Not quite.

Somethin’ between a growl and a cry—like grief wearin’ new teeth.

I should’ve been dead.

That’s what I chose. That’s what I meant.

I told him to run.

I told him to live.

And instead, he tethered me to this life—this curse—with his own teeth.

My hand found the edge of the basin and gripped it tight.

The wood cracked under my fingers.

I let go, heart poundin’ louder than thought.

This wasn’t love.

This was control.

A man holdin’ too tight to what he couldn’t bear to lose.

He’d rather unmake me than grieve me.

And yet—beneath the rage, beneath the betrayal—somethin’ else stirred.

Somethin’ I hated more than him in that moment.

I didn’t feel dead.

I felt strong.

Feral.

Awake.

Every sound in the woods outside was clearer. The creak of the beams. The wind slippin’ under the door. I could smell the ash in the hearth and the echo of blood that once lived in these floorboards.

And that scared me more than anything.

Because I knew what came next.

The hunger.

The ache.

The war I’d have to fight inside myself, every minute, every hour.

All because he couldn’t let me go.

I stepped away from the mirror.

The next time I saw Remmick, I wasn’t sure if I was gonna kiss him…

or kill him.

So I ran.

Not for the first time.

But this time, I crossed oceans.

The Atlantic didn’t welcome me. It didn’t whisper comfort. It roared—salt-raw and cruel, like it knew what I was carryin’. Not just the hunger. Not just the curse. But the truth: I wasn’t runnin’ from a man.

I was runnin’ from the memory of one.

I didn’t look back when Europe disappeared behind fog. Too many ghosts in the soil. Too many names I couldn’t say anymore. Too many faces I’d borrowed and buried.

I took the long way to nowhere.

Lived beneath borrowed roofs and behind shuttered windows. Spain. France. Portugal. I spoke like them, walked like them, bent like them. But my voice never quite fit right. My skin whispered stories the villagers didn’t know how to read. And when they couldn’t read you, they made you into somethin’ to fear.

So I disappeared again.

City to countryside. From the coast to quiet farms. I slept in cellars. Fed in alleyways. Hid my teeth like a shame. Covered my eyes when they burned too bright. But no matter where I went, I couldn’t bury what he’d done to me. What I’d become.

Vampire. Woman. Stranger.

Sin.

Then came America.

I heard tales of it in the mouths of men too poor to own boots but rich enough to dream. A place where no one knew your name unless you gave it. Where you could vanish on purpose. So I boarded a ship under another name and crossed a second ocean.

They didn’t see me.

Didn’t ask what land I came from.

Only that I kept quiet. Paid in coin. Kept to my corner.

And I did.

I stepped off that boat like a shadow lookin’ for a body.

Years blurred. The states changed names and faces. I moved where the fear was low and the sun easier to dodge. Pennsylvania. Georgia. Louisiana. Tennessee.

But nothin’ felt like mine.

Not until Mississippi.

The Delta didn’t ask questions. It didn’t blink twice at a woman whose hands knew how to soothe fever, or whose voice carried like river water over stone. It didn’t care where I came from—just that I came with honesty and stayed with my head down.

And Lord, the pain here… it sang.

You could hear it in the soil. In the fields. In the bones of folk who worked the land like they were tryin’ to forgive it for all it had taken. The joy didn’t come easy here—but it came. It bled through laughter, through music, through bodies swayin’ in defiance of grief.

Here, sorrow didn’t hide from joy.

They danced together.

And for someone like me, that meant maybe I could belong.

I found a room behind a narrow house with warped floorboards and a window I never opened. Miss Adele, who owned it, looked me over long and low before passin’ me the key.

“You ain’t from here,” she said.

“No, ma’am.”

She nodded. “But you wear the heat like it’s home. Just don’t bring no trouble through my door.”

I didn’t make promises. But I paid in full.

I stayed quiet. Covered my skin when the sun rose. Fed when I had to—clean, discreet, never twice in the same place. I helped when I could. Tinctures, poultices, teas. I kept to myself. Most folk didn’t know my story.

Didn’t know I once had a man.

Didn’t know he turned me with a kiss and a curse and then begged me to thank him for it.

Didn’t know I used to love him.

I didn’t even know if he was still alive.

I hadn’t seen Remmick in over a century. Hadn’t heard whispers of him. Sometimes, when the wind shifted just right, I swore I could smell the cold of his coat, the copper of his breath. But that was just memory. Just the mind playin’ cruel.

He could’ve turned to dust for all I knew.

I prayed he had.

Still, I never let myself settle too deep.

The room I rented had no roots.

The name I gave was borrowed.

But the juke joint?

That felt like a church.

When Annie smiled at me and Stack nodded toward the dance floor, when the music rolled through me like a hymn with no preacher—I felt human again. I let my body move. I let myself forget. Just for a night. Just for a song.

And when it was over, I stepped back into shadow like I never left it.

They didn’t know what I was.

Not yet.

But I knew what they were.

Wounded. Brave. Alive.

Mississippi didn’t need my past. It didn’t ask for blood oaths or confession. It let me be.

And for the first time in over a hundred years, that was enough.

But peace?

Peace don’t last for things like me.

Because the past got claws.

And I knew, deep down—

if he was still out there, he’d find me.

What I didn’t know… was that he already had.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The air smelled of fried grease, wet moss, and wood smoke—the kind of southern night that clung to your skin like sweat and memory. I’d just left Miss Lila’s porch, her boy burnin’ up with fever again, and her nerves worn thin as dishwater. I’d left her with a small jar of bark-root and clove oil, told her to steep it slow and keep a cool cloth on his head. She didn’t ask what was in it. Folks rarely did when they was desperate.

The street stretched quiet before me, the dirt packed down by bare feet and Sunday wagons. My boots scuffed low as I walked, the hem of my skirt brushing the edge of dust and dew. The stars hung low tonight, strung like pinholes across a sky too tired to hold itself up.

I passed shuttered windows and sleeping dogs. Passed rusted signs and flickering lamps, the ones that leaned crooked like they were listenin’. I clutched my shawl tighter, the chill sneakier in the spring—evenin’s cool breath slidin’ down the back of my neck.

And then I saw it—the juke joint. It sat tucked behind a bend in the road like a secret meant to be found. Light spilled out through the cracks in the wood like it couldn’t bear to be kept in. Music pulsed low from inside—bluesy and slow, like sorrow had found its rhythm.

Cornbread stood out front like always, arms crossed, leanin’ on the doorframe with that half-grin like he owned the night.

He spotted me before I hit the steps. “Well now,” he said, voice smooth like creek water. “Evenin’, Miss Y/N. Came to bless us with your presence?”

I gave a quiet chuckle, noddin’. “Only if I’m welcome.”

He laughed soft, pushin’ the door open. “Girl, you family by now. Don’t need to be askin’ no more.”

“Still,” I said, steppin’ closer. “Mama always said it’s good manners to ask ‘fore walkin’ into a space that ain’t yours.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna question your manners,” he muttered, wavin’ me through. “Now get in ‘fore the music runs out.”

Inside was a rush of warmth—smoke, sweat, the sweet bite of corn liquor, and somethin’ else… somethin’ close to joy. The music crawled under your skin ‘til your hips remembered how to sway without askin’. Voices buzzed like bees in summer heat, laughter rollin’ like dice across the room.

I eased onto the barstool I always took—third from the left, right where the fan overhead spun lazy—and let my bag fall soft at my boots. Didn’t order nothin’. I never did.

Annie caught sight of me behind the bar, swayin’ easy as ever with a tray of empty glasses tucked on her hip.

“You bring what I asked for?” she asked, duckin’ behind the counter.

I reached into my satchel and handed her the cotton-wrapped bundle. “Steep it slow. Sip, don’t gulp. Should ease you through the worst of it.”

She winked. “Law, I owe you my life.”

“Nah,” I said, settlin’ onto the stool near the end of the bar. “Just owe me a plate of cornbread next time you cookin’.”

That got a laugh out of her, quick and sweet, before she vanished into the back.

I turned back toward the floor, just as Mary’s voice cut through the buzz of conversation like a blade through hushpuppies.

“Y’all hear ‘bout the farmer boy gone missin’?” she said, leanin’ into the group crowded ‘round the far end of the bar. Smoke was there, elbow propped, brows knit low. Two more men sat hunched close—quiet, listening.

“Wasn’t just him,” one said. “Old Mabel from the creek road said her nephew ain’t been seen in two days. Said his boots still sittin’ on the porch like he vanished mid-step.”

Smoke grunted. “I say it’s a man gone mad. Roamin’ through the woods, takin’ what he pleases. We’ve seen worse.”

One of the others leaned in, voice hushed. “The natives been whisperin’ it ain’t a man.”

That brought stillness. Even the music in the back room seemed to hush a beat.

“What they say?” Mary asked, brows raised.

“They say somethin’ old woke up,” the man said, voice nearly swallowed by the crackle of heat and distance. “Somethin’ that walks like a man, but ain’t. They leave herbs and ash circles at the edge of the trees again—like back in the old days.”

Mary scoffed, but it sounded unsure. “Old tales. Spirits don’t need bodies to raise hell.”

“They said this one’s lookin’ for somethin’,” he continued, eyes flickin’ toward the windows like the night itself might be listenin’. “Or someone. Been walkin’ the land with hunger in its bones and a face nobody can seem to remember after seein’ it.”

I sat quiet, still as dusk.

“Could just be some drifter,” Smoke said. “Folks get riled when trouble comes and ain’t got no face to pin it on.”

“Then why the sudden vanishings?” Mary pressed. “Why now?”

“Maybe it ain’t sudden,” I said before I could stop myself, my voice low and calm. “Maybe it’s just the first time we’re payin’ attention.”

Four heads turned my way.

Mary squinted. “You heard somethin’ too?”

I shook my head slow. “Just a feelin’. The kind that settles in your back teeth when the wind shifts wrong.”

They didn’t say nothin’ to that. Not directly. But Smoke nodded once, solemn, like he’d felt it too.

The conversation drifted back to softer things—music, cards, the preacher’s crooked fence—but I sat still. That ache behind my ribs hadn’t let up since the moon turned last. The way the air felt heavy even when it wasn’t humid. The way dogs stopped barkin’ at shadows like they knew they couldn’t win.

It weren’t just madness.

And it sure as hell weren’t random.

I could feel it deep.

Like breath on the back of my neck.

Something was here.

Something was comin’.

And this time, I didn’t know if I’d be able to outrun it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Remmick’s Pov

It started with the absence.

Not the kind that’s loud—grief flung sharp across the soul. No. This one crept in slow, like rot behind the walls. Quiet. Patient. The kind of missing that don’t scream. It whispers.

I walked to an empty room. No blood on the floor, no broken window, no fight to mark the leaving. Just cold air where her warmth used to linger. Her scent still clung to the linens. The floor creaked where she last stood.

I called her name.

Once.

Twice.

A third time—barely a whisper. Like maybe she’d come back if I said it soft.

But she didn’t.

And God help me, I searched.

I turned over every rock in that cursed country. Asked after a woman with a strange voice and steady hands. A healer. A ghost. I heard stories that might’ve been her—always just a breath behind. A girl boardin’ a carriage to Marseille. A woman leavin’ a parcel at a chapel in Lisbon. A stranger with dark eyes and no surname passin’ through Antwerp.

I missed her by hours. Days. Once, by a damned blink.

The trail always went cold. But I kept followin’. Because somethin’ in me—somethin’ older than this cursed body—knew she was still out there.

I stopped feedin’ off folk unless I had to. Couldn’t stomach it. Not with her voice echoing in my head, the way she looked at me that night—betrayal writ clear on every bone in her face.

I never meant to hurt her.

I only meant to save her.

But what I gave her weren’t salvation. It was a cage.

A century passed me like smoke through fingers. I lost track of time, faces, cities. Learned to blend into the edges. Changed my name more than once. The world changed, and I watched it like a man outside a window he couldn’t break through.

Then word came.

A dockhand in Barcelona. Drunk off his ass. Said he’d seen a woman walkin’ off a freighter bound for the States. Said she didn’t belong to nobody’s country. Said she looked like a shadow stitched to the sea.

That was all I needed.

I took the next ship out. Didn’t care where it landed—so long as it took me west. Toward her.

The ocean ain’t merciful.

The waves came like judgment. Ripped through the hull on the second week. Screams. Salt. Fire where it shouldn’t be. They said none survived.

They were wrong.

I clung to the wreckage ‘til the sky cracked open with morning. Drifted on broken boards and rage. Burned here and there by the time I reached land—ain’t proud of that. But grief makes monsters outta men, and I already was halfway there.

I moved through towns like a ghost with teeth. New York. Georgia. Tennessee. Small towns and big cities, never settlin’. I listened to whispers in back alleys and watched for her in every market, every dusk-lit chapel, every face turned away from the sun.

Nothing. For years.

But I could feel her.

She was here.

Like the heat before a storm. Like a name you ain’t heard in decades but still makes your gut twist.

It led me to Mississippi.

The Delta pressed down heavy on the chest, thick with memory and blood. And that’s when I knew—she was close. Her scent was buried in the clay. In the river. In the music that throbbed outta them joints deep in the trees.

I watched from the shadows first. Didn’t trust myself not to shatter somethin’ if I saw her too soon.

She danced now. She smiled. But I could see the armor in her eyes. She never looked back when she left a room. Never stepped through a door without pausin’. Still runnin’. Even after all this time.

And me?

I’d come too far.

Burned too much.

So I waited. Watched.

And when the moment was right, I’d step out of the dark…

…and she’d never be able to leave me again.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

There was somethin’ stirrin’ in the wind lately. Not loud, not sharp—just enough to make the back of my neck prickle, enough to keep my eyes glancin’ twice at shadows I used to pass without a care. Folks round here would say it’s just the season changin’. The cotton bloomin’ slow. The river swellin’ with too much rain. But I knew better.

I knew what it felt like when the past came knockin’.

It started with a weight I couldn’t name. Not sorrow, not fear. Just… a tightness in the air. Like the calm right before a storm that don’t care how long you prayed.

I was sweepin’ the porch when it hit strongest. Sun had already gone down behind the trees, but the sky still held that warm blue gold, thick and low, like honey drippin’ off the edge of the world. The breeze carried the scent of pine, of distant smoke and a sweetness I couldn’t quite place. My broom slowed. My breath did too.

I didn’t see nobody. Didn’t hear a damn thing.

But I knew. Somethin’ was watchin’.

I didn’t flinch. Just kept sweepin’, let the wind pull at the hem of my skirt and carried myself like I hadn’t just felt old ghosts shift under my ribs.

Come nightfall, I made my way to the juke. Same as always. Parcel of dried herb tucked in my satchel for Grace. A wrapped cloth of rosehip and sassafras root for Annie. Folks counted on me for that, and I didn’t mind. Gave me a reason to keep movin’. Gave me an excuse to slip past the ache.

Cornbread tipped his chin at me when I reached the door. “You late, sugar.”

I grinned easy, lifting the edge of my shawl. “Didn’t know there was a curfew.”

He stepped aside with a smirk. “Ain’t one. But if you keep showin’ up this late, I’m gon’ start worryin’. Com’ in.”

“Now you sound like Adele,” I teased, brushin’ past him.

Inside, the world came alive. Warm wood floors thrummin’ underfoot. Smoke curlin’ from rolled cigars. Sweat glistenin’ on cheeks mid-laugh. A fiddle cried through the room like it’d been born from somebody’s bones, and I breathed deep. I needed that sound.

I didn’t dance. Not tonight. Just eased myself onto the stool at the far corner and let my satchel rest on the floor. The room buzzed around me, voices rollin’ like riverwater.

Then I felt it again.

That chill. That soft press of a stare at my back. Not unkind. But heavy.

I didn’t turn. Didn’t let it show on my face. But somethin’ old shifted inside me. Somethin’ I’d buried centuries deep.

Not here, I thought. Not now.

I caught Annie passin’ and handed her the pouch. She squeezed my arm with a thank-you, unaware of how tight my chest had gone.

“You feelin’ alright?” she asked.

“Just tired,” I lied, soft. “Been a long week.”

She nodded and moved on, bless her.

But my eyes didn’t move from the corner of the room, where the light barely touched.

Nothin’ was there.

But I felt him.

Or maybe I was just tired.

Maybe.

I left earlier than usual, sayin’ my goodbyes with a smile that didn’t quite touch the bone. The walk back was quiet—too quiet for a town this close to midnight. I kept to the edge of the trees, let the dark wrap around me like a veil.

At my door, I paused. Looked over my shoulder.

Still nothin’.

Still that weight.

Inside, I lit one lamp and sat down slow on the edge of the bed, unwrappin’ my scarf. My hands were shakin’, just a little.

There’s a certain kind of fear that don’t come with panic. Don’t scream in your ears or rush your breath.

It settles.

Like a coat. Like a second skin.

And I knew that fear.

I knew it like I knew the taste of ash on my tongue. Like I knew the look in his eyes the night he chose for me what I would never have chosen for myself.

I leaned back, arms crossin’ my chest.

If it was him, he wouldn’t show yet.

Not ‘til he was ready.

Not ‘til I couldn’t run again.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I waited.

And in the silence, my soul whispered one word.

Remmick.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The grass whispered under my steps as I walked. Basket on my arm. Sun barely peekin’ through the trees. I’d meant only to gather herbs ‘fore the day grew too hot—rosemary, some goldenrod, a few stubborn mint sprigs for Annie’s cough. But the air felt… wrong.

Not wrong like danger.

Wrong like memory.

Like grief wearin’ another man’s skin.

The woods around me were still—too still. The birds had hushed. Even the wind held its breath. And I knew. Same way you know a snake’s behind you without seein’ it. Same way your spirit clenches when the past is near.

I stopped by the creekbed, crouched low like I was studyin’ the mint. But my breath’d already gone shallow. I didn’t need to see him to feel him. The air had thickened, the way it always did before a summer storm. Thick like honey gone too long. Like hunger waitin’ in a dark room.

“I know it’s you,” I said, not even botherin’ to turn. My voice didn’t shake. Not even once. “Ain’t no use hidin’ in the shade. You was never no shadow.”

No answer.

Not yet.

But I felt him in the stillness. In the hush between my heartbeats.

“Come on out, Remmick.”

His name cracked the air open like thunder.

And then—branches shifted.

I turned slow.

He was leanin’ against a tree like he’d been grown there. Pale, still, boots clean despite the mud. Hair tousled like sleep or war. Those eyes—red as dusk and just as dangerous. But his face…

His face looked like grief tryin’ to wear calm like a disguise.

“You always did know how to find me,” he said, voice low and silk-slick, but it cracked under the weight of memory.

