Not Allowed To Want Me

He had me on my stomach, face buried in the sheets. I could smell the heat of myself in the fabric, the faint metallic scent of sweat and something dirtier—something I liked more than I should have. His weight hovered behind me, knees against the bed, strong thighs pressed to the outside of mine, holding me still. My skirt was hiked up around my waist. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

I didn’t know who he was. Not really. I could feel him. I could hear him. But his face never came into focus. It didn’t matter. My body knew him. My hips lifted without thinking, offering more of myself like I was begging for it. His hand pressed down between my shoulder blades, and I sank again.

“I didn’t say you could move.”

His voice wasn’t deep—it was rough. Frayed. There was something wrong with it, like he wasn’t supposed to be speaking, or wasn’t used to using words at all. Still, it made my stomach tighten. My heart too.

I swallowed hard. “I—”

“You like this, don’t you?” His hand slid down my spine, dragging heat with it. “Being laid out like a little toy. Open. Quiet. Waiting.”

I made a sound against the sheets. I don’t know if it was a yes or a plea. He moved his fingers lower, trailing them over the curve of me, slipping between without hesitation. His touch was wet, greedy. I gasped into the bed, arching before I could stop myself.

“Of course you do,” he said. His mouth was close to my ear now. I could feel the heat of him. “Dripping on my hand like you’re in heat. Filthy little thing.”

He slid his fingers deeper, and I shuddered. My fists clutched the sheets. I bit down on a corner of the blanket to muffle the sound I made, something helpless and soft. I should have stopped him. I should have pulled away. But I couldn’t. Not with the way he touched me. Not with the way my body leaned into him like it already knew what came next.

“You’re going to come like this,” he murmured. “Bent over. Silent. Good.”

I whimpered into the blanket. His free hand grabbed mine. His palm was rough, fingers long, callused. He tugged my arm back, dragging it underneath him. Then he placed my hand on him.

He was hard. And thick. He held my fingers in place, rubbed them over the length of him until I was stroking him through his pants. He made a sound—low, almost dangerous—and pressed forward, the weight of him against my palm making me gasp.

“You feel that?” he growled. “That’s what you do to me. Every fucking time.”

My mouth was open, breath ragged. The movement of his fingers never stopped. He twisted them inside me, angled them, pushed in deeper. I moaned and rolled my hips, trying to keep the rhythm going. He pulled my hand harder against him.

“I want you to say it,” he whispered. “Say you want me inside you.”

I opened my mouth to speak—to say it, to beg for it, to surrender completely.

But the sound hit before the words did.

A crash. Loud. Sharp. Like something made of glass or metal thrown against brick.

And I woke.

The sheets were tangled between my legs, wet with sweat. My heart galloped in my chest. I lay there, stunned, barely breathing, the heat between my thighs still pulsing like a second heartbeat. The dream clung to me, thick and humid. I could still feel the press of his fingers, the heat of his body, the sharpness of his words.

I sat up. My nightgown had ridden up, sticking to my skin. I pushed my damp hair off my forehead and tried to swallow. My throat was dry. Everything felt too still.

Then I remembered the sound.

I swung my legs out of bed. The air was cold. The windows were dark. I didn’t hear anything else, but the quiet wasn’t right. The house was always quiet in the mornings—empty in the afternoons—but this was different.

It was the kind of quiet that happened after something broke.

I pulled my robe from the chair and wrapped it around myself, tying the sash tighter than I needed to. My bare feet met the cool wood floor as I stepped into the hallway. No footsteps. No low chatter from the staff. No pots clanging from the kitchen. Just the old house holding its breath.

“Maria?” I called softly. No answer. “Sondra?”

Still nothing.

I moved past the staircase, toward the front of the house, half-expecting to hear someone emerge from the cellar stairs or the hallway behind the servants’ quarters. But there was nothing. I reached the wide double doors and pushed them open, heart thudding.

The air outside was sharp. The night had gone cold. I stepped out onto the front porch. The wind shifted the trees in the distance, and the leaves rustled like whispers I couldn’t quite catch.

Then I saw it.

A flicker. Not fire—light. Something swaying. Pale. Coming from the woods. Right near the edge of the estate, past the gravel driveway and down toward the iron gate.

I left the porch before I realized I was moving. The robe flared behind me. My feet hit the gravel hard, stones biting into the soles. I didn’t stop. I didn’t even look back. Something pulled me forward. Something heavy and certain.

I reached the gate just as the light stilled.

And then I saw him.

My father.

He was slumped against the stone wall, head tilted. Blood had soaked through the front of his shirt. A thick smear of it gleamed on the ground beside him. His mouth was slightly open. His eyes too.

“No,” I breathed, and dropped to my knees beside him. “No no no—Papa—”

His eyes twitched.

He was still alive.

His hand twitched at his side. I grabbed it. Held it tight. His fingers curled weakly around mine.

“I’m here,” I whispered. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

He opened his mouth, coughed wetly, and rasped something I didn’t understand.

“What? Papa, what is it?”

His eyes fluttered again, then locked on mine. The look in them startled me. Not pain. Not confusion.

Fear.

“Find Leo,” he said.

His grip tightened once, then loosened. I felt it go slack.

“No. No no—don’t—stay with me, please—” I shook him lightly, tears already stinging the corners of my eyes. “You’re not dying, I’m going to get help—someone—anyone—just—”

He blinked.

Then his eyes went still.

His chest stopped rising. His mouth stayed open. His head leaned slowly sideways, resting against the stone wall like a child curling into sleep.

And I was alone.

I stayed kneeling beside him, still holding his hand. The blood was on my fingers now. In the cracks of my skin. Cold. Sticky. Real.

I didn’t cry. Not yet.

Not until I realized I didn’t know who Leo was.