The Cost of Wanting Her Touch

[Be****]

It was the night before Halloween, and the wind outside howled like wolves mourning a lost god. The trees clawed the windows with bony fingers, and the stars above blinked like they ***ed what stirred beneath them. I should’ve known she would come.

Something always stirs when the veil thins.

The room was dark but not empty. I felt her before I saw her — a pressure in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks. Then the shadows shifted, and she stepped forward as if pulled from the black marrow of the night itself.

Her hair fell in raven-black waves over her shoulders, contrasting her skin — pale, perfect, like untouched snow in a graveyard. Her lips were the color of spilled wine, full and cruel, and her eyes… they did not glow. They burned — two coals in the sockets of a goddess too long exiled from heaven.

She wore a gown the color of *** kissed by dusk — burgundy and tight, trailing like smoke as she moved. From her back curled wings like those of some ancient draconic thing, leathered and vast. Her horns arched back like a crown of sin.

“My name?” she said, though I hadn’t asked. Her voice was a melody laced with venom. “You couldn’t speak it. But you can scream it, if I let you.”

I should have run. But my legs forgot the meaning of flight. She moved closer, barefoot on the cold floor, and with every step the room seemed to pulse — the walls breathing with her presence, the shadows twitching in anticipation.

“You called me,” she said, reaching out with a hand that trembled with restrained power. Her nails trailed just under my jaw. “Not with words. With longing. With need.”

Her lips were inches from mine now. I could feel the heat of her breath, tinged with fire and something far sweeter — the scent of ruin dressed as roses.

“You want love,” she whispered. “But what you crave… is surrender.”

I did. Gods help me, I did.

Her fingers slid into my hair, gently pulling my head back, exposing my throat like an offering. Her mouth brushed my skin — not a kiss, but a promise.

“I could take your soul,” she murmured. “But I’d rather take your heart. Slowly. Over centuries.”

And somehow, that sounded worse — and infinitely more beautiful.

She kissed me then — not with tenderness, but with the hunger of someone who had waited centuries to be remembered. Fire roared behind my eyes. My knees buckled.

When I came to, I was alone.

Only the scent of myrrh, ash, and fading roses remained — and a mark on my chest that pulsed like a second heartbeat, slow and eternal.

She had not taken everything.
Just enough to make sure I'd beg for her return next year.