“I didn’t find you,” I snapped. “You been followin’ me.”

He smiled—sad and sharp. “Reckon I have.”

The basket slipped from my hand, landin’ soft in the dirt. My jaw clenched.

“You survived.”

“Aye,” he said, never lookin’ away. “Didn’t think I would. But I’ve always been hard to kill.”

I laughed, bitter. “Too stubborn for death, too stupid to know when to quit.”

He took a step. Measured. Careful.

“I looked for you,” he said, breath catchin’.

“And when you found me,” I cut in, “you hid.”

He flinched. “I wasn’t ready. You left, Y/N. After everythin’—”

“You turned me!” I snapped, voice shakin’. “You took my choice and dressed it up like mercy.”

“I saved you.”

“You cursed me.”

Silence. Heavy and wet like the air.

“I woke up hungry, Remmick,” I whispered. “Starvin’. Scared. Watchin’ my own hands do things I couldn’t stop. You weren’t there.”

“I didn’t know what it would do to you,” he said. “But I couldn’t bury you. Not you.”

I took a step back. My heart was thunderin’ in my ears.

“You should’ve let me die.”

His eyes shone then—not from the red glow, but from somethin’ older. Somethin’ breakin’.

“I couldn’t,” he breathed. “I’d already lost everythin’. My brother. My home. And then you—” He stopped, jaw tight. “I’d have nothin’ left if you died.”

I stared at him, tears burnin’ the backs of my eyes. “So instead you dragged me into this hell and called it love?”

“I loved you.”

“I loved you too,” I said. “And that’s what makes it worse.”

His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach out, but didn’t dare.

“You think I ain’t felt you watchin’ me these last few weeks?” I said, steady now. “Think I didn’t know the air changed when you came near?”

“I didn’t know how to face you,” he admitted, voice ragged. “Not after what I did. Not after you ran.”

“I had to,” I said. “You made me a monster. I couldn’t look at you without hearin’ the scream I let out when I woke up.”

We stood there, tangled in the ache of a hundred years.

Then he said quiet, “I didn’t want to own you. I just wanted to belong to someone again.”

I closed my eyes. And Lord, that was the worst part.

Because some part of me still did ache for him. Still remembered the feel of his hand in mine when we were both still human. Still remembered that look he gave me like I hung the moon crooked just to keep him wonderin’.

But ache ain’t the same as love.

“You got no right,” I whispered. “Not to this town. Not to me.”

His jaw flexed.

“Then why’d you call my name?”

“Because I felt you,” I said. “And I’d rather look the devil in the eye than let him haunt me from the trees.”

He smiled then, soft and bitter.

“I ain’t the devil.”

“No,” I said. “But you sure learned how to dance like him.”

He stared at me a long time.

And I knew, right then, this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

But I’d bought myself a moment.

And in a life like mine, a moment might just be the thing that saves you.

“Go,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Before I decide to hate you more than I already do.”

He took a breath. Then turned.

Walked back into the woods without a word.

But I knew that weren’t the last of him.

Because men like Remmick?

They don’t come to say goodbye.

They come to take back what they think belongs to them.

And this is the point when patience isn’t known to him.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

The joint was hummin’.

Music slid through the floor like syrup, thick with bass and heat. Somebody’s uncle was hollerin’ over a blues tune on the piano, Annie behind the bar crackin’ jokes while slippin’ flasks under the table. Sweat glistened on the back of my neck, curls stickin’ to my skin, and laughter rolled up from the dance floor like smoke. I was leanin’ into a conversation with Josephine at the bar, her eyes wide as she told me about a man she caught slippin’ out her window barefoot just before his wife came knockin’.

I chuckled low, brows raised. “And you didn’t slap him upside the head first?”

She rolled her eyes. “I had better things to do than waste my strength on a fool.”

“Amen to that,” I said, liftin’ my glass, though I hadn’t drunk a drop.

Then I felt it.

A cold ripple slid down the length of my spine—so sudden, it stole the breath right out my lungs. It weren’t fear, not quite. But the kind of dread that came from knowin’ something was wrong before your eyes could prove it.

I didn’t see the door.

But I saw Stack.

He was on his feet, jaw tight, walkin’ past me with that slow kind of purpose. Smoke followed close behind, his eyes narrowin’ toward the open entrance. Cornbread had gone quiet at the door, and that alone was enough to knot my gut.

Josephine kept talkin’, but her voice faded into nothin’.

My body moved on its own.

I stood, heart poundin’ like a war drum behind my ribs. The music didn’t stop, but everything inside me did. I walked past the tables, past the girls, through the perfume and pipe smoke and scent of sweat and spilt whiskey.

And then—

His voice.

Smooth. Mockin’. Sugar over glass.

“Evenin’,” Remmick drawled, like he’d been invited to church supper and meant to charm the whole congregation. “Lovely place y’all got here. Full of… soul.”

My blood turned to ice.

He was speakin’ to Cornbread, who stood stiff as a gatepost, eyes narrowin’ as the air seemed to stretch thin between ‘em.

“Think you might be lost,” Cornbread said slowly, not movin’ from his post. “There’s places in town for your kind. This ain’t one.”

“Oh, but I’m right where I need to be,” Remmick smiled, sharp and hollow. “Heard tale of music, drink, and dancin’. Figured I’d see it for myself. Can’t a man enjoy the night?”

His eyes flicked past Cornbread—landin’ square on me.

Like he’d planned it. Like he’d waited for the silence in my soul to find the crack just wide enough to step through.

“Y/N,” he said.

My stomach dropped.

Stack stepped in front of me. “You know this man?”

“I do,” I said. My voice came out steady, but my hands curled into fists at my sides. “I know him.”

“Name’s Remmick,” he said, glancin’ at the twins with a false-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Old friends with the lady. We go back.”

“Too far,” I muttered.

He took a step forward, and Stack shifted, blockin’ him.

“Easy now,” Remmick said, hands liftin’. “I’m just here to talk. That all right with you, darlin’?”

His tone curled around that word like it meant everything and nothin’ at all. The same way it used to when he wanted me quiet. Wanted me pliant.

“No,” I snapped. “You ain’t supposed to be here.”

Cornbread’s hand twitched toward the bat leanin’ beside the door.

Remmick chuckled. “Didn’t know you needed permission to visit old flames. Thought we were past pretendin’, Y/N.”

My jaw clenched. I stepped in front of Stack and Smoke, meetin’ Remmick’s eyes dead on.

“You’re pushin’ it,” I said low, “and you know it.”

He tilted his head. “I’m just tryin’ to make amends. Catch up. Maybe remind you of what we—”

“Shut up,” I snapped. “Not here.”

He didn’t shut up.

Instead, he smirked and said, “What? Afraid somebody might recognize what you really are?”

That was it.

I moved fast. My hand gripped his arm hard, draggin’ him back from the door ‘fore anyone else could hear. His boots scraped the dirt as I yanked him past the porch, into the woods just beyond the edge of the firelight.

We didn’t stop ‘til the juke faded behind us, til the only sound was the hiss of the crickets and the rasp of my breath.

Then I let go.

He stumbled back, laughin’ low.

“You always were the fiery sort,” he muttered. “Mouth full of ash and thunder.”

My eyes flared, shiftin’ to that color I only saw when my blood ran too hot. “Are you outta your damn mind, comin’ up in there like that?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t figure you’d come callin’ again. Had to make the introduction myself.”

“You could’ve blown everything,” I hissed. “You wanna waltz in there flashin’ teeth and riddles, but these people don’t forget what monsters look like once they get wind of it. You forgot that part?”

His face twisted, somethin’ cruel and wounded all at once. “You forgot I ain’t been welcome in any place for centuries. You found a home. I found shadows. You danced while I starved.”

I stepped close, close enough to see the red flicker in his eyes again.

“You don’t get to turn this on me,” I said, voice droppin’ into a tremble of fury. “You made me this way. You left me this way. And now you think you can show up with your coy words and puppy eyes and take what ain’t yours anymore?”

He leaned in, voice barely breathin’.

“You were always mine, darlin’. Long ‘fore the blood ever touched your lips.”

I slapped him.

The sound cracked like a pistol in the hush.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t raise his voice.

But that smile—the slow, dangerous one he wore like armor—slipped off his face like a mask too heavy to hold.

I was breathin’ hard. Fists clenched. Rain gatherin’ on my skin like it had permission. Like even the sky had been waitin’ for us to come undone.

“You don’t get to say that,” I seethed, chest heavin’. “You don’t ever get to say that to me.”

Remmick stayed where he stood—still, calm. Too calm. Like the eye of a storm that knew the ruin already circlin’ it.

“I reckon I just did,” he said low, almost kind. “And I meant it.”

My jaw shook. “You think this is love? You think this is some twisted soul-bind you can drag behind you like a dog on a chain?”

His brow ticked, barely. “No chain ever held you, Y/N. You cut every one yourself.”

I took a step toward him, finger pointed like it might draw blood.

“You turned me without askin’. You let me wake up alone. You watched me starve. And now you show up actin’ like I owe you somethin’?”

He didn’t move. Just tilted his head, watchin’ me unravel.

“I didn’t say you owed me. I came to see if there was anythin’ left.”

“There wasn’t!” I shouted, voice crackin’. “There ain’t! Not after what you did.”

He exhaled slow through his nose, like he’d been expectin’ this. Like he’d already played it out a thousand ways in the hollows of his mind.

“You always did throw fire when your heart got loud.”

“You got no right to talk about my heart,” I hissed. “Not after the way you crushed it and called it savin’ me.”

He stepped closer—just one step. Careful. Calm.

“You think I ain’t spent the last hundred years crawlin’ through the world lookin’ for pieces of you? You think I didn’t see the wreck I left behind? I know what I did.”

“Then why are you here?” My voice trembled. “Why now?”

He looked at me like I was still the only song he remembered the words to.

“Because even now,” he said, soft and razor-sharp, “you’re still the only thing that makes me feel like I didn’t die all the way.”

The rain started then—slow at first, then heavy. Soakin’ my dress. Mattin’ my hair to my face. But I didn’t move. Didn’t wipe the water from my eyes.

Because it wasn’t just rain.

It was rage.

It was heartbreak.

It was every scream I swallowed the night he turned me.

“You ruined me,” I said. “And now you want me to weep for you?”

“No.” He blinked once. Steady. “I want nothin’ from you you don’t give me freely.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I was,” he said. “But I ain’t lyin’ now.”

I laughed, bitter and sharp. “So what? You want redemption?”

He shook his head. “That ain’t a road I get to walk.”

The silence that followed was thick. Biblical.

And then, slow—too slow—Remmick sank to his knees.

Not like a man prayin’.

But like one beggin’ the grave to let him stay buried.

“Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it,” he said, voice quiet and cracked around the edges. “You want me gone, I’ll disappear. You want me dead, well… you know better than most, darlin’. That ain’t never been easy.”

Rain slammed the earth in waves now, like it meant to bury every word between us.

I didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just watched him kneel in the mud, pale hands open, head bowed like even he knew he didn’t deserve forgiveness.

His eyes flickered red in the stormlight.

Still beautiful.

Still dangerous.

Still mine—once.

And then the memory returned—

His mouth on my throat.

My scream breakin’ the sky.

The taste of betrayal before I even knew the word for it.

The night he turned me.

The night I stopped bein’ his salvation…

…and became his punishment.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t rise.

Just stayed there on his knees in the wet earth, eyes on me like I was a hymn he’d long forgotten how to pray, but still couldn’t stop hummin’.

“You don’t get to play the martyr,” I said, rain slidin’ down the slope of my jaw, voice low and level. “You don’t get to break somethin’ and call it love.”

His jaw worked, but he stayed quiet. Good. He was learnin’.

I stepped closer, slow enough for the mud to cling to my boots like memory.

“You think this—” I gestured at his posture, at the rain, the ache between us— “makes you smaller than me? It don’t. You still got teeth. Still got hunger. But now you got somethin’ else too.”

I let the silence hang for a breath.

Then another.

“My hand ain’t on your throat, Remmick. I ain’t pulled no blade. But you still follow, don’t you?”

His eyes flickered, faint red beneath the dark.

“You follow ‘cause you can’t help it,” I said, takin’ one more step. “Not ‘cause I told you to. But because I’m the ghost you ain’t never been able to bury.”

His mouth parted—like maybe he’d speak, maybe he’d beg again—but I beat him to it.

“You been searchin’ all these years thinkin’ I was the piece you lost.” My voice dipped lower, soft as a curse. “But maybe I was the punishment you earned.”

He flinched.

Just barely.

But I saw it.

Felt it.

“You ain’t on your knees ‘cause of guilt,” I said. “You’re down there ‘cause you know deep in your bones—I still got a leash on your soul.”

He looked up at me then.

Really looked.

And for the first time since he crawled back into my world, he didn’t reach.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t beg.

He just watched.

Like he knew I was right.

Like he knew that no matter how far I’d run or how cruel I’d grown…

…I’d always be the one holdin’ the reins.

I turned without another word, walked back through the trees, each step heavy with the truth we couldn’t outrun.

And though I didn’t hear him rise—

I knew he would.

I knew he’d follow.

Because men like Remmick?

They don’t vanish.

They linger.

They haunt.

They wait for the softest crack in your armor, then slip back in like they never left.

But this time, he’d have to wait.

This time, I wasn’t runnin’.

And I wasn’t lettin’ him in, either.

Let him kneel in the mud.

Let him feel what it’s like to want somethin’ that won’t break for him no more.

Because even monsters got leashes.

And some ain’t made of rope.

They’re made of memory.

Of ache.

Of the one person who walked away—and meant it.

v═════༺♰༻═════v

Taglist:@jakecockley,@alastorhazbin,

[cherry-lala]

Hey so I dont know if you take requests or not but i thought i’d ask, i really loved your remmick fic and would love to request something because i genuinely cannot get enough of that man.

I’m open to taking some requests! I’m still finishing up my last bit of work for school but if you could send me the request, I would be happy to look at it and see what I can do!❤️😅

[cherry-lala]

Part 2 of The Devil waits where Wildflowers grow has me in shambles 😭 it was so good and had me hooked from the first paragraph of part one. Literally one of my fave remmick fics atp. Tytyty for sharing!

Would you mind expanding on if the ending is more of reincarnation thing or a they never actually died thing? Was remmick playing coy or does he actually not remember her? Unless you plan on making a sequel 👀❤️

Ahhh thank you so much, I’m so glad it resonated with you! That means a lot. As for the ending—I definitely leaned into the ambiguity on purpose. Whether it’s reincarnation or something else entirely… I wanted it to feel like an echo rather than a resolution. I love open endings that haunt a little, y’know? So it’s up to the readers to decide if that moment was a beginning, a memory, or a trick of the light.🤫😁

[cherry-lala]

Some things Don't End, They Echo

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing: Female! Reader x Remmick  

Genre: Southern Gothic, Supernatural Thriller, Dark Romance, Psychological Horror. Word Count:11.4k+

Summary: The dance continues in a world unraveling at the seams, where ghosts wear familiar faces and every silence hides a price. As Y/N moves through shadows thick with hunger and half-truths, she must decide what kind of freedom is worth the ache—and whether redemption can bloom in soil soaked with sorrow.

Content Warning: Emotional and physical abuse, manipulation, supernatural themes, implied and explicit violence, betrayal, transformation lore, body horror elements, graphic depictions of blood, intense psychological and emotional distress, explicit sexual content (including bloodplay, coercion, and power imbalance), references to domestic conflict, mind control, and religious imagery involving damnation and corrupted salvation. Let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Here it is—Part 2 (and the final chapter) to The Devil Waits Where Wildflowers Grow, the one so many of y’all asked for. I enjoyed watching this, even with exams beating me around. Writing it was a comfort, a catharsis—and your support on Part 1 meant the world. Thank you for every comment, like, and reblog. You kept me going. As always, I hope it haunts you just right. Again, Likes, reblogs, and Comments are always appreciated.

Taglist: @alastorhazbin, @jakecockley, @dezibou

The room smelled like lavender and starch, thick with the stillness only Sunday mornings knew.

Mama hummed a hymn under her breath, the notes trembling like moth wings in the golden light.

I stood still in front of the mirror, hands folded over the folds of my white cotton dress.

White gloves. White socks with the little lace trim.

The picture of innocence, shaped by hands that still believed innocence could be preserved if tied tight enough.

Mama’s fingers, careful and calloused, smoothed my sleeves. She tucked a wild curl behind my ear and smiled at me through the mirror — a tired, proud smile she saved only for mornings like these.

“Pretty as a picture,” she said, her voice carrying all the love and all the fear a mother could fit into a few words.

I blinked.

And the world shifted.

I turned in her arms, meaning to reach up and hug her.

But somehow, suddenly — I was taller.

And she was older.

Her hands trembled on my shoulders, confusion flashing across her lined face.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Mama asked. Her voice cracked at the edges. “Why are you cryin’?”

I hadn’t even realized I was.

A tear slid hot and slow down my cheek, dripping onto the lace.

Before I could form words, Mama gasped — a raw, wounded sound — and stumbled back, the white ribbon slipping from her fingers to the floor like a dying bird.

I spun toward the mirror.

And saw it.

Saw me — but not the girl I was.

Not even the woman I thought I’d grow into.

No.

The thing in the glass wore my face, but wrong.

Eyes black as cinders, ringed in a seeping red that ran down my cheeks like melting wax.

My mouth hung open — a silent scream caught behind broken lips.

The white dress, once so carefully pressed, now bloomed with stains the color of old blood.

Mama pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

Her voice came out in a whisper too full of knowing to be anything but truth.

“The devil has visited you… and left a raven’s feather at your door.

And you — you accepted it.”

I spun toward her, arms reaching — pleading —

“Mama, no—!”

But the floor cracked open first.

A black mist poured out like smoke from a curse long buried.

It wrapped around her ankles, her knees, her throat.

Her body jerked once — then dissolved into ash, crumbling through the air like burned prayer paper.

And through the mist, a mouth formed.

That mouth.

That smile I had trusted.

The one that once whispered safety under the stars, now pulled wide in a predator’s grin.

The world tilted.

Blurring.

Fading.

I came back to myself with a ragged breath, choking on the thick air of a dark, unfamiliar room on the floor, cold sweat clinging to my back, the faint flicker of an oil lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The room dim and silent, except for the slow creak of wood… and the quiet hum of breath that wasn’t mine.

Sitting across the room, watching me carefully — was Stack.

At first, my heart leapt — a familiar face in a world gone cold.

I almost ran to him — almost — until I caught the gleam in his eyes.

Not brown.

Not human.

But white.

Blazing and empty as a snowfield under a full moon.

His smile stretched just a little too wide.

Predatory.

Slouched in the chair across the room, arms folded, watching me with a patience that felt wrong.

“What…” I rasped, backing toward the dresser, “what happened to you?”

My voice trembled. “What are you?”

The mirror above the dresser caught me just as I turned.

I saw my own eyes — or what used to be mine.

Pitch black. Red glowing like coals flickering deep in the hearth.

A fire that didn’t warm — just warned.

I stumbled back, mouth opening with a soundless gasp.

Stack chuckled, low and lazy like the devil warming up a sermon.

“I’m like you now,” he said, tilting his head as if showing off the whites of his eyes. “Well… kinda. He gifted us freedom. From all that heartbreak, all that heaviness. Gave you freedom the way you thought was best.”

Desperation gripped me.

I lunged for the window, tearing the heavy curtains aside.

Sunlight poured in.

It hit my skin—

and the world fractured.

It wasn’t fire.

It wasn’t pain.

It was terror.

Ripping through my mind like a pack of wolves.

The golden light twisted into knives, slicing into every hidden corner of me — dredging up every buried fear, every secret shame, every broken promise.

The sun I used to love—

the warmth that once kissed my skin—

now roared inside my skull like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

I collapsed, a hoarse, broken scream tearing from my chest.

Clawing at the floor, at the walls, trying to escape what was already inside me.

Stack watched.

Silent.

Almost sad.

He reached out with a casual hand, pulling the curtains closed again.

The light vanished.

I lay there, a trembling wreck, sobbing into the dusty boards.

Stack crouched low beside me, voice dropping soft and cold as winter mud:

“She’ll learn,” he said.

“This life’s better for her.

True freedom.”

His boots scraped the floor as he stood again, leaving me crumpled there.

The door clicked shut behind Stack, and for a moment, the room was quiet again — too quiet.

Then came the sound.

Soft boots on old wood.

He was here.

Remmick.

The air changed with him, thickened until it tasted like copper on my tongue.

He crouched beside me, slow and easy, like he was soothing a frightened animal.

His hand brushed against my hair — a pet, a comfort, a mockery.

“You’re all better now,” he crooned, voice low and soft enough to make my teeth ache. “Sometimes… the first taste of freedom’s too sweet for a belly that’s been filled with bitterness too long.”

I jerked away from his touch, scrambling back until my spine hit the cold dresser behind me.

The mirror rattled above it, showing me both of us:

Me — trembling, broken.

Him — smiling, patient.

Like a god admiring a sculpture he’d half-finished.

He didn’t follow.

Just stayed crouched there, red eyes gleaming like coals, eyebrows lifted in that innocent, boyish way that used to warm me from the inside out.

Now it just made my heart twist the wrong way.

Not because I hated him.

Because I still loved him.

And love like that…

It’s worse than hate.

It’s the knife you twist in yourself.

I choked on a sob, the words clawing free without thought.

“Why did you turn me into this monster?” I whispered. “This ain’t freedom… it ain’t even enslavement. It’s worse.”

Remmick’s mouth pulled into something almost pitying. Almost.

He stood slow, dust shifting off his shirt.

“I only did what you asked of me,” he said, voice syrupy sweet. “Don’t talk like I didn’t give you a choice. You wanted this, darlin’. You begged for a way out. I just made the decision easier.”

His words spun the air — circles with no end, no beginning.

“But it’s alright,” he drawled, stepping back, giving me room to breathe and suffocate at once. “Once I find lil’ ole Sammie… this lick of freedom will be just a taste of what’s to come.”

At Sammie’s name, my heart leapt.

He was alive.

Maybe others were, too.

I clutched at that hope with trembling fingers, already piecing together desperate plans. Run. Warn him. Stop Remmick.

But Remmick chuckled low in his throat, like he could taste my thoughts.

He dropped into the chair Stack had occupied moments before, sprawling like he owned the whole damned world.

“Oh, darlin’,” he said, voice dripping pity. “Don’t be so eager. Sammie won’t trust you no more than he trusts me. Thinks you’re the devil’s pawn now—”

“Fuck you!” I snapped, the venom lashing out before I could leash it.

He didn’t flinch.

Just smiled wider.

A crescent moon smile. Hungry.

“Aw, no need to get upset,” he cooed. “I’m doing this for the best, you see. For me. For you. For all those poor souls that ache for a world without chains.”

His eyes shone when he spoke. Like he believed it. Like he tasted salvation and didn’t even know it was poison.

“You don’t know what’s best for me,” I hissed, fists curling tight enough to split new claws into my palms. “You never did. You preyed on my need for compassion. For hope. Fed me lies, called it love.

You’re no savior.

You’re just a lost soul that drunk the wine of lies and deceived yourself.”

For the first time, Remmick’s smile faltered.

Just a flicker.

He dropped his gaze to his hands, turning them over slow, as if even he didn’t recognize what he’d become.

When he looked back up, his face was empty.

“Never said I was a savior,” he murmured. “Only came to set the captives free. To bring peace to a broken world. And…”

His lips twitched up again.

“Well, I guess I did come to save after all.

Look at you, darlin’. Finally usin’ that pretty head.”

He turned, heading for the open door with lazy grace.

“I’m going to warn them,” I spat after him, my voice shaking with fury and terror. “I’ll find Sammie. Even if it kills me.”

He paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder.

A shadow stretched long behind him, darker than night itself.

“So stubborn,” he mused. “No vision.”

He tapped his lips, mock-thoughtful.

“But that’s why I didn’t turn you fully.

You fight too much.

You keep me… entertained.”

His smile sharpened.

“But don’t think I came unprepared, darlin’,” he said, voice sinking low. “When I changed you, I made sure you couldn’t end it easy.

Didn’t want you throwin’ yourself into the sun like some tragic heroine.”

He shook his head, tsking.

“I left you more living than dead. Call it mercy,” he said. 

His voice thickened, dragging the room down with it.

“And now?

The sun don’t kill you.

It holds you.

Burns your mind.

Plays every mistake, every grief, every lie you ever swallowed — on a loop.

That’s your true punishment, sweetheart.”

He stepped into the hall.

Paused just long enough to drive the last nail into me.

“Now you’ll finally see just how close you’ve always been to the devil.”

The door closed with a whisper of finality.

The door closed with a whisper—quiet as sin, soft as silk over a blade.

And I shattered.

My fists struck the dresser like thunder begging to be heard, splinters flying like a cry unsaid.

The mirror spiderwebbed outward, each crack a fault line in my chest.

The lamp flickered—once, twice—then danced wild shadows across the wreckage of the room.

Shadows that didn’t move like they used to.

I dropped, sobbing.

Raw.

Broken open like fruit too ripe for this world.

Tears carved tracks down my cheeks, hot as blood.

And in the fractured glass, she stared back.

Me.

But not.

Black-eyed.

Twisted.

Monstrous.

I had become the thing I swore I never would.

The thing I once pitied.

The thing I feared.

I had tasted freedom… and drank too deep.

And now?

The devil wore my face.

That quiet little sound—just a door closing—rattled through me like a funeral bell.

It echoed too loud.

Too final.

Like the world had whispered its last breath and left me behind to rot in the stillness.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Not really.

The silence pressed in—soft at first, then tight, cruel.

Like fingers around my throat, wrapping around my ribs, filling the hollows of me where hope used to live.

Squeezing.

I backed away from the door on legs that no longer felt like mine.

My fingers shook—not from fear.

From truth.

Because I understood now.

Not just what I was—

But what I’d lost.

No freedom.

No peace.

No promise.

Just a hollow thing with something vile curling inside her chest.

A mistake dressed in skin.

I staggered.

My knees buckled, and the floor met me hard.

My chest heaved like it remembered how to cry for help, but the air wouldn’t come.

All I could feel was him.

Remmick.

Still here. Still everywhere.

His voice smeared across the walls like oil.

Like blood.

“You’re always closest to the devil.”

And that smile.

God.

That fucking smile.

My hands clawed at my chest, trying to hold on to something warm, something human—

but all I touched was the burn.

It pulsed.

Grief.

Rage.

The taste of love soured and rusted on the back of my tongue.

I choked on it.

Choked on the truth.

Choked on the ache of still loving the thing that broke me.

Because that’s what he did.

He cracked me open and called it mercy.

Called it freedom.

And I let him.

I followed him down, thinking his voice meant salvation.

And now?

Now I didn’t know what I was.

A woman?

A monster?

A memory?

Just a shell shaped like me.

I dragged myself to the mirror, arm trembling.

Bones screamed under skin that didn’t bruise like it used to.

And when I looked up—

She looked back.

Not me.

Not anymore.

Eyes like polished obsidian.

A red glow flickering deep inside like the devil left a candle burning just beneath the surface.

Like coals waiting for breath.

I touched the glass.

It was cold.

And it didn’t feel like mine.

And for the first time—honest and low—I whispered it.

“I’m not strong enough.”

Not for this.

Not for what’s coming.

Not to stop Remmick.

Not to bear this hunger in my blood, this weight in my bones.

Not when part of me…

still wanted him.

Still ached for the sound of his voice.

Still dreamed of his hands.

Still missed the lie of being chosen.

The tears came quiet now.

Not hot like before.

Just steady.

As if I was already halfway gone.

The room swayed, broken, tilting on some axis I couldn’t fix.

I curled up.

Surrounded by shattered glass

and the dust

of a woman I used to be.

Because now I saw it clear:

Remmick didn’t destroy me.

He rewrote me.

And I didn’t know if there was a way back.

Not anymore.

———

Sunlight. Soft, dappled through the canopy overhead like God’s own fingers pressed gentle against the earth.

I was little again.

Knees diggin’ into warm dirt out behind Mama’s house, the kind that clung to skin and crept under fingernails. The hem of my baby blue dress puddled around me, streaked with grass stains and the green breath of summer. My breath came light. Easy. Like I’d never known sorrow.

In my small, shaking palms, a bird fluttered. A little thing — brown wings tremblin’ like paper caught in a storm. It looked up at me with one eye, scared but still trustin’. Caught between dyin’ and hopin’ I might keep it.

“I’m gon’ fix you,” I whispered, voice soft as a prayer. “Mama says you gotta press gentle on the hurt. Let the hurt feel heard.”

I wrapped its crooked wing with Mama’s rag — one that still held the warmth of a stovetop — and moved careful, clumsy. My hands were filled with the shaky pride of a child who still believed love could mend what life broke.

“There,” I said, satisfaction curling around the word. “That’s better, huh?”

It didn’t answer, but it blinked at me. And that blink — Lord, that blink was enough. I set it down like I was settin’ down a blessing.

It stumbled. Hopped.

And then—by some mercy—it flew.

That’s how I remember it.

That’s the memory I held like gospel.

But memory lies.

Because when I blinked—

The world shifted.

The ground grew darker. Wet with somethin’ more than earth. The rag I’d tied ’round that little wing was soaked through — red and seeping.

The bird wasn’t flutterin’.

Wasn’t breathin’.

The rock sat beside it. Just there. Like it’d always been. Heavy. Stained.

And my hands — my baby hands — were red.

I gasped, staggered back like the sky’d tilted.

“No,” I whispered. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

The screen door behind me slammed open.

Mama stood there, her eyes wide and wild, brimmin’ with fury and shame.

“You killed it,” she hissed, voice like the strike of a switch. “Lord have mercy… what did you do?”

“I tried to help—”

Her finger pointed, shakin’ so hard I thought it might break right off. “You ain’t no healer. You’re a curse.”

The words hit me like stones. Like God Himself had turned His back.

“No,” I breathed. “No, I loved it. I loved it—”

But her face blurred. The edges of her eyes twistin’, meltin’.

The memory broke apart like ash.

And when she spoke again, it wasn’t her voice.

It was his.

Remmick’s voice. That slow, slick honey-coat of a man born of sweet lies and sharpened teeth.

“You’ve always been a killer,” he said.

“You just needed someone to show you how to be honest about it.”

———

I woke with a jolt, lungs burnin’. Another nightmare. Another slice of hell carved from the corners of my mind. I sat up in that dusty bed, heart jackhammerin’. Couldn’t rightly remember how I got there — just flashes of me, scribblin’ out a plan on scrap paper, mind runnin’ circles ’round Sammie.

It had happened twice now. Slippin’ like that. Losin’ whole hours to black. Like my brain weren’t mine no more.

Remmick hadn’t shown his face since. Just leavin’ me to rot in that room, watchin’ from shadows, waitin’ for me to break in two.

And maybe I already had.

Maybe that was the plan all along.

I pressed my hand to my chest. Couldn’t even trust my own thoughts. They felt borrowed. Bent.

Before I could blink again, the house filled with sound.

A choir.

No, not a choir.

Voices — too many, too close. Low and strange.I rose, legs stiff, bones screamin’. Walked slow to the curtain, peeled it back.

Moonlight sliced into the room.

Out there, just past the tree line, shapes moved. Dancin’.

No.

Spinnin’.

Hypnotic. Like they was caught in some kind of trance.

I opened the window without meanin’ to. The music crawled in. Sank under my skin.

It sounded like sorrow strung with sugar.

Before I knew it, the house was behind me. I was out there — feet crunchin’ twigs, heart poundin’. Every step felt like I was bein’ pulled by strings I couldn’t see.

They danced in a circle. Counter-clockwise. Backward. Like time rewound and never stopped. 

It almost felt like how it was back at the juke joint, something spiritual. Like a copy to some degree. But somethin was missin. Like eating a lemon but the taste is sweet than sour.

And in the center — Him.

Remmick.

He was smilin’. Eyes like burnin’ paper under moonlight.

He beckoned me forward, just like always. And I obeyed.

He grabbed my arm, pulled me in close — too close. The others danced on, hummin’ Merle in voices that didn’t sound like they came from mouths no more.

“You feel it don’ ya?” he said, his breath warm on my cheek. “You feel this energy, this magic, but you also feel how somethin’s missin.”

I couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t blink.

“That somethin’ missin is Sammie and his gift,” he said, low and smooth. “And the longer we wait, the more time is wasted on not bein’ truly one family.”

“And we don’ want that, now do we y/n?” Mary’s voice cut in like a blade, and there she stood — eyes white, smile gone bitter cold. “We just want to be one big happy free family.”

Tears welled up, but they wouldn’t fall. My body — my soul — refused to spill for them no more.

Then the pressure cracked.

My voice came back, and Lord, it came sharp.

“You say Sammie is that somethin’ missin, or is it really because you can never invoke the ancestors — past, present, and future — like Sammie can? You can never truly have that, because the people you turned will never have that connection that drawn you to the juke joi—”

He snatched my face in one hand. Squeezed ’til my cheeks burned.

His eyes flared, teeth grit.

“You just love to run that mouth of yours,” he said, too calm. “Should’ve just taken over your whole mind instead of half.”

That grin — it weren’t playful no more. It was mean.

“Don’t forget who at the end of the day can break this pretty mind of yours. Did it once. Don’t make me do it again. It’ll be worse than what hell the memories the sun can burn in that head.”

He shoved me hard.

My body moved without askin’. Stepped right back into the dance. Circle never broke.

And all I could do was watch through the window like eyes of mine.

Watch the world spin the wrong way.

Watch myself disappear.

———

The moment I came back to myself, it was like the dark got peeled off my eyes. Breath caught sharp in my chest. I shot up off from the same dusty bed, fast but quiet, hands movin’ like they already knew the truth was waitin’ where I left it. Dropped to my knees and lifted the warped floorboard — the one with that stubborn edge I had to dig at with the crook of my nail.

There it was.

Paper, curled and brittle with dust, still hidin’ where I’d stashed it. I pressed it flat on the little nightstand near the closet, fingers shakin’ as I picked up the stub of that pencil. Lead near gone, wood splintered at the tip — but I didn’t care.

I had to finish.

Didn’t matter if it took blood instead of graphite.

I wrote fast, every word scratchin’ against the paper like a cry from my chest. A warning. 

Then came footsteps.

My whole body froze.

Heavy. Sure. Drawin’ closer like the tickin’ of judgment.

Quick as I could, I folded that letter, shoved it back in its hidey hole, laid the board back down — just as the door creaked open.

Stack stood there, leanin’ in the doorway like he owned the place. That grin on his face made my stomach turn damn near inside out. Like he was proud of somethin’ that oughta haunt a man.

“Remmick wanna see you,” he said. “Don’ want no trouble. Just talk. His words, not mine.”

I stood slow, my limbs feelin’ older than they had any right to. Didn’t speak. Just followed behind him through them crooked halls, each step echoing like the house itself was watchin’.

He led me to another room — one I ain’t never been in before.

No bed.

Just two chairs.

And a chess table.

Door shut behind me with a hollow click that made my heart skip. Then I saw it — and God help me, I wished I hadn’t.

Remmick was sittin’ there, leanin’ back easy like a man on a front porch. Blood streaked from his mouth down to his bare chest, open shirt hangin’ loose like he ain’t had a care in the world. At his feet, slumped and still, was a man. Facedown. Dead lookin. Neck at the wrong angle. Gone cold.

I staggered.

My breath caught hard.

“Oh, no need to be worried, darlin’,” Remmick said smooth, like we was talkin’ over sweet tea. “He just got too close to where he wasn’t s’posed to be. Guess he wanted to join the family.”

His teeth shone through the blood. Sharp. Too many.

I opened my mouth — wanted to scream, cuss, beg, anything.

But I couldn’t.

Somethin’ else stole my focus.

“Aw, darlin’,” he drawled, that voice low and syrupy. “You droolin’.”

I blinked — felt warmth on my chin, lifted my hand to find it slick.

Thick.

warm.

“No,” I whispered. But it was true.

“You just hungry is all,” he said. “Come here. I can share.”

And I did.

Or rather, my body did.

Dropped to my knees, crawled across that splintered floor like a dog he’d called home. Every movement wasn’t mine but felt like mine all the same. Like my soul was screamin’ and my limbs just smiled.

He reached down, fingers under my chin, tiltin’ my face to his.

“No matter how much you resist it,” he murmured, “it’ll push back ten times harder.”

Then he kissed me.

Deep.

Long.

Blood warm on my lips on my tongue , seepin’ into the cracks like it belonged there. I moaned — not from pleasure, but from the horror of likin’ it for a split second. My hands climbed his thighs, desperate and trembling, until they found his arms and held on like I could keep myself from drownin’.

When he pulled back, he tapped my cheek real sweet, like a man might to a wife who made his supper just right.

“You look so much better with a lil’ blood on ya.”

My chest clenched.

Hard.

But I didn’t let it show.

“Remmick,” I croaked, voice cracked open down the middle, “why you so hellbent on makin’ me more of a monster than I already am? Can’t you let me fake it — just a lil’, for my own sake?”

He leaned in close, voice soft but cuttin’.

“You ain’t no monster, darlin’,” he said, brushin’ hair from my face. “You just a step forward to bein’ a goddess — my goodness. And if you’d just help me finish the plan, well… the world could be ours.”

His hand cupped my cheek like I was sacred.

But his words?

They tasted like honey poured over rot.

And still — I let it coat my tongue.

Even though I could already feel the cavities settin’ in.

——

Remmick takes my silence as support. I don’t say a word when he comes back with newly turned people or when he’s off on the manhunt for Sammie. I don’t say a word when he seeks me out after another failed attempt of finding Sammie. I don’t say a word when he comes back blistered and burned from the setting sun, cursing that them Natives found him again killing Annie and Mary -though the weight in my chest lifted a bit at that, knowing they were finally free now, along with a few others he so-called new family, saying that we had to leave by sunrise or they will kill us all.

 So we fled my note left at the front door. A woman taking clothes off the clothing line from a full day's dry in the sun is who his next victim was. He easily overpowered her and changed her and when she stood back up knocking on her door her husband opened it and invited her in with no hesitation she then turned him. The house was free to roam now. The day passed with no signs of the natives in the area and as soon as night fell again, Remmick was out again hunting down Sammie like a man starved. 

He has become restless but so did I. After he left I waited a few before changing out of the bloody dress I’ve been wearing since that night at the juke joint to whatever dress was in the closet in the first room I went in. I threw on a dainty brown hat before walking out of the house to town. I squeezed my hands into fists hoping that Grace didn’t close up her shop too early.

Once I reached town, the moon was high up and most of the businesses were already closed. Some folks were still out, bringing shipments into the shops before locking up. I made my way to Grace's shop, the light inside was still on but the door was locked. I quickly but quietly knocked on the glass and waited. The hushed background noise of conversation outside filled the empty space. 

As I was about to knock again I see her silhouette come from the back making her way to the front. She unlocks the door about to make a comment about how the shop is closed but when she locked eyes with me she ate her words. She quickly invited me in before locking the door behind her.

“I got your letter, them natives dropped it off to me earlier in the day.” She said getting straight to the point. “You said very little in the letter but I know it’s more you couldn’t share on paper.”

I nodded with a heavy sigh before hugging her, a sob breaking from my lips.

“Things are so fucked right now, Grace, everyone I knew is gone.”

She comforts me, patting my back, “news broke fast at what happened down at the juke joint, people say it was the klan but didn’t find any body’s. I’m just glad you’re alright,”

“That’s the thing Grace, I’m not alright. Something changed in me and I can’t even trust myself but I know I can trust you.” I gave her another folded piece of paper that I quickly wrote in before leaving earlier and handed it to her. “I know you and Bo know where Sammie and Smoke are laying low at but I don’t want you to tell me just pass this note to him please.” She nodded as she took it from my hand, a determined look on her face.

“I have to go now but please be safe out there, there’s more monsters lurking out there than the klan.”

After our exchange, I quickly headed back to the house. When I reached it there was no one in sight letting me know Remmick was still out on his crazed hunt. I opened the door; I entered the home easily as it didn’t know whether to let me in or keep me out. The clothing I wore tore the veil and I slipped in like I never left.

I tossed down the hat on the table in the kitchen, making my way to the room to change back into my old garbs before Remmick gets here. I opened the door as I began to unbutton the front of the dress.

“Went dancing without me, darlin’?” I jumped in my skin at the sudden voice and turned slowly before making eye contact with the culprit.

Remmick sat in the darkest corner in the room, tapping his long fingers on the armrest of the wooden chair. 

“I-I” the lie was caught in my throat as he stood reaching my shocked form. His sharp nails digging into my side and I wince a bit in pain. “No need to lie darlin, I’ve caught you with your hand in the sweets jar.”

I pushed his hands off me as I created space between us, sitting on the small bed in the room. “You knew I wasn’t going to sit here and let you continue your manhunt for Sammie and do nothing about.”

“Who did you meet with?” He ignores my previous words, and I scoff a bit. “No one that concerns you or your heinous plans.” I spit. A choked noise came from my throat as he wrapped his hands around it squeezing it; I gripped his wrist to try to pull it off me but he only squeezed it harder.

“I just keep on letting you get over on me because I care for you and all you want to do is destroy this plan of mines. Don’t you get it? I’m trying to make heaven on earth. Didn’t you want that? “ he lets go of me before taking a step back looking away from my choked form. “I didn’t want that, all I wanted was for you to save me from my life with Frank, from his hands. But now I see it, that you’re no better than him. I guess the devil does come in many forms.”

He sighs before kneeling in front of me, leaning his cheek on my thighs as he caresses them, “I’m sorry, darlin’ I got ahead of myself.” His voice soft now, his emotions giving me whiplash, “it’s just I lost them all today, them Natives never left from checking the premises and they killed them all,” he sounded defeated and I felt elated with this information, he’s at his lowest right now and I can now carve his mind the way I need to.

 “Oh wow, I-I’m sorry.” I say sadly, playing the part as I run my hands through his hair in a comforting way. “Maybe we should lay low for a while so they can get off our backs. The more we rush this, the more we lose.” He groaned at my words like he disagrees or doesn’t want to accept it. “I can’t stop; I’ve gone too far.

 This is the time I’ve been waiting for centuries and now that I have the opportunity in my grasp I won’t let it slip from me so easily, especially when it’s right in front of me.” I sigh in my head at his words knowin’ it wouldn’t be that easy to persuade him but at least I tried on to the next plan. “Well let me help you find Sammie.” He lifted up from my lap quickly a suspicious glint in his red eyes. “And why would you want to do that?” I can see his walls begin to build itself up again so I quickly respond “because now I see how you truly care to give people freedom from their pain and chains in this world and the longer I sit back and watch the more I wish to make a change even if it has to be by this way.” I say like I was reluctant to the idea but understand him.

He looks at me with those pouty eyebrows like something softened in him from my words, “Darlin’ you don’t know how much I needed those words.” He reaches his hand out caressing my cheek; we kept eye contact before he broke it looking at my lips before locking eyes with me again. Remmick stared up at me like I was the sin he’d spent centuries chasing.

The room reeked of blood and tension, the kind that coils tight and doesn’t let go until someone breaks.

His lips brushed mine—brief, testing—before I grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down hard, our mouths colliding like a war. It was messy, greedy, all tongue and breath and teeth. He tasted like heat and iron and the kind of ache that never goes away.

Clothes didn’t come off—they were ripped. Thread popped. Buttons scattered. Neither of us cared.

He shoved me down onto the bed, hands already between my thighs, spreading me open with a growl low in his chest.

“You’ve been starvin’ for this,” he hissed, fingers pressing where I needed them most.

“So have you,” I gasped, grinding down on his hand. “I can smell it on you.”

He chuckled darkly and dropped to his knees, dragging me to the edge of the bed. His mouth was on me in seconds—no hesitation. He licked like a man denied heaven, tongue greedy and practiced, lips curling into a smirk every time I gasped or bucked or cursed his name.

His fingers dug into my thighs, pinning me open. I came fast, hard, writhing under his mouth—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t let me go. Just kept going like my climax was just an appetizer.

“You gonna beg for me now?” he murmured against me, voice wrecked and low.

I pulled him up by the hair and kissed him hard, tasting myself on his tongue.

“Fuck me,” I snarled.

And he did.

He bent me over, hand in my hair, other gripping my hip like he owned it. When he pushed inside me, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was claiming.

Every thrust was deep, brutal, intentional—meant to remind me of what I was, what he made me. My hands fisted the sheets, the wall, his arms—whatever I could reach.

“Look at you takin’ me,” he growled in my ear. “Body’s been beggin’ for me every night.”

I didn’t deny it.

Couldn’t.

All I could do was moan—low and guttural—my mind white-hot with the sensation of him hitting just right, over and over.

We flipped again—me on top, straddling him, clawing at his chest as I rode him rough and fast. His hands roamed everywhere, nails scraping, teeth biting, drawing blood that only made us crazier.

I leaned down, lips brushing his throat, and bit deep.

He gasped—head snapping back, hips bucking up hard into me.

His blood filled my mouth, hot and electric, and I moaned into the wound.

He grabbed the back of my neck and bit me too—shoulder, collarbone, throat. Marking me. Claiming me. Drinking me. His blood mixed with mine, thick and sacred.

“We were made for this,” he groaned. “You feel it too. Say it.”

I didn’t.

But I screamed when I came again, body clenching around him like it never wanted to let go.

He followed, snarling into my skin, coming deep and hard and endless.

⸻

We collapsed together, breath ragged, bodies slick with sweat and blood.

He tangled his fingers in my hair, lips pressed to my shoulder.

But I didn’t close my eyes.

I just laid there, heart still pounding, blood still thrumming, the taste of him thick in my mouth.

Because this wasn’t love.

This was warfare.

And I’d just given the enemy every inch of me.Again.

——

Two Days Later – Nightfall

The house exhaled behind me as I slipped out the front door, closing it with the kind of care that makes no sound—like I was sneaking out of someone else’s life. The sky was dark as velvet—the kind of night that clung close, hushed and watchful. Still. Heavy. No wind, no whisper, just the faint hush of pine trees breathing in the distance.

Remmick was upstairs, lying low like he said. Said the Natives were still lurking, waiting to strike again. Said we needed to be cautious. Said he needed me to go check the edges of the woods, see how close the threat was.

He said it like it was nothing.

Like he trusted me.

So I nodded and played the part.

But I turned toward town instead, boots moving quick beneath my hem, the cold dirt road swallowing each step. The air was damp, alive with the kind of silence that feels like it’s listening.

No one stopped me. No one looked twice. Just another shadow among shadows, passing quiet under the unlit porch lamps and shuttered windows. I walked with my head tucked low, hat pulled firm against my brow. I’d learned how to walk invisible.

By the time I reached Grace’s shop, the quiet felt louder. And I knew before I even stepped close—something was wrong.

The lights were out.

The door locked.

Stillness pressed against the windows like a held breath. No smell of boiling herbs. No faint silhouette behind lace. Just absence.

I knocked once. Gentle.

No answer.

I waited, blood rising loud in my ears.

I was about to knock again when I heard it behind me.

“Evenin’. Lookin’ for Grace?”

My hand fell, slow. I turned just enough to see the man across the street. Older. Thick coat. His store sign swung gently above him—dry goods. He was locking up, half in, half out the door.

I offered a nod. Nothing more.

He chuckled. Not mean, just tired. “She’s alright. Her and Bo both. Took sick, maybe. Word is she’s been out for two days. Bo’s been back and forth quiet-like. He’s home now. Taking care of her, I’d guess.”

His voice was casual, but it didn’t land right. My stomach pulled tight.

“Thanks,” I said soft, barely above the hush of the wind. Just enough to pass.

He tipped his hat and disappeared into the warmth of his store, door shutting behind him like punctuation.

I stood there a beat longer, just watching the door. The silence around the shop didn’t hum with illness. It hummed with absence.

Still—I crouched low and slipped the folded letter under her door. Just like before. Quick. Clean.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t wait.

Just turned and made my way back to the house, faster now. The shadows felt thicker. The road shorter. Like something was following me home.

———

The house looked just the same as when I left it—tilted quiet, half-forgotten, the way places get when they’ve seen too much. The porch creaked beneath my feet, but only once. I pushed the door open slow, stepping into the stale hush that lived between these walls.

Inside smelled like wood smoke and old iron. The kind of scent that clings to grief.

Remmick was in the parlor, long legs stretched out, one boot propped on the table. He was toying with a deck of cards, shuffling with one hand while the other cradled a glass of something dark. His eyes stayed on the cards.

“Well?” he asked, voice lazy.

“Didn’t see no one,” I said, brushing my sleeves off. “Nothing but trees and dirt. Think they’re gone now.”

He nodded slow, like he already knew. “Good. Gettin’ real tired of lookin’ over my shoulder.”

I walked past him and sank down on the couch, letting my breath out slower than I should’ve. The fabric under me still held the shape of his weight from earlier. He’d been there not long ago, waiting for something.

His eyes flicked up to me once—just a glance—and then back to the cards.

“You did good,” he said. Smooth. Steady. “Ain’t nobody better I’d trust to check.”

I hummed, not bothering to answer.

He didn’t press.

Didn’t notice the way I dug my thumbnail into my palm just to stay here, in this moment, in this lie I had to wear like skin.

Didn’t notice how I was listening—for movement, for footsteps upstairs, for the scrape of someone else in the dark.

I leaned my head back against the cushion, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, where the wood grain twisted into patterns I used to trace in dreams. Now I couldn’t stop seeing them shift like they were trying to spell out a warning.

“You tired?” he asked after a while.

I shrugged.

Remmick cut the deck again. “You been quiet lately.”

“Just thinkin’.”

“Dangerous thing to do in this house,” he muttered with a smirk.

He tossed a card on the table face-up.

The devil.

I stared at it. Couldn’t look away.

He watched me then. Not just glanced. Watched.

I felt it.

“Somethin’ botherin’ you, darlin’?”

I turned my face slow, gave him a smile I didn’t feel. “No. Just tired. Like you said.”

He smiled back, like that answer pleased him.

But I could tell he was listening harder now.

I shifted on the couch and let my eyes close. Just for a moment. Just long enough to make him think I was at ease.

But I wasn’t.

Grace was missing.

Bo too.

Remmick hadn’t suspected a thing. Not yet.

But this plan I’d been shaping in shadows? It was slipping through my fingers like water, and I didn’t know how many more nights I had left before he caught me trying to hold it.

——

The street felt longer this time.

Quieter, too.

I walked with my head down, arms wrapped around myself like that could keep the ache in my ribs from spreading. Remmick was out again, gathering what scraps he could—new bodies, new followers, anyone who could fill the void of the ones he’d lost. And I was left to sit in the hollow of his house, mind chewing itself raw.

Grace hadn’t reached out.

Not a whisper. Not a sign.

Something twisted in me the longer I waited, and by the time I pulled my shawl over my shoulders and stepped into the night, I already knew I wouldn’t come back whole.

Her house came into view at the edge of the lane—familiar and wrong all at once. The blinds were drawn. The porch light was off. Stillness pressed up against the walls like something holding its breath.

I climbed the steps slow.

Knocked once.

Waited.

Another knock.

My pulse started up in my throat, heavy and loud, until—

The door opened.

And there she was.

Grace.

Same face, same eyes, but not the same woman who once whispered promises in the back of her shop.

She didn’t look sick. Didn’t look surprised.

Just tired.

Like she’d already made up her mind before I even got there.

“Grace,” I breathed, relief and confusion tangling in my voice. “I’ve been waitin’ for word—what happened? Are you alright?”

She looked at me for a long moment before she spoke. No hug. No warmth.

Just cool, clipped words.

“I can’t help you no more, Y/N.”

My breath caught.

“What?”

She crossed her arms. “Whatever it is you’re stirrin’ up, it’s followin’ you. You done brought danger to my door, and I can’t let it near Bo , Lisa or me again. Not now.”

I blinked, heat rushing to my face.

“But you said—Grace, you said if I ever needed—”

“That was before,” she said, voice hardening. “Before I realized what you’d turned into. What’s waitin’ in the woods behind you.”

She looked past me then.

Not at the trees.

At what she thought I’d become.

I shook my head, mouth parting, searching for words that might save whatever this was. “I’m still me—Grace, please—”

“I need you to go.”

And with that, she closed the door.

Didn’t slam it. Just shut it soft.

Final.

I stood there, staring at the wood, like maybe it’d open back up and undo what just happened.

But it didn’t.

The porch creaked as I sank down onto the top step, arms limp at my sides. The air had that thick weight to it again, the kind that made your bones ache like they remembered something awful.

My last string to Sammie was cut.

I didn’t even know if he’d gotten my note.

Didn’t know if he was alive. Or hiding. Or already lost to Remmick’s hunger.

I didn’t cry.

Didn’t have anything left in me for that.

I just sat there, for what felt like hours, until the wind shifted and I knew I had to move.

———

The house felt colder when I returned.

Not in temperature—just in presence.

Like it knew something had changed.

I pushed through the door, not bothering to close it quiet this time. The shadows felt heavier. My skin prickled like the walls were watching.

I drifted through the parlor, my steps slow, heavy. Sank into the couch, my eyes fixed on nothing. Time blurred. I could still feel the echo of Grace’s voice, the chill behind her words.

I stayed there until I heard the latch click.

The front door creaked open.

Bootsteps.

Remmick.

He stepped in with his usual ease, closing the door behind him. His shirt was wrinkled. Dust clung to his cuffs. His eyes locked onto me, curious at first.

But I didn’t give him time to ask.

I stood.

Crossed the space in three sharp steps.

And kissed him.

Hard.

His mouth met mine with that familiar pressure, warm and dangerous, and for once I didn’t flinch from it. My hands curled into his shirt, fingers pulling him down into me, my breath caught somewhere between fury and grief.

He staggered back a step with me in his arms, mouth moving against mine with a growl of surprise, then heat. His hands found my waist—firm, possessive.

I kissed him like I needed to forget.

And maybe I did.

Forget Grace.

Forget the weight of a name nobody said anymore.

Forget that I’d lost the only person left who believed I was worth saving.

He didn’t ask what I was running from.

Didn’t need to.

Because Remmick knew what it looked like when something broke in you.

And he knew how to kiss like it was the cure.

Even if it was just another poison I drank too willingly.

Even if I was the one reaching for the bottle Again.

———

I waited until the moon sat high and clean above the trees before slipping out again, coat pulled tight over my frame, the last chill of daylight still clinging to the edges of the wind. Remmick was still hunting what he’d lost — what he thought he could recreate with blood and sweet talk. He didn’t ask where I was going tonight. Just told me, quiet and easy, “Be back before it’s too late.”

Too late for who, I didn’t ask.

The road to town stretched long, silent. My boots crunched softly over gravel, a sound that felt too loud for the kind of thoughts I was carrying. I counted the minutes with each step, mind racing faster than my feet. I needed clarity. Grace’s face hadn’t left my mind since she shut that door in it. Something was wrong, and I couldn’t let it go.

I turned onto Main, the familiar wooden storefronts all shadowed in lamplight and memory. I spotted the dry goods store across from Grace’s shop — the one where that older man had spoken to me before. I approached slow, cautious. The windows glowed from within.

I stopped at the edge of the porch and knocked gently against the doorframe. Not too loud. Not too soft. Just enough to say: I don’t mean no harm.

The man inside looked up from behind the counter. Recognition lit up his face, though he squinted just the same, like he wasn’t quite sure if I was real or not.

“Evenin’,” I said, voice calm but low. “Can I come in?”

He hesitated for a second, then gave a small nod.

“Come in, sure,” he said, walking over to unlock the door. “Don’t often get visitors this late, but it’s your kind of hour, I suppose.”

I stepped inside, the warmth of the store meeting me like a familiar hush. It smelled like cedarwood, dust, and old paper — like things that kept secrets.

He moved behind the counter again, leaning slightly against it as he regarded me. “You lookin’ better than last time I saw you. Seemed a little… restless then.”

I gave a small smile, not enough to reach my eyes. “Still restless.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Ain’t we all.”

I didn’t waste time. “You remember what you said about Grace being sick?”

He blinked. “Sure.”

“Well, I saw her. She ain’t sick. And she wasn’t surprised to see me. She just… shut me out. Like I was poison.”

His frown deepened. He scratched his head, gaze drifting toward the window like the answer might be hiding outside. “I don’t know what’s what no more. She and Bo kept to themselves the past couple days. Didn’t even open the shop since you came by. But I do recall…” His fingers tapped rhythm on the wood. “Something strange.”

He snapped his fingers suddenly, his expression lighting up. “Damn near forgot!”

He ducked behind the counter, rummaging through drawers and stacked papers until he pulled out a folded note — weathered but intact.

“Grace gave me this in a hurry a few nights back. Told me if a woman came lookin’ for her at night — to hand it over. No name, just a description. Figured it was you.”

My fingers trembled as I took it. “Thank you,” I said, voice soft.

He nodded, already turning back to wipe down a nearby shelf. “Hope it clears somethin’ up.”

I unfolded the paper with care, and Grace’s familiar script met my eyes like a balm and a blade:

Y/N—

He got it. Your letter. Sammie read every word.

I don’t have a reply from him — he didn’t risk sendin’ one.

Things got bad quick. Too many eyes. I’m layin’ low for now, maybe longer.

But listen close —

Sammie and Smoke are heading north. Five days from when you sent the letter.

He’ll wait as long as he can, but once the time comes, he has to go.

It’s not safe to stay.

I don’t know when you’ll get this, but you’ll have to move fast. Here’s where to look——

God keep you.

–G

The words rang through me like a bell toll.

Five days.

I counted backward in my head, trying not to panic. Three had already slipped through my fingers. Two remained — if I was lucky. If he was.

I closed the letter, fingers stiff, and slid it into my pocket with trembling care. I turned for the door.

“Thank you again,” I said over my shoulder, not waiting for him to reply.

Outside, the wind bit a little harder. I pulled my coat tighter and walked with purpose toward the alleyway.

No one followed.

The trash can waited like a sentinel.

I tore the note into pieces, sharp and fast, letting them fall into the dark.

Gone.

Gone like the chance I was clawing to keep hold of.

I looked once more at the glowing windows of Grace’s house in the distance. Still drawn. Still closed.

And then I walked back toward the house I shared with the devil — heart pounding like a drum, like war.

——

Remmick was still gone when I got there.

But not for long.

And the next move would have to be mine.

The plan was set. Rough around the edges, held together by frayed nerves and desperate hope—but it was all I had. Tomorrow night, it would be enacted. No more waiting. No more second-guessing.If all went well, I’d be gone.Possibly leaving Remmick behind. The thought pierced deeper than I’d anticipated. A dull ache settled in my chest, one I couldn’t quite name. 

I sat on the couch, the room dimly lit, lost in my thoughts when the door creaked open.Remmick entered, exhaling a sigh that spoke of exhaustion. He moved with a weariness that seemed to seep into the room. He settled into a dining chair behind me, the weight of the day evident in his posture.

“Things are moving slower than I’d like,” he began, his voice tinged with frustration. “People are hesitant, resistant. It’s… taxing.”

I nodded, offering a noncommittal hum.

After a pause, he asked, “Any updates on Sammie’s whereabouts?”

My heart skipped a beat. “No,” I replied quickly. “Nothing concrete. The town’s been quiet.” 

He studied me for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re sure?” 

I forced a smile. “Positive. If I had anything, you’d be the first to know.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied.The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I stood, the need to bridge the distance overwhelming. I walked over to him, noting the way his shirt was discarded to the side, suspenders hanging loosely at his waist.His eyes met mine, a glint of red flickering in their depths as I settled onto his lap.

“Just wait a little longer,” I murmured, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Who knows? Sammie might just walk to you.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rough. His hand found my waist, pulling me closer.

“Or maybe I’ll find him,” he said, voice a whisper against my skin, “because I never lost him.”

A shiver ran down my spine. I silenced him with a kiss, desperate to drown out the implications of his words. I didn’t want to hear the rest. Didn’t want to know if he was bluffin’ or boastin’.I just needed to forget.

I slid off his lap, down to my knees between his thighs. My hands moved on instinct, unfastening the button at his waist, pulling the fabric down slow. His cock was already half-hard, twitching to life under my touch.

Remmick watched me with a quiet, ravenous hunger, his eyes flickering red like they remembered old wars.

“You sure about this?” he murmured, voice dipped in syrup.

“No,” I whispered. “But I ain’t stoppin’.”

I wrapped my lips around him, taking him slow, tasting the salt and musk of him as I worked my tongue down his shaft. His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. His hand curled into my hair, not pushing—just there. Guiding. Praising.I sucked harder, deeper, letting him hit the back of my throat, letting him feel every inch of my want and denial.

He cursed, low and shaky. “Fuck, darlin’. You feel like you’re prayin’ with your mouth.”

His hips rolled, shallow thrusts meeting the rhythm of my mouth. He tasted like power. Like a promise I didn’t want to keep.My hands slid up his thighs, holding him steady as he twitched in my mouth, his moans climbing higher. Faster.

Until he bucked hard, one hand clenched in my hair, spilling into me with a growl that sounded like a broken vow.I stayed there a moment, letting him ride it out, then pulled back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to breathe through the weight in my chest.Afterward, the room was silent save for our mingled breaths. I rested against him, heart pounding, mind racing.

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, eyes searching mine.

“You won’t leave me now, would you, darlin’?”

I hesitated, then shook my head slowly.A smile touched his lips. “Good. Wouldn’t want the woman I love to leave me to forever loneliness.”

The words struck me, a mix of warmth and dread curling in my stomach. I buried my face in his neck, the weight of my decision pressing down on me.

——

The moon wore a veil of clouds tonight, like it didn’t want to bear witness to what was about to happen. Half-bright and mean-looking, it hovered above me as I crept away from the house like a thief in the dark. Remmick had already left—gone off chasing ghosts and pieces of a plan falling apart in his own hands. Said he’d be back before sunrise. I knew he would.

And I knew I wouldn’t be.

This was it. No more stalling. No more swallowing screams in that house where the walls watched me breathe. My plan—frayed at the seams and stitched with desperation—was all I had now. And if the stars were kind, it might buy me a few hours’ head start.

I followed the path Grace had described, further from town than I expected. The ground grew rockier, the trees thicker. Shadows pressed in close. My nerves were wired so tight, every rustle in the trees felt like someone whisperin’ my name. But I kept walking. I had to. The house wasn’t far now. I saw it through the branches—a small thing, hunched in the dark with a car parked in front. A flicker of breath escaped me. Relief. They hadn’t left yet. Grace’s directions had been good. I hadn’t been followed. Not yet.

My steps quickened, hope making me reckless.

And then—I froze.A rustle in the trees behind me. Not the wind.

My skin went tight. My body wanted to run, scream, fight—but I stood there locked in place like prey.Then something small burst out of the treeline.I nearly screamed. Nearly ran. But the shape straightened. A face I knew.

“Grace?” I whispered.

She stumbled toward me, her breaths ragged, tears streaking her cheeks. Her dress was torn, her hair wild.

“They got them,” she sobbed, falling into my arms. “Bo—Amy—oh God, I watched them turn ‘em right in front of me. I hid, I ran, but they—they knew, Y/N. They knew.”

I held her close, one arm locked around her trembling body as the other reached instinctively for the gun hidden in my waistband. My stomach sank with her words.

This wasn’t just a ruined plan. It was a massacre in motion.

“We have to go,” I breathed. “Now.”

The two of us ran the rest of the way to the house. My mind was already racing. I didn’t know if they’d followed Grace, if they’d followed me, if they were already here—but I wasn’t about to lose this chance.

I pounded on the door.

It opened so fast it startled me.

Smoke stood there, rifle raised—but the moment he saw our faces, his expression broke wide.

“Y/N? Grace?”

“Can we come in?,” I gasped. “Now.”

“Yea.”He stepped back fast, letting us in. He looked both ways before slamming the door shut behind us.

Inside, Sammie was in the hallway, tense and alert—eyes wide as he saw us. Then soft, just for a second. He was alive.

I rushed to him and pulled him into a hug. The weight of his arms around me almost brought me to my knees. He smelled like sweat and pine and something old and burnt.Then I saw it. A claw mark across his cheek, still scabbed and angry. I reached for it. He lowered his head like he was ashamed.

“Remmick,” he said quietly.I said nothing. Just dropped my hand.Smoke locked every window, checked every corner. We gathered in the parlor, breathing too loud, too fast.We shared what we knew—Grace telling how Bo and Amy were caught. I told them what Remmick had lied about. What he was building. What I let him build.None of us had words for what sat in the room with us. We just knew we had to go.

Smoke pulled a heavy sack from the floor. “We leave now,” he said. “They’ll trace Grace’s steps soon enough.”

I nodded, numb. My hands moved on their own, grabbing bags, helping load the car. It was muscle memory. Fight or flight. Survive.Outside, the wind stirred the trees.Grace tugged at my arm, pulling me aside as the others worked.

“I think we should stay another night,” she whispered. “Just till things calm a little. It’s too sudden. We’ll draw less attention—”

“Grace,” I said gently, but stopped.

Something was wrong.

“G…Grace,” I said again, and my voice cracked. “You’re—you’re drooling.”

She wiped her mouth. But it was too slow. Too calm.Her lips stretched into a smile that wasn’t hers.

“Guess the cat’s out the bag.”

I stumbled back.

“Smoke!” I shouted.

He turned just as Grace’s eyes went white, glowing like a lantern lit from within.

“Ah, shit,” he breathed.

Too late.From the trees, more figures emerged. Calm. Confident.

Bo. Stack. Amy.

Grinning.

Like puppets with the strings still showing.My stomach flipped. I counted bodies.

Annie. Mary. More of them. All the ones Remmick said had died.Liars. Every last one of them. Or maybe just him.

And then—there he was.

Remmick.

Stepping through the trees like he never left them.

He looked just the same. Dusty boots. Rolled sleeves. Hair damp with effort. But his eyes?

His eyes burned.

“Should I call this a family reunion?” he drawled, voice cutting through the night like a whip.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. I wanted to scream, to cry, to laugh from how stupid I’d been.

“You fuckin’ liar—”

He cut me off with a soft tsk. “Now, now. Don’t give me that, Y/N. You been lyin’ to me since day one. Thought it was only fair to give it back in double.”

The others fanned out, blocking the car, the trees, the road. There was nowhere left to run.

“I kept an eye on you,” Remmick said, stepping closer, every word heavy. “Even when you thought I wasn’t around. Every errand. Every letter. Every secret little knock on some poor girl’s door—I saw it. You think you were foolin’ me, baby? I let you.”

My mouth opened—but I couldn’t find a lie good enough to cover the hurt.

“You played me like a fiddle,” he said, voice suddenly sharp. “But only one of us got stuck. Only one of us saw the bigger picture . And now look what you done. Wasted time. Endangered what I built. You think I waited centuries for this just to let you get in the way?”

His voice dropped to a growl. “I could’ve made you a queen. Instead, you chose to be a warnin’.”

The pain hit like a slap.

But it wasn’t the betrayal.

It was the shame.

Because I had loved him.

Even when I shouldn’t have.

Even now.

Smoke stumbled, wounded and breathing heavy, his arm barely lifting the rifle. Sammie moved to help—but Remmick was already there.

He grabbed Sammie by the collar, mouth open, teeth sharp—

I didn’t think.

I just moved.

Grabbed the gun from the dirt, raised it, and fired.The shot cracked through the clearing.Remmick dropped Sammie, staggering back, shock and fury twisting his face.

He turned to me.Eyes burning. Hurt. Betrayed.

“You really wanna do this, darlin’?” he whispered.

I didn’t know I was crying until the tears reached my lips. “I can’t let you make anyone else suffer. You’ve done enough.”

The moon tilted in the sky, shifting just enough that I could see the edge of morning begin to rise.Sammie struggled to his feet, limping.

“I should’ve never let you play with my plan,” Remmick said, quiet now. “I guess… my love for you was my weakness.”

Sammie grabbed the stake. I saw it. Saw him raise it behind Remmick.

I dropped the gun.I stepped forward.

And kissed him.

Remmick stiffened. Shocked.His hand cupped my face. For a moment, it was just us again.

And then—

“Do it, Sammie,” I yelled.

The stake drove through his back.

And into my chest.Pain like I’d never known.

He snarled.

I gasped.

“You were never meant to be mine in this life,” I whispered, forehead pressed to his. “But maybe in the next…”His skin began to blister then burn. The sun rose.

Screams echoed around us—his followers lighting up like bonfires as they tried to run.He tried to pull away.

But I held him.Held him until the flames took us both.

And everything went black.

———

1985

Somewhere in Louisiana

The market smelled like July holdin’ its breath—hot tar, overripe peaches, and molasses gone sour under the weight of the sun. A Marvin Gaye tune played low from a radio tucked behind a fruit stall, half-swallowed by the hum of cicadas and the thump of crates bein’ moved.

I came for coffee beans. That’s it.

But fate’s got a funny way of reroutin’ simple errands.

He passed me like a ghost wearin’ skin.

Not ‘cause he was fine—though he was.

White tee soft with time, tucked into jeans worn pale at the thighs. Denim jacket slung careless over one shoulder. Boots steady on the ground. Hair a mess like he’d just woken up from somethin’ deep.

But that ain’t why I stopped.

I stopped ‘cause my body knew before my heart remembered.

Like my bones stood still for someone they used to ache for.

He paused. Turned.

Brows drawn in like he was tryin’ to place me in a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

“‘Scuse me, miss,” he said, voice smooth as aged bourbon. “Do I… know you from somewhere?”

I blinked once. Twice.

“I—maybe,” I said. My voice came out soft, like it hadn’t spoken sorrow in years.

He smiled, half-tilted, cautious. “That’s funny. I was just about to say the same.”

I nodded slow. “You ever been down to Mississippi?”

His smile dipped, then stilled. “Once. Long time ago.”

That somethin’ passed between us—

not quite tension. Not quite peace.

Just an old ache that ain’t ever learned how to die.

He stepped closer, like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.

“I know this is a little forward,” he said, reachin’ in his pocket, pullin’ out a worn scrap of receipt paper and a pen, “but… would you wanna grab a drink sometime?”

My breath caught.

Not from surprise.

From remembrance.

That voice.

That tilt of the head.

That kind of question that could rearrange your whole life if you let it.

I didn’t let it show.

“Sure,” I said, smiling faint. “I’d like that.”

He scribbled down a number, handed me the paper like it held somethin’ sacred.

I took it, my fingers brushing his.

“Remmick,” he said.

“Y/N,” I answered, just as quiet.

His eyes searched mine for a second too long. Somethin’ flickered there—like déjà vu grippin’ his ribs too tight.

Then—

“Y/N!” a voice called out behind me, sharp as a church bell on Sunday morning.

“You gon’ make us miss The Movie! Move your feet, girl!”

I turned quick to see Mary, arms crossed, grin wide watching my exchange.

“Oh—sorry!” I laughed, half-startled, shakin’ my head as I gathered my bags. “I’ll call you later,” I told him, already steppin’ backward.

“Hope you do,” he said, lips curvin’ easy.

I turned toward Mary, my heart beatin’ fast for no reason I could name.

Behind me, he watched.

Eyes flickered red—

Just for a second.Gone before the blink finished.

And when I looked back one last time—

he was walkin’ away, hands in his pockets, hummin’ low to the rhythm of a song only he remembered.

[cherry-lala]

Some things Don't End, They Echo

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing: Female! Reader x Remmick  

Genre: Southern Gothic, Supernatural Thriller, Dark Romance, Psychological Horror. Word Count:11.4k+

Summary: The dance continues in a world unraveling at the seams, where ghosts wear familiar faces and every silence hides a price. As Y/N moves through shadows thick with hunger and half-truths, she must decide what kind of freedom is worth the ache—and whether redemption can bloom in soil soaked with sorrow.

Content Warning: Emotional and physical abuse, manipulation, supernatural themes, implied and explicit violence, betrayal, transformation lore, body horror elements, graphic depictions of blood, intense psychological and emotional distress, explicit sexual content (including bloodplay, coercion, and power imbalance), references to domestic conflict, mind control, and religious imagery involving damnation and corrupted salvation. Let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Here it is—Part 2 (and the final chapter) to The Devil Waits Where Wildflowers Grow, the one so many of y’all asked for. I enjoyed watching this, even with exams beating me around. Writing it was a comfort, a catharsis—and your support on Part 1 meant the world. Thank you for every comment, like, and reblog. You kept me going. As always, I hope it haunts you just right. Again, Likes, reblogs, and Comments are always appreciated.

Taglist: @alastorhazbin, @jakecockley, @dezibou

The room smelled like lavender and starch, thick with the stillness only Sunday mornings knew.

Mama hummed a hymn under her breath, the notes trembling like moth wings in the golden light.

I stood still in front of the mirror, hands folded over the folds of my white cotton dress.

White gloves. White socks with the little lace trim.

The picture of innocence, shaped by hands that still believed innocence could be preserved if tied tight enough.

Mama’s fingers, careful and calloused, smoothed my sleeves. She tucked a wild curl behind my ear and smiled at me through the mirror — a tired, proud smile she saved only for mornings like these.

“Pretty as a picture,” she said, her voice carrying all the love and all the fear a mother could fit into a few words.

I blinked.

And the world shifted.

I turned in her arms, meaning to reach up and hug her.

But somehow, suddenly — I was taller.

And she was older.

Her hands trembled on my shoulders, confusion flashing across her lined face.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Mama asked. Her voice cracked at the edges. “Why are you cryin’?”

I hadn’t even realized I was.

A tear slid hot and slow down my cheek, dripping onto the lace.

Before I could form words, Mama gasped — a raw, wounded sound — and stumbled back, the white ribbon slipping from her fingers to the floor like a dying bird.

I spun toward the mirror.

And saw it.

Saw me — but not the girl I was.

Not even the woman I thought I’d grow into.

No.

The thing in the glass wore my face, but wrong.

Eyes black as cinders, ringed in a seeping red that ran down my cheeks like melting wax.

My mouth hung open — a silent scream caught behind broken lips.

The white dress, once so carefully pressed, now bloomed with stains the color of old blood.

Mama pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

Her voice came out in a whisper too full of knowing to be anything but truth.

“The devil has visited you… and left a raven’s feather at your door.

And you — you accepted it.”

I spun toward her, arms reaching — pleading —

“Mama, no—!”

But the floor cracked open first.

A black mist poured out like smoke from a curse long buried.

It wrapped around her ankles, her knees, her throat.

Her body jerked once — then dissolved into ash, crumbling through the air like burned prayer paper.

And through the mist, a mouth formed.

That mouth.

That smile I had trusted.

The one that once whispered safety under the stars, now pulled wide in a predator’s grin.

The world tilted.

Blurring.

Fading.

I came back to myself with a ragged breath, choking on the thick air of a dark, unfamiliar room on the floor, cold sweat clinging to my back, the faint flicker of an oil lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The room dim and silent, except for the slow creak of wood… and the quiet hum of breath that wasn’t mine.

Sitting across the room, watching me carefully — was Stack.

At first, my heart leapt — a familiar face in a world gone cold.

I almost ran to him — almost — until I caught the gleam in his eyes.

Not brown.

Not human.

But white.

Blazing and empty as a snowfield under a full moon.

His smile stretched just a little too wide.

Predatory.

Slouched in the chair across the room, arms folded, watching me with a patience that felt wrong.

“What…” I rasped, backing toward the dresser, “what happened to you?”

My voice trembled. “What are you?”

The mirror above the dresser caught me just as I turned.

I saw my own eyes — or what used to be mine.

Pitch black. Red glowing like coals flickering deep in the hearth.

A fire that didn’t warm — just warned.

I stumbled back, mouth opening with a soundless gasp.

Stack chuckled, low and lazy like the devil warming up a sermon.

“I’m like you now,” he said, tilting his head as if showing off the whites of his eyes. “Well… kinda. He gifted us freedom. From all that heartbreak, all that heaviness. Gave you freedom the way you thought was best.”

Desperation gripped me.

I lunged for the window, tearing the heavy curtains aside.

Sunlight poured in.

It hit my skin—

and the world fractured.

It wasn’t fire.

It wasn’t pain.

It was terror.

Ripping through my mind like a pack of wolves.

The golden light twisted into knives, slicing into every hidden corner of me — dredging up every buried fear, every secret shame, every broken promise.

The sun I used to love—

the warmth that once kissed my skin—

now roared inside my skull like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

I collapsed, a hoarse, broken scream tearing from my chest.

Clawing at the floor, at the walls, trying to escape what was already inside me.

Stack watched.

Silent.

Almost sad.

He reached out with a casual hand, pulling the curtains closed again.

The light vanished.

I lay there, a trembling wreck, sobbing into the dusty boards.

Stack crouched low beside me, voice dropping soft and cold as winter mud:

“She’ll learn,” he said.

“This life’s better for her.

True freedom.”

His boots scraped the floor as he stood again, leaving me crumpled there.

The door clicked shut behind Stack, and for a moment, the room was quiet again — too quiet.

Then came the sound.

Soft boots on old wood.

He was here.

Remmick.

The air changed with him, thickened until it tasted like copper on my tongue.

He crouched beside me, slow and easy, like he was soothing a frightened animal.

His hand brushed against my hair — a pet, a comfort, a mockery.

“You’re all better now,” he crooned, voice low and soft enough to make my teeth ache. “Sometimes… the first taste of freedom’s too sweet for a belly that’s been filled with bitterness too long.”

I jerked away from his touch, scrambling back until my spine hit the cold dresser behind me.

The mirror rattled above it, showing me both of us:

Me — trembling, broken.

Him — smiling, patient.

Like a god admiring a sculpture he’d half-finished.

He didn’t follow.

Just stayed crouched there, red eyes gleaming like coals, eyebrows lifted in that innocent, boyish way that used to warm me from the inside out.

Now it just made my heart twist the wrong way.

Not because I hated him.

Because I still loved him.

And love like that…

It’s worse than hate.

It’s the knife you twist in yourself.

I choked on a sob, the words clawing free without thought.

“Why did you turn me into this monster?” I whispered. “This ain’t freedom… it ain’t even enslavement. It’s worse.”

Remmick’s mouth pulled into something almost pitying. Almost.

He stood slow, dust shifting off his shirt.

“I only did what you asked of me,” he said, voice syrupy sweet. “Don’t talk like I didn’t give you a choice. You wanted this, darlin’. You begged for a way out. I just made the decision easier.”

His words spun the air — circles with no end, no beginning.

“But it’s alright,” he drawled, stepping back, giving me room to breathe and suffocate at once. “Once I find lil’ ole Sammie… this lick of freedom will be just a taste of what’s to come.”

At Sammie’s name, my heart leapt.

He was alive.

Maybe others were, too.

I clutched at that hope with trembling fingers, already piecing together desperate plans. Run. Warn him. Stop Remmick.

But Remmick chuckled low in his throat, like he could taste my thoughts.

He dropped into the chair Stack had occupied moments before, sprawling like he owned the whole damned world.

“Oh, darlin’,” he said, voice dripping pity. “Don’t be so eager. Sammie won’t trust you no more than he trusts me. Thinks you’re the devil’s pawn now—”

“Fuck you!” I snapped, the venom lashing out before I could leash it.

He didn’t flinch.

Just smiled wider.

A crescent moon smile. Hungry.

“Aw, no need to get upset,” he cooed. “I’m doing this for the best, you see. For me. For you. For all those poor souls that ache for a world without chains.”

His eyes shone when he spoke. Like he believed it. Like he tasted salvation and didn’t even know it was poison.

“You don’t know what’s best for me,” I hissed, fists curling tight enough to split new claws into my palms. “You never did. You preyed on my need for compassion. For hope. Fed me lies, called it love.

You’re no savior.

You’re just a lost soul that drunk the wine of lies and deceived yourself.”

For the first time, Remmick’s smile faltered.

Just a flicker.

He dropped his gaze to his hands, turning them over slow, as if even he didn’t recognize what he’d become.

When he looked back up, his face was empty.

“Never said I was a savior,” he murmured. “Only came to set the captives free. To bring peace to a broken world. And…”

His lips twitched up again.

“Well, I guess I did come to save after all.

Look at you, darlin’. Finally usin’ that pretty head.”

He turned, heading for the open door with lazy grace.

“I’m going to warn them,” I spat after him, my voice shaking with fury and terror. “I’ll find Sammie. Even if it kills me.”

He paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder.

A shadow stretched long behind him, darker than night itself.

“So stubborn,” he mused. “No vision.”

He tapped his lips, mock-thoughtful.

“But that’s why I didn’t turn you fully.

You fight too much.

You keep me… entertained.”

His smile sharpened.

“But don’t think I came unprepared, darlin’,” he said, voice sinking low. “When I changed you, I made sure you couldn’t end it easy.

Didn’t want you throwin’ yourself into the sun like some tragic heroine.”

He shook his head, tsking.

“I left you more living than dead. Call it mercy,” he said. 

His voice thickened, dragging the room down with it.

“And now?

The sun don’t kill you.

It holds you.

Burns your mind.

Plays every mistake, every grief, every lie you ever swallowed — on a loop.

That’s your true punishment, sweetheart.”

He stepped into the hall.

Paused just long enough to drive the last nail into me.

“Now you’ll finally see just how close you’ve always been to the devil.”

The door closed with a whisper of finality.

The door closed with a whisper—quiet as sin, soft as silk over a blade.

And I shattered.

My fists struck the dresser like thunder begging to be heard, splinters flying like a cry unsaid.

The mirror spiderwebbed outward, each crack a fault line in my chest.

The lamp flickered—once, twice—then danced wild shadows across the wreckage of the room.

Shadows that didn’t move like they used to.

I dropped, sobbing.

Raw.

Broken open like fruit too ripe for this world.

Tears carved tracks down my cheeks, hot as blood.

And in the fractured glass, she stared back.

Me.

But not.

Black-eyed.

Twisted.

Monstrous.

I had become the thing I swore I never would.

The thing I once pitied.

The thing I feared.

I had tasted freedom… and drank too deep.

And now?

The devil wore my face.

That quiet little sound—just a door closing—rattled through me like a funeral bell.

It echoed too loud.

Too final.

Like the world had whispered its last breath and left me behind to rot in the stillness.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Not really.

The silence pressed in—soft at first, then tight, cruel.

Like fingers around my throat, wrapping around my ribs, filling the hollows of me where hope used to live.

Squeezing.

I backed away from the door on legs that no longer felt like mine.

My fingers shook—not from fear.

From truth.

Because I understood now.

Not just what I was—

But what I’d lost.

No freedom.

No peace.

No promise.

Just a hollow thing with something vile curling inside her chest.

A mistake dressed in skin.

I staggered.

My knees buckled, and the floor met me hard.

My chest heaved like it remembered how to cry for help, but the air wouldn’t come.

All I could feel was him.

Remmick.

Still here. Still everywhere.

His voice smeared across the walls like oil.

Like blood.

“You’re always closest to the devil.”

And that smile.

God.

That fucking smile.

My hands clawed at my chest, trying to hold on to something warm, something human—

but all I touched was the burn.

It pulsed.

Grief.

Rage.

The taste of love soured and rusted on the back of my tongue.

I choked on it.

Choked on the truth.

Choked on the ache of still loving the thing that broke me.

Because that’s what he did.

He cracked me open and called it mercy.

Called it freedom.

And I let him.

I followed him down, thinking his voice meant salvation.

And now?

Now I didn’t know what I was.

A woman?

A monster?

A memory?

Just a shell shaped like me.

I dragged myself to the mirror, arm trembling.

Bones screamed under skin that didn’t bruise like it used to.

And when I looked up—

She looked back.

Not me.

Not anymore.

Eyes like polished obsidian.

A red glow flickering deep inside like the devil left a candle burning just beneath the surface.

Like coals waiting for breath.

I touched the glass.

It was cold.

And it didn’t feel like mine.

And for the first time—honest and low—I whispered it.

“I’m not strong enough.”

Not for this.

Not for what’s coming.

Not to stop Remmick.

Not to bear this hunger in my blood, this weight in my bones.

Not when part of me…

still wanted him.

Still ached for the sound of his voice.

Still dreamed of his hands.

Still missed the lie of being chosen.

The tears came quiet now.

Not hot like before.

Just steady.

As if I was already halfway gone.

The room swayed, broken, tilting on some axis I couldn’t fix.

I curled up.

Surrounded by shattered glass

and the dust

of a woman I used to be.

Because now I saw it clear:

Remmick didn’t destroy me.

He rewrote me.

And I didn’t know if there was a way back.

Not anymore.

———

Sunlight. Soft, dappled through the canopy overhead like God’s own fingers pressed gentle against the earth.

I was little again.

Knees diggin’ into warm dirt out behind Mama’s house, the kind that clung to skin and crept under fingernails. The hem of my baby blue dress puddled around me, streaked with grass stains and the green breath of summer. My breath came light. Easy. Like I’d never known sorrow.

In my small, shaking palms, a bird fluttered. A little thing — brown wings tremblin’ like paper caught in a storm. It looked up at me with one eye, scared but still trustin’. Caught between dyin’ and hopin’ I might keep it.

“I’m gon’ fix you,” I whispered, voice soft as a prayer. “Mama says you gotta press gentle on the hurt. Let the hurt feel heard.”

I wrapped its crooked wing with Mama’s rag — one that still held the warmth of a stovetop — and moved careful, clumsy. My hands were filled with the shaky pride of a child who still believed love could mend what life broke.

“There,” I said, satisfaction curling around the word. “That’s better, huh?”

It didn’t answer, but it blinked at me. And that blink — Lord, that blink was enough. I set it down like I was settin’ down a blessing.

It stumbled. Hopped.

And then—by some mercy—it flew.

That’s how I remember it.

That’s the memory I held like gospel.

But memory lies.

Because when I blinked—

The world shifted.

The ground grew darker. Wet with somethin’ more than earth. The rag I’d tied ’round that little wing was soaked through — red and seeping.

The bird wasn’t flutterin’.

Wasn’t breathin’.

The rock sat beside it. Just there. Like it’d always been. Heavy. Stained.

And my hands — my baby hands — were red.

I gasped, staggered back like the sky’d tilted.

“No,” I whispered. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

The screen door behind me slammed open.

Mama stood there, her eyes wide and wild, brimmin’ with fury and shame.

“You killed it,” she hissed, voice like the strike of a switch. “Lord have mercy… what did you do?”

“I tried to help—”

Her finger pointed, shakin’ so hard I thought it might break right off. “You ain’t no healer. You’re a curse.”

The words hit me like stones. Like God Himself had turned His back.

“No,” I breathed. “No, I loved it. I loved it—”

But her face blurred. The edges of her eyes twistin’, meltin’.

The memory broke apart like ash.

And when she spoke again, it wasn’t her voice.

It was his.

Remmick’s voice. That slow, slick honey-coat of a man born of sweet lies and sharpened teeth.

“You’ve always been a killer,” he said.

“You just needed someone to show you how to be honest about it.”

———

I woke with a jolt, lungs burnin’. Another nightmare. Another slice of hell carved from the corners of my mind. I sat up in that dusty bed, heart jackhammerin’. Couldn’t rightly remember how I got there — just flashes of me, scribblin’ out a plan on scrap paper, mind runnin’ circles ’round Sammie.

It had happened twice now. Slippin’ like that. Losin’ whole hours to black. Like my brain weren’t mine no more.

Remmick hadn’t shown his face since. Just leavin’ me to rot in that room, watchin’ from shadows, waitin’ for me to break in two.

And maybe I already had.

Maybe that was the plan all along.

I pressed my hand to my chest. Couldn’t even trust my own thoughts. They felt borrowed. Bent.

Before I could blink again, the house filled with sound.

A choir.

No, not a choir.

Voices — too many, too close. Low and strange.I rose, legs stiff, bones screamin’. Walked slow to the curtain, peeled it back.

Moonlight sliced into the room.

Out there, just past the tree line, shapes moved. Dancin’.

No.

Spinnin’.

Hypnotic. Like they was caught in some kind of trance.

I opened the window without meanin’ to. The music crawled in. Sank under my skin.

It sounded like sorrow strung with sugar.

Before I knew it, the house was behind me. I was out there — feet crunchin’ twigs, heart poundin’. Every step felt like I was bein’ pulled by strings I couldn’t see.

They danced in a circle. Counter-clockwise. Backward. Like time rewound and never stopped. 

It almost felt like how it was back at the juke joint, something spiritual. Like a copy to some degree. But somethin was missin. Like eating a lemon but the taste is sweet than sour.

And in the center — Him.

Remmick.

He was smilin’. Eyes like burnin’ paper under moonlight.

He beckoned me forward, just like always. And I obeyed.

He grabbed my arm, pulled me in close — too close. The others danced on, hummin’ Merle in voices that didn’t sound like they came from mouths no more.

“You feel it don’ ya?” he said, his breath warm on my cheek. “You feel this energy, this magic, but you also feel how somethin’s missin.”

I couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t blink.

“That somethin’ missin is Sammie and his gift,” he said, low and smooth. “And the longer we wait, the more time is wasted on not bein’ truly one family.”

“And we don’ want that, now do we y/n?” Mary’s voice cut in like a blade, and there she stood — eyes white, smile gone bitter cold. “We just want to be one big happy free family.”

Tears welled up, but they wouldn’t fall. My body — my soul — refused to spill for them no more.

Then the pressure cracked.

My voice came back, and Lord, it came sharp.

“You say Sammie is that somethin’ missin, or is it really because you can never invoke the ancestors — past, present, and future — like Sammie can? You can never truly have that, because the people you turned will never have that connection that drawn you to the juke joi—”

He snatched my face in one hand. Squeezed ’til my cheeks burned.

His eyes flared, teeth grit.

“You just love to run that mouth of yours,” he said, too calm. “Should’ve just taken over your whole mind instead of half.”

That grin — it weren’t playful no more. It was mean.

“Don’t forget who at the end of the day can break this pretty mind of yours. Did it once. Don’t make me do it again. It’ll be worse than what hell the memories the sun can burn in that head.”

He shoved me hard.

My body moved without askin’. Stepped right back into the dance. Circle never broke.

And all I could do was watch through the window like eyes of mine.

Watch the world spin the wrong way.

Watch myself disappear.

———

The moment I came back to myself, it was like the dark got peeled off my eyes. Breath caught sharp in my chest. I shot up off from the same dusty bed, fast but quiet, hands movin’ like they already knew the truth was waitin’ where I left it. Dropped to my knees and lifted the warped floorboard — the one with that stubborn edge I had to dig at with the crook of my nail.

There it was.

Paper, curled and brittle with dust, still hidin’ where I’d stashed it. I pressed it flat on the little nightstand near the closet, fingers shakin’ as I picked up the stub of that pencil. Lead near gone, wood splintered at the tip — but I didn’t care.

I had to finish.

Didn’t matter if it took blood instead of graphite.

I wrote fast, every word scratchin’ against the paper like a cry from my chest. A warning. 

Then came footsteps.

My whole body froze.

Heavy. Sure. Drawin’ closer like the tickin’ of judgment.

Quick as I could, I folded that letter, shoved it back in its hidey hole, laid the board back down — just as the door creaked open.

Stack stood there, leanin’ in the doorway like he owned the place. That grin on his face made my stomach turn damn near inside out. Like he was proud of somethin’ that oughta haunt a man.

“Remmick wanna see you,” he said. “Don’ want no trouble. Just talk. His words, not mine.”

I stood slow, my limbs feelin’ older than they had any right to. Didn’t speak. Just followed behind him through them crooked halls, each step echoing like the house itself was watchin’.

He led me to another room — one I ain’t never been in before.

No bed.

Just two chairs.

And a chess table.

Door shut behind me with a hollow click that made my heart skip. Then I saw it — and God help me, I wished I hadn’t.

Remmick was sittin’ there, leanin’ back easy like a man on a front porch. Blood streaked from his mouth down to his bare chest, open shirt hangin’ loose like he ain’t had a care in the world. At his feet, slumped and still, was a man. Facedown. Dead lookin. Neck at the wrong angle. Gone cold.

I staggered.

My breath caught hard.

“Oh, no need to be worried, darlin’,” Remmick said smooth, like we was talkin’ over sweet tea. “He just got too close to where he wasn’t s’posed to be. Guess he wanted to join the family.”

His teeth shone through the blood. Sharp. Too many.

I opened my mouth — wanted to scream, cuss, beg, anything.

But I couldn’t.

Somethin’ else stole my focus.

“Aw, darlin’,” he drawled, that voice low and syrupy. “You droolin’.”

I blinked — felt warmth on my chin, lifted my hand to find it slick.

Thick.

warm.

“No,” I whispered. But it was true.

“You just hungry is all,” he said. “Come here. I can share.”

And I did.

Or rather, my body did.

Dropped to my knees, crawled across that splintered floor like a dog he’d called home. Every movement wasn’t mine but felt like mine all the same. Like my soul was screamin’ and my limbs just smiled.

He reached down, fingers under my chin, tiltin’ my face to his.

“No matter how much you resist it,” he murmured, “it’ll push back ten times harder.”

Then he kissed me.

Deep.

Long.

Blood warm on my lips on my tongue , seepin’ into the cracks like it belonged there. I moaned — not from pleasure, but from the horror of likin’ it for a split second. My hands climbed his thighs, desperate and trembling, until they found his arms and held on like I could keep myself from drownin’.

When he pulled back, he tapped my cheek real sweet, like a man might to a wife who made his supper just right.

“You look so much better with a lil’ blood on ya.”

My chest clenched.

Hard.

But I didn’t let it show.

“Remmick,” I croaked, voice cracked open down the middle, “why you so hellbent on makin’ me more of a monster than I already am? Can’t you let me fake it — just a lil’, for my own sake?”

He leaned in close, voice soft but cuttin’.

“You ain’t no monster, darlin’,” he said, brushin’ hair from my face. “You just a step forward to bein’ a goddess — my goodness. And if you’d just help me finish the plan, well… the world could be ours.”

His hand cupped my cheek like I was sacred.

But his words?

They tasted like honey poured over rot.

And still — I let it coat my tongue.

Even though I could already feel the cavities settin’ in.

——

Remmick takes my silence as support. I don’t say a word when he comes back with newly turned people or when he’s off on the manhunt for Sammie. I don’t say a word when he seeks me out after another failed attempt of finding Sammie. I don’t say a word when he comes back blistered and burned from the setting sun, cursing that them Natives found him again killing Annie and Mary -though the weight in my chest lifted a bit at that, knowing they were finally free now, along with a few others he so-called new family, saying that we had to leave by sunrise or they will kill us all.

 So we fled my note left at the front door. A woman taking clothes off the clothing line from a full day's dry in the sun is who his next victim was. He easily overpowered her and changed her and when she stood back up knocking on her door her husband opened it and invited her in with no hesitation she then turned him. The house was free to roam now. The day passed with no signs of the natives in the area and as soon as night fell again, Remmick was out again hunting down Sammie like a man starved. 

He has become restless but so did I. After he left I waited a few before changing out of the bloody dress I’ve been wearing since that night at the juke joint to whatever dress was in the closet in the first room I went in. I threw on a dainty brown hat before walking out of the house to town. I squeezed my hands into fists hoping that Grace didn’t close up her shop too early.

Once I reached town, the moon was high up and most of the businesses were already closed. Some folks were still out, bringing shipments into the shops before locking up. I made my way to Grace's shop, the light inside was still on but the door was locked. I quickly but quietly knocked on the glass and waited. The hushed background noise of conversation outside filled the empty space. 

As I was about to knock again I see her silhouette come from the back making her way to the front. She unlocks the door about to make a comment about how the shop is closed but when she locked eyes with me she ate her words. She quickly invited me in before locking the door behind her.

“I got your letter, them natives dropped it off to me earlier in the day.” She said getting straight to the point. “You said very little in the letter but I know it’s more you couldn’t share on paper.”

I nodded with a heavy sigh before hugging her, a sob breaking from my lips.

“Things are so fucked right now, Grace, everyone I knew is gone.”

She comforts me, patting my back, “news broke fast at what happened down at the juke joint, people say it was the klan but didn’t find any body’s. I’m just glad you’re alright,”

“That’s the thing Grace, I’m not alright. Something changed in me and I can’t even trust myself but I know I can trust you.” I gave her another folded piece of paper that I quickly wrote in before leaving earlier and handed it to her. “I know you and Bo know where Sammie and Smoke are laying low at but I don’t want you to tell me just pass this note to him please.” She nodded as she took it from my hand, a determined look on her face.

“I have to go now but please be safe out there, there’s more monsters lurking out there than the klan.”

After our exchange, I quickly headed back to the house. When I reached it there was no one in sight letting me know Remmick was still out on his crazed hunt. I opened the door; I entered the home easily as it didn’t know whether to let me in or keep me out. The clothing I wore tore the veil and I slipped in like I never left.

I tossed down the hat on the table in the kitchen, making my way to the room to change back into my old garbs before Remmick gets here. I opened the door as I began to unbutton the front of the dress.

“Went dancing without me, darlin’?” I jumped in my skin at the sudden voice and turned slowly before making eye contact with the culprit.

Remmick sat in the darkest corner in the room, tapping his long fingers on the armrest of the wooden chair. 

“I-I” the lie was caught in my throat as he stood reaching my shocked form. His sharp nails digging into my side and I wince a bit in pain. “No need to lie darlin, I’ve caught you with your hand in the sweets jar.”

I pushed his hands off me as I created space between us, sitting on the small bed in the room. “You knew I wasn’t going to sit here and let you continue your manhunt for Sammie and do nothing about.”

“Who did you meet with?” He ignores my previous words, and I scoff a bit. “No one that concerns you or your heinous plans.” I spit. A choked noise came from my throat as he wrapped his hands around it squeezing it; I gripped his wrist to try to pull it off me but he only squeezed it harder.

“I just keep on letting you get over on me because I care for you and all you want to do is destroy this plan of mines. Don’t you get it? I’m trying to make heaven on earth. Didn’t you want that? “ he lets go of me before taking a step back looking away from my choked form. “I didn’t want that, all I wanted was for you to save me from my life with Frank, from his hands. But now I see it, that you’re no better than him. I guess the devil does come in many forms.”

He sighs before kneeling in front of me, leaning his cheek on my thighs as he caresses them, “I’m sorry, darlin’ I got ahead of myself.” His voice soft now, his emotions giving me whiplash, “it’s just I lost them all today, them Natives never left from checking the premises and they killed them all,” he sounded defeated and I felt elated with this information, he’s at his lowest right now and I can now carve his mind the way I need to.

 “Oh wow, I-I’m sorry.” I say sadly, playing the part as I run my hands through his hair in a comforting way. “Maybe we should lay low for a while so they can get off our backs. The more we rush this, the more we lose.” He groaned at my words like he disagrees or doesn’t want to accept it. “I can’t stop; I’ve gone too far.

 This is the time I’ve been waiting for centuries and now that I have the opportunity in my grasp I won’t let it slip from me so easily, especially when it’s right in front of me.” I sigh in my head at his words knowin’ it wouldn’t be that easy to persuade him but at least I tried on to the next plan. “Well let me help you find Sammie.” He lifted up from my lap quickly a suspicious glint in his red eyes. “And why would you want to do that?” I can see his walls begin to build itself up again so I quickly respond “because now I see how you truly care to give people freedom from their pain and chains in this world and the longer I sit back and watch the more I wish to make a change even if it has to be by this way.” I say like I was reluctant to the idea but understand him.

He looks at me with those pouty eyebrows like something softened in him from my words, “Darlin’ you don’t know how much I needed those words.” He reaches his hand out caressing my cheek; we kept eye contact before he broke it looking at my lips before locking eyes with me again. Remmick stared up at me like I was the sin he’d spent centuries chasing.

The room reeked of blood and tension, the kind that coils tight and doesn’t let go until someone breaks.

His lips brushed mine—brief, testing—before I grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down hard, our mouths colliding like a war. It was messy, greedy, all tongue and breath and teeth. He tasted like heat and iron and the kind of ache that never goes away.

Clothes didn’t come off—they were ripped. Thread popped. Buttons scattered. Neither of us cared.

He shoved me down onto the bed, hands already between my thighs, spreading me open with a growl low in his chest.

“You’ve been starvin’ for this,” he hissed, fingers pressing where I needed them most.

“So have you,” I gasped, grinding down on his hand. “I can smell it on you.”

He chuckled darkly and dropped to his knees, dragging me to the edge of the bed. His mouth was on me in seconds—no hesitation. He licked like a man denied heaven, tongue greedy and practiced, lips curling into a smirk every time I gasped or bucked or cursed his name.

His fingers dug into my thighs, pinning me open. I came fast, hard, writhing under his mouth—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t let me go. Just kept going like my climax was just an appetizer.

“You gonna beg for me now?” he murmured against me, voice wrecked and low.

I pulled him up by the hair and kissed him hard, tasting myself on his tongue.

“Fuck me,” I snarled.

And he did.

He bent me over, hand in my hair, other gripping my hip like he owned it. When he pushed inside me, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was claiming.

Every thrust was deep, brutal, intentional—meant to remind me of what I was, what he made me. My hands fisted the sheets, the wall, his arms—whatever I could reach.

“Look at you takin’ me,” he growled in my ear. “Body’s been beggin’ for me every night.”

I didn’t deny it.

Couldn’t.

All I could do was moan—low and guttural—my mind white-hot with the sensation of him hitting just right, over and over.

We flipped again—me on top, straddling him, clawing at his chest as I rode him rough and fast. His hands roamed everywhere, nails scraping, teeth biting, drawing blood that only made us crazier.

I leaned down, lips brushing his throat, and bit deep.

He gasped—head snapping back, hips bucking up hard into me.

His blood filled my mouth, hot and electric, and I moaned into the wound.

He grabbed the back of my neck and bit me too—shoulder, collarbone, throat. Marking me. Claiming me. Drinking me. His blood mixed with mine, thick and sacred.

“We were made for this,” he groaned. “You feel it too. Say it.”

I didn’t.

But I screamed when I came again, body clenching around him like it never wanted to let go.

He followed, snarling into my skin, coming deep and hard and endless.

⸻

We collapsed together, breath ragged, bodies slick with sweat and blood.

He tangled his fingers in my hair, lips pressed to my shoulder.

But I didn’t close my eyes.

I just laid there, heart still pounding, blood still thrumming, the taste of him thick in my mouth.

Because this wasn’t love.

This was warfare.

And I’d just given the enemy every inch of me.Again.

——

Two Days Later – Nightfall

The house exhaled behind me as I slipped out the front door, closing it with the kind of care that makes no sound—like I was sneaking out of someone else’s life. The sky was dark as velvet—the kind of night that clung close, hushed and watchful. Still. Heavy. No wind, no whisper, just the faint hush of pine trees breathing in the distance.

Remmick was upstairs, lying low like he said. Said the Natives were still lurking, waiting to strike again. Said we needed to be cautious. Said he needed me to go check the edges of the woods, see how close the threat was.

He said it like it was nothing.

Like he trusted me.

So I nodded and played the part.

But I turned toward town instead, boots moving quick beneath my hem, the cold dirt road swallowing each step. The air was damp, alive with the kind of silence that feels like it’s listening.

No one stopped me. No one looked twice. Just another shadow among shadows, passing quiet under the unlit porch lamps and shuttered windows. I walked with my head tucked low, hat pulled firm against my brow. I’d learned how to walk invisible.

By the time I reached Grace’s shop, the quiet felt louder. And I knew before I even stepped close—something was wrong.

The lights were out.

The door locked.

Stillness pressed against the windows like a held breath. No smell of boiling herbs. No faint silhouette behind lace. Just absence.

I knocked once. Gentle.

No answer.

I waited, blood rising loud in my ears.

I was about to knock again when I heard it behind me.

“Evenin’. Lookin’ for Grace?”

My hand fell, slow. I turned just enough to see the man across the street. Older. Thick coat. His store sign swung gently above him—dry goods. He was locking up, half in, half out the door.

I offered a nod. Nothing more.

He chuckled. Not mean, just tired. “She’s alright. Her and Bo both. Took sick, maybe. Word is she’s been out for two days. Bo’s been back and forth quiet-like. He’s home now. Taking care of her, I’d guess.”

His voice was casual, but it didn’t land right. My stomach pulled tight.

“Thanks,” I said soft, barely above the hush of the wind. Just enough to pass.

He tipped his hat and disappeared into the warmth of his store, door shutting behind him like punctuation.

I stood there a beat longer, just watching the door. The silence around the shop didn’t hum with illness. It hummed with absence.

Still—I crouched low and slipped the folded letter under her door. Just like before. Quick. Clean.

Didn’t knock.

Didn’t wait.

Just turned and made my way back to the house, faster now. The shadows felt thicker. The road shorter. Like something was following me home.

———

The house looked just the same as when I left it—tilted quiet, half-forgotten, the way places get when they’ve seen too much. The porch creaked beneath my feet, but only once. I pushed the door open slow, stepping into the stale hush that lived between these walls.

Inside smelled like wood smoke and old iron. The kind of scent that clings to grief.

Remmick was in the parlor, long legs stretched out, one boot propped on the table. He was toying with a deck of cards, shuffling with one hand while the other cradled a glass of something dark. His eyes stayed on the cards.

“Well?” he asked, voice lazy.

“Didn’t see no one,” I said, brushing my sleeves off. “Nothing but trees and dirt. Think they’re gone now.”

He nodded slow, like he already knew. “Good. Gettin’ real tired of lookin’ over my shoulder.”

I walked past him and sank down on the couch, letting my breath out slower than I should’ve. The fabric under me still held the shape of his weight from earlier. He’d been there not long ago, waiting for something.

His eyes flicked up to me once—just a glance—and then back to the cards.

“You did good,” he said. Smooth. Steady. “Ain’t nobody better I’d trust to check.”

I hummed, not bothering to answer.

He didn’t press.

Didn’t notice the way I dug my thumbnail into my palm just to stay here, in this moment, in this lie I had to wear like skin.

Didn’t notice how I was listening—for movement, for footsteps upstairs, for the scrape of someone else in the dark.

I leaned my head back against the cushion, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, where the wood grain twisted into patterns I used to trace in dreams. Now I couldn’t stop seeing them shift like they were trying to spell out a warning.

“You tired?” he asked after a while.

I shrugged.

Remmick cut the deck again. “You been quiet lately.”

“Just thinkin’.”

“Dangerous thing to do in this house,” he muttered with a smirk.

He tossed a card on the table face-up.

The devil.

I stared at it. Couldn’t look away.

He watched me then. Not just glanced. Watched.

I felt it.

“Somethin’ botherin’ you, darlin’?”

I turned my face slow, gave him a smile I didn’t feel. “No. Just tired. Like you said.”

He smiled back, like that answer pleased him.

But I could tell he was listening harder now.

I shifted on the couch and let my eyes close. Just for a moment. Just long enough to make him think I was at ease.

But I wasn’t.

Grace was missing.

Bo too.

Remmick hadn’t suspected a thing. Not yet.

But this plan I’d been shaping in shadows? It was slipping through my fingers like water, and I didn’t know how many more nights I had left before he caught me trying to hold it.

——

The street felt longer this time.

Quieter, too.

I walked with my head down, arms wrapped around myself like that could keep the ache in my ribs from spreading. Remmick was out again, gathering what scraps he could—new bodies, new followers, anyone who could fill the void of the ones he’d lost. And I was left to sit in the hollow of his house, mind chewing itself raw.

Grace hadn’t reached out.

Not a whisper. Not a sign.

Something twisted in me the longer I waited, and by the time I pulled my shawl over my shoulders and stepped into the night, I already knew I wouldn’t come back whole.

Her house came into view at the edge of the lane—familiar and wrong all at once. The blinds were drawn. The porch light was off. Stillness pressed up against the walls like something holding its breath.

I climbed the steps slow.

Knocked once.

Waited.

Another knock.

My pulse started up in my throat, heavy and loud, until—

The door opened.

And there she was.

Grace.

Same face, same eyes, but not the same woman who once whispered promises in the back of her shop.

She didn’t look sick. Didn’t look surprised.

Just tired.

Like she’d already made up her mind before I even got there.

“Grace,” I breathed, relief and confusion tangling in my voice. “I’ve been waitin’ for word—what happened? Are you alright?”

She looked at me for a long moment before she spoke. No hug. No warmth.

Just cool, clipped words.

“I can’t help you no more, Y/N.”

My breath caught.

“What?”

She crossed her arms. “Whatever it is you’re stirrin’ up, it’s followin’ you. You done brought danger to my door, and I can’t let it near Bo , Lisa or me again. Not now.”

I blinked, heat rushing to my face.

“But you said—Grace, you said if I ever needed—”

“That was before,” she said, voice hardening. “Before I realized what you’d turned into. What’s waitin’ in the woods behind you.”

She looked past me then.

Not at the trees.

At what she thought I’d become.

I shook my head, mouth parting, searching for words that might save whatever this was. “I’m still me—Grace, please—”

“I need you to go.”

And with that, she closed the door.

Didn’t slam it. Just shut it soft.

Final.

I stood there, staring at the wood, like maybe it’d open back up and undo what just happened.

But it didn’t.

The porch creaked as I sank down onto the top step, arms limp at my sides. The air had that thick weight to it again, the kind that made your bones ache like they remembered something awful.

My last string to Sammie was cut.

I didn’t even know if he’d gotten my note.

Didn’t know if he was alive. Or hiding. Or already lost to Remmick’s hunger.

I didn’t cry.

Didn’t have anything left in me for that.

I just sat there, for what felt like hours, until the wind shifted and I knew I had to move.

———

The house felt colder when I returned.

Not in temperature—just in presence.

Like it knew something had changed.

I pushed through the door, not bothering to close it quiet this time. The shadows felt heavier. My skin prickled like the walls were watching.

I drifted through the parlor, my steps slow, heavy. Sank into the couch, my eyes fixed on nothing. Time blurred. I could still feel the echo of Grace’s voice, the chill behind her words.

I stayed there until I heard the latch click.

The front door creaked open.

Bootsteps.

Remmick.

He stepped in with his usual ease, closing the door behind him. His shirt was wrinkled. Dust clung to his cuffs. His eyes locked onto me, curious at first.

But I didn’t give him time to ask.

I stood.

Crossed the space in three sharp steps.

And kissed him.

Hard.

His mouth met mine with that familiar pressure, warm and dangerous, and for once I didn’t flinch from it. My hands curled into his shirt, fingers pulling him down into me, my breath caught somewhere between fury and grief.

He staggered back a step with me in his arms, mouth moving against mine with a growl of surprise, then heat. His hands found my waist—firm, possessive.

I kissed him like I needed to forget.

And maybe I did.

Forget Grace.

Forget the weight of a name nobody said anymore.

Forget that I’d lost the only person left who believed I was worth saving.

He didn’t ask what I was running from.

Didn’t need to.

Because Remmick knew what it looked like when something broke in you.

And he knew how to kiss like it was the cure.

Even if it was just another poison I drank too willingly.

Even if I was the one reaching for the bottle Again.

———

I waited until the moon sat high and clean above the trees before slipping out again, coat pulled tight over my frame, the last chill of daylight still clinging to the edges of the wind. Remmick was still hunting what he’d lost — what he thought he could recreate with blood and sweet talk. He didn’t ask where I was going tonight. Just told me, quiet and easy, “Be back before it’s too late.”

Too late for who, I didn’t ask.

The road to town stretched long, silent. My boots crunched softly over gravel, a sound that felt too loud for the kind of thoughts I was carrying. I counted the minutes with each step, mind racing faster than my feet. I needed clarity. Grace’s face hadn’t left my mind since she shut that door in it. Something was wrong, and I couldn’t let it go.

I turned onto Main, the familiar wooden storefronts all shadowed in lamplight and memory. I spotted the dry goods store across from Grace’s shop — the one where that older man had spoken to me before. I approached slow, cautious. The windows glowed from within.

I stopped at the edge of the porch and knocked gently against the doorframe. Not too loud. Not too soft. Just enough to say: I don’t mean no harm.

The man inside looked up from behind the counter. Recognition lit up his face, though he squinted just the same, like he wasn’t quite sure if I was real or not.

“Evenin’,” I said, voice calm but low. “Can I come in?”

He hesitated for a second, then gave a small nod.

“Come in, sure,” he said, walking over to unlock the door. “Don’t often get visitors this late, but it’s your kind of hour, I suppose.”

I stepped inside, the warmth of the store meeting me like a familiar hush. It smelled like cedarwood, dust, and old paper — like things that kept secrets.

He moved behind the counter again, leaning slightly against it as he regarded me. “You lookin’ better than last time I saw you. Seemed a little… restless then.”

I gave a small smile, not enough to reach my eyes. “Still restless.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Ain’t we all.”

I didn’t waste time. “You remember what you said about Grace being sick?”

He blinked. “Sure.”

“Well, I saw her. She ain’t sick. And she wasn’t surprised to see me. She just… shut me out. Like I was poison.”

His frown deepened. He scratched his head, gaze drifting toward the window like the answer might be hiding outside. “I don’t know what’s what no more. She and Bo kept to themselves the past couple days. Didn’t even open the shop since you came by. But I do recall…” His fingers tapped rhythm on the wood. “Something strange.”

He snapped his fingers suddenly, his expression lighting up. “Damn near forgot!”

He ducked behind the counter, rummaging through drawers and stacked papers until he pulled out a folded note — weathered but intact.

“Grace gave me this in a hurry a few nights back. Told me if a woman came lookin’ for her at night — to hand it over. No name, just a description. Figured it was you.”

My fingers trembled as I took it. “Thank you,” I said, voice soft.

He nodded, already turning back to wipe down a nearby shelf. “Hope it clears somethin’ up.”

I unfolded the paper with care, and Grace’s familiar script met my eyes like a balm and a blade:

Y/N—

He got it. Your letter. Sammie read every word.

I don’t have a reply from him — he didn’t risk sendin’ one.

Things got bad quick. Too many eyes. I’m layin’ low for now, maybe longer.

But listen close —

Sammie and Smoke are heading north. Five days from when you sent the letter.

He’ll wait as long as he can, but once the time comes, he has to go.

It’s not safe to stay.

I don’t know when you’ll get this, but you’ll have to move fast. Here’s where to look——

God keep you.

–G

The words rang through me like a bell toll.

Five days.

I counted backward in my head, trying not to panic. Three had already slipped through my fingers. Two remained — if I was lucky. If he was.

I closed the letter, fingers stiff, and slid it into my pocket with trembling care. I turned for the door.

“Thank you again,” I said over my shoulder, not waiting for him to reply.

Outside, the wind bit a little harder. I pulled my coat tighter and walked with purpose toward the alleyway.

No one followed.

The trash can waited like a sentinel.

I tore the note into pieces, sharp and fast, letting them fall into the dark.

Gone.

Gone like the chance I was clawing to keep hold of.

I looked once more at the glowing windows of Grace’s house in the distance. Still drawn. Still closed.

And then I walked back toward the house I shared with the devil — heart pounding like a drum, like war.

——

Remmick was still gone when I got there.

But not for long.

And the next move would have to be mine.

The plan was set. Rough around the edges, held together by frayed nerves and desperate hope—but it was all I had. Tomorrow night, it would be enacted. No more waiting. No more second-guessing.If all went well, I’d be gone.Possibly leaving Remmick behind. The thought pierced deeper than I’d anticipated. A dull ache settled in my chest, one I couldn’t quite name. 

I sat on the couch, the room dimly lit, lost in my thoughts when the door creaked open.Remmick entered, exhaling a sigh that spoke of exhaustion. He moved with a weariness that seemed to seep into the room. He settled into a dining chair behind me, the weight of the day evident in his posture.

“Things are moving slower than I’d like,” he began, his voice tinged with frustration. “People are hesitant, resistant. It’s… taxing.”

I nodded, offering a noncommittal hum.

After a pause, he asked, “Any updates on Sammie’s whereabouts?”

My heart skipped a beat. “No,” I replied quickly. “Nothing concrete. The town’s been quiet.” 

He studied me for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re sure?” 

I forced a smile. “Positive. If I had anything, you’d be the first to know.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied.The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I stood, the need to bridge the distance overwhelming. I walked over to him, noting the way his shirt was discarded to the side, suspenders hanging loosely at his waist.His eyes met mine, a glint of red flickering in their depths as I settled onto his lap.

“Just wait a little longer,” I murmured, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “Who knows? Sammie might just walk to you.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rough. His hand found my waist, pulling me closer.

“Or maybe I’ll find him,” he said, voice a whisper against my skin, “because I never lost him.”

A shiver ran down my spine. I silenced him with a kiss, desperate to drown out the implications of his words. I didn’t want to hear the rest. Didn’t want to know if he was bluffin’ or boastin’.I just needed to forget.

I slid off his lap, down to my knees between his thighs. My hands moved on instinct, unfastening the button at his waist, pulling the fabric down slow. His cock was already half-hard, twitching to life under my touch.

Remmick watched me with a quiet, ravenous hunger, his eyes flickering red like they remembered old wars.

“You sure about this?” he murmured, voice dipped in syrup.

“No,” I whispered. “But I ain’t stoppin’.”

I wrapped my lips around him, taking him slow, tasting the salt and musk of him as I worked my tongue down his shaft. His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. His hand curled into my hair, not pushing—just there. Guiding. Praising.I sucked harder, deeper, letting him hit the back of my throat, letting him feel every inch of my want and denial.

He cursed, low and shaky. “Fuck, darlin’. You feel like you’re prayin’ with your mouth.”

His hips rolled, shallow thrusts meeting the rhythm of my mouth. He tasted like power. Like a promise I didn’t want to keep.My hands slid up his thighs, holding him steady as he twitched in my mouth, his moans climbing higher. Faster.

Until he bucked hard, one hand clenched in my hair, spilling into me with a growl that sounded like a broken vow.I stayed there a moment, letting him ride it out, then pulled back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, trying to breathe through the weight in my chest.Afterward, the room was silent save for our mingled breaths. I rested against him, heart pounding, mind racing.

He brushed a strand of hair from my face, eyes searching mine.

“You won’t leave me now, would you, darlin’?”

I hesitated, then shook my head slowly.A smile touched his lips. “Good. Wouldn’t want the woman I love to leave me to forever loneliness.”

The words struck me, a mix of warmth and dread curling in my stomach. I buried my face in his neck, the weight of my decision pressing down on me.

——

The moon wore a veil of clouds tonight, like it didn’t want to bear witness to what was about to happen. Half-bright and mean-looking, it hovered above me as I crept away from the house like a thief in the dark. Remmick had already left—gone off chasing ghosts and pieces of a plan falling apart in his own hands. Said he’d be back before sunrise. I knew he would.

And I knew I wouldn’t be.

This was it. No more stalling. No more swallowing screams in that house where the walls watched me breathe. My plan—frayed at the seams and stitched with desperation—was all I had now. And if the stars were kind, it might buy me a few hours’ head start.

I followed the path Grace had described, further from town than I expected. The ground grew rockier, the trees thicker. Shadows pressed in close. My nerves were wired so tight, every rustle in the trees felt like someone whisperin’ my name. But I kept walking. I had to. The house wasn’t far now. I saw it through the branches—a small thing, hunched in the dark with a car parked in front. A flicker of breath escaped me. Relief. They hadn’t left yet. Grace’s directions had been good. I hadn’t been followed. Not yet.

My steps quickened, hope making me reckless.

And then—I froze.A rustle in the trees behind me. Not the wind.

My skin went tight. My body wanted to run, scream, fight—but I stood there locked in place like prey.Then something small burst out of the treeline.I nearly screamed. Nearly ran. But the shape straightened. A face I knew.

“Grace?” I whispered.

She stumbled toward me, her breaths ragged, tears streaking her cheeks. Her dress was torn, her hair wild.

“They got them,” she sobbed, falling into my arms. “Bo—Amy—oh God, I watched them turn ‘em right in front of me. I hid, I ran, but they—they knew, Y/N. They knew.”

I held her close, one arm locked around her trembling body as the other reached instinctively for the gun hidden in my waistband. My stomach sank with her words.

This wasn’t just a ruined plan. It was a massacre in motion.

“We have to go,” I breathed. “Now.”

The two of us ran the rest of the way to the house. My mind was already racing. I didn’t know if they’d followed Grace, if they’d followed me, if they were already here—but I wasn’t about to lose this chance.

I pounded on the door.

It opened so fast it startled me.

Smoke stood there, rifle raised—but the moment he saw our faces, his expression broke wide.

“Y/N? Grace?”

“Can we come in?,” I gasped. “Now.”

“Yea.”He stepped back fast, letting us in. He looked both ways before slamming the door shut behind us.

Inside, Sammie was in the hallway, tense and alert—eyes wide as he saw us. Then soft, just for a second. He was alive.

I rushed to him and pulled him into a hug. The weight of his arms around me almost brought me to my knees. He smelled like sweat and pine and something old and burnt.Then I saw it. A claw mark across his cheek, still scabbed and angry. I reached for it. He lowered his head like he was ashamed.

“Remmick,” he said quietly.I said nothing. Just dropped my hand.Smoke locked every window, checked every corner. We gathered in the parlor, breathing too loud, too fast.We shared what we knew—Grace telling how Bo and Amy were caught. I told them what Remmick had lied about. What he was building. What I let him build.None of us had words for what sat in the room with us. We just knew we had to go.

Smoke pulled a heavy sack from the floor. “We leave now,” he said. “They’ll trace Grace’s steps soon enough.”

I nodded, numb. My hands moved on their own, grabbing bags, helping load the car. It was muscle memory. Fight or flight. Survive.Outside, the wind stirred the trees.Grace tugged at my arm, pulling me aside as the others worked.

“I think we should stay another night,” she whispered. “Just till things calm a little. It’s too sudden. We’ll draw less attention—”

“Grace,” I said gently, but stopped.

Something was wrong.

“G…Grace,” I said again, and my voice cracked. “You’re—you’re drooling.”

She wiped her mouth. But it was too slow. Too calm.Her lips stretched into a smile that wasn’t hers.

“Guess the cat’s out the bag.”

I stumbled back.

“Smoke!” I shouted.

He turned just as Grace’s eyes went white, glowing like a lantern lit from within.

“Ah, shit,” he breathed.

Too late.From the trees, more figures emerged. Calm. Confident.

Bo. Stack. Amy.

Grinning.

Like puppets with the strings still showing.My stomach flipped. I counted bodies.

Annie. Mary. More of them. All the ones Remmick said had died.Liars. Every last one of them. Or maybe just him.

And then—there he was.

Remmick.

Stepping through the trees like he never left them.

He looked just the same. Dusty boots. Rolled sleeves. Hair damp with effort. But his eyes?

His eyes burned.

“Should I call this a family reunion?” he drawled, voice cutting through the night like a whip.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. I wanted to scream, to cry, to laugh from how stupid I’d been.

“You fuckin’ liar—”

He cut me off with a soft tsk. “Now, now. Don’t give me that, Y/N. You been lyin’ to me since day one. Thought it was only fair to give it back in double.”

The others fanned out, blocking the car, the trees, the road. There was nowhere left to run.

“I kept an eye on you,” Remmick said, stepping closer, every word heavy. “Even when you thought I wasn’t around. Every errand. Every letter. Every secret little knock on some poor girl’s door—I saw it. You think you were foolin’ me, baby? I let you.”

My mouth opened—but I couldn’t find a lie good enough to cover the hurt.

“You played me like a fiddle,” he said, voice suddenly sharp. “But only one of us got stuck. Only one of us saw the bigger picture . And now look what you done. Wasted time. Endangered what I built. You think I waited centuries for this just to let you get in the way?”

His voice dropped to a growl. “I could’ve made you a queen. Instead, you chose to be a warnin’.”

The pain hit like a slap.

But it wasn’t the betrayal.

It was the shame.

Because I had loved him.

Even when I shouldn’t have.

Even now.

Smoke stumbled, wounded and breathing heavy, his arm barely lifting the rifle. Sammie moved to help—but Remmick was already there.

He grabbed Sammie by the collar, mouth open, teeth sharp—

I didn’t think.

I just moved.

Grabbed the gun from the dirt, raised it, and fired.The shot cracked through the clearing.Remmick dropped Sammie, staggering back, shock and fury twisting his face.

He turned to me.Eyes burning. Hurt. Betrayed.

“You really wanna do this, darlin’?” he whispered.

I didn’t know I was crying until the tears reached my lips. “I can’t let you make anyone else suffer. You’ve done enough.”

The moon tilted in the sky, shifting just enough that I could see the edge of morning begin to rise.Sammie struggled to his feet, limping.

“I should’ve never let you play with my plan,” Remmick said, quiet now. “I guess… my love for you was my weakness.”

Sammie grabbed the stake. I saw it. Saw him raise it behind Remmick.

I dropped the gun.I stepped forward.

And kissed him.

Remmick stiffened. Shocked.His hand cupped my face. For a moment, it was just us again.

And then—

“Do it, Sammie,” I yelled.

The stake drove through his back.

And into my chest.Pain like I’d never known.

He snarled.

I gasped.

“You were never meant to be mine in this life,” I whispered, forehead pressed to his. “But maybe in the next…”His skin began to blister then burn. The sun rose.

Screams echoed around us—his followers lighting up like bonfires as they tried to run.He tried to pull away.

But I held him.Held him until the flames took us both.

And everything went black.

———

1985

Somewhere in Louisiana

The market smelled like July holdin’ its breath—hot tar, overripe peaches, and molasses gone sour under the weight of the sun. A Marvin Gaye tune played low from a radio tucked behind a fruit stall, half-swallowed by the hum of cicadas and the thump of crates bein’ moved.

I came for coffee beans. That’s it.

But fate’s got a funny way of reroutin’ simple errands.

He passed me like a ghost wearin’ skin.

Not ‘cause he was fine—though he was.

White tee soft with time, tucked into jeans worn pale at the thighs. Denim jacket slung careless over one shoulder. Boots steady on the ground. Hair a mess like he’d just woken up from somethin’ deep.

But that ain’t why I stopped.

I stopped ‘cause my body knew before my heart remembered.

Like my bones stood still for someone they used to ache for.

He paused. Turned.

Brows drawn in like he was tryin’ to place me in a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

“‘Scuse me, miss,” he said, voice smooth as aged bourbon. “Do I… know you from somewhere?”

I blinked once. Twice.

“I—maybe,” I said. My voice came out soft, like it hadn’t spoken sorrow in years.

He smiled, half-tilted, cautious. “That’s funny. I was just about to say the same.”

I nodded slow. “You ever been down to Mississippi?”

His smile dipped, then stilled. “Once. Long time ago.”

That somethin’ passed between us—

not quite tension. Not quite peace.

Just an old ache that ain’t ever learned how to die.

He stepped closer, like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.

“I know this is a little forward,” he said, reachin’ in his pocket, pullin’ out a worn scrap of receipt paper and a pen, “but… would you wanna grab a drink sometime?”

My breath caught.

Not from surprise.

From remembrance.

That voice.

That tilt of the head.

That kind of question that could rearrange your whole life if you let it.

I didn’t let it show.

“Sure,” I said, smiling faint. “I’d like that.”

He scribbled down a number, handed me the paper like it held somethin’ sacred.

I took it, my fingers brushing his.

“Remmick,” he said.

“Y/N,” I answered, just as quiet.

His eyes searched mine for a second too long. Somethin’ flickered there—like déjà vu grippin’ his ribs too tight.

Then—

“Y/N!” a voice called out behind me, sharp as a church bell on Sunday morning.

“You gon’ make us miss The Movie! Move your feet, girl!”

I turned quick to see Mary, arms crossed, grin wide watching my exchange.

“Oh—sorry!” I laughed, half-startled, shakin’ my head as I gathered my bags. “I’ll call you later,” I told him, already steppin’ backward.

“Hope you do,” he said, lips curvin’ easy.

I turned toward Mary, my heart beatin’ fast for no reason I could name.

Behind me, he watched.

Eyes flickered red—

Just for a second.Gone before the blink finished.

And when I looked back one last time—

he was walkin’ away, hands in his pockets, hummin’ low to the rhythm of a song only he remembered.

[cherry-lala]

The ending of that remmick story had me in shambles and you will be hearing from my therapist #Betrayedbythewhiteman 😞✊🏾

😭😭😭tell me if your therapist cries too

[cherry-lala]

hi I was just wondering if ur Remmick fic was black reader(considering what the movie was about and all)?

Hi! Thanks so much for asking.

I did write the story with a Black reader in mind, especially because of the movie’s setting and themes—it just made sense for certain dynamics and history. That said, I was intentional about not describing her appearance, so anyone can see themselves in it emotionally. The story centers a Black experience, but the feelings—freedom, fear, desire, betrayal—are human. Everyone’s welcome to read, reflect, and feel.❤️❤️

[cherry-lala]

are we possibly getting a part 2 for 'the devil waits where wildflowers grow' ? it was so so soooo well written

Something might be cooking😉❤️

[cherry-lala]

wowww fooled by a white man (that ain’t even want me fr) oh my ancestors are rolling in their grave…. you know what would soothe that ache…. remmick groveling just a tad bit in a greatly desired pt 2…. just putting that out there 👀👀👀

omg you want to see Remmick on his knees huh???😭

(I mean… same.)

I’m still deciding if a part 2 is happening, but IF it does..😏… best believe he’s gonna have to earn it. Thanks for the ask — you’re fueling the bad ideas in my brain rn!!