The Sheets Were White Before Her
It was after midnight when Rhydian told Azalea.
“There’s somewhere I want to show you.”
Azalea, curled in his lap, eyes half-lost in the flicker of candlelight, didn’t ask where. She’d stopped asking questions days ago.
Rhydian’s fingers moved through her hair. Gentle. Certain.
“It’s not far,” he said. “Not really. Just… outside of here.”
She didn’t pack anything. He didn’t need her to. Maybe she did not bring even her name. He peeled that off days ago...
The space wasn’t on a map.
She didn’t remember the drive.
One moment they were in the flat, and the next standing in front of it.
The house.
Not a house.
The house.
Its frame was scorched black, yet whole. The porch sagged, but the steps held under their weight. Vines had begun curling through the broken windows, soft green veins strangling glass.
But inside—
perfection.
Every room restored.
Just as he remembered.
Or rather, just as he wanted her to remember.
He led her through the doorway with silent reverence, like stepping into a place of ash and breath, where sin was not forgiven but sanctified.
“This is where time can’t touch us,” he said. “Where you can’t dream. And I can’t burn.”
She nodded.
Half-asleep already, lulled by the stillness of air too still.
They made love in the bed that wasn’t there.
Candles lined the walls—melted into the floor, the shelves, even the headboard. Their light danced like breath.
The sheets were white. Clean. Crisp.
She climbed onto them without speaking.
Rhydian undressed her slowly, as if unwrapping something sacred and fragile. His hands moved like he already knew every part of her body—but still worshiped each new discovery.
He kissed her with devotion.
The kiss was soft at first...but soon became full and firm, pressing until she gasped, until her lips parted in surrender.
He didn’t wait.
His tongue moved like it was threading a needle through her, steady and precise, each stroke tying her open from the inside out. His tongue swirled her mouth with the same hunger he’d soon take between her legs.
His hand gripped her jaw, tilting her face just where he wanted, forcing her to feel it—feel him—owning every breath she gave.
She whimpered. Her thighs twitched. Her hips lifted instinctively, like she’d forgotten her spine belonged to her.
But he didn’t let her rush. No.
“Keep still,” he murmured against her lips.
Then his hand trailed down—fingers firm, possessive—along her throat, her collarbone, between her breasts. He pinched one nipple hard enough to make her cry out, then soothed it with his tongue, circling, suckling, biting just enough to leave her shaking.
“Beautiful when you hurt for me,” he whispered, voice thick and low.
He pushed her thighs apart without asking. Without speaking. And when his fingers brushed over her slit, finding her wet—dripping, needy, trembling—he chuckled darkly.
“All this for kiss?” he said.
She nodded, breath caught.
He didn’t reward her. Not yet.
Instead, he traced her folds with slow, teasing cruelty—his fingers avoiding her clit, skimming just low enough to make her hips buck. She whined. He pinned her down, hand on her stomach, firm and unyielding.
“I said still.”
Then he kissed her again—deeper, rougher, his tongue sliding into her mouth as two fingers slid into her cunt.
When she tried to grind down, desperate to fuck his fingers harder, he pulled them out and slapped her inner thigh—sharp, stinging.
“You don’t get to take,” he growled. “You get what I give you.”
Then he dropped to his knees between her legs.
And gave her his mouth.
He made love to her like it was the first and last time.
In that moment, it felt safe. His weight over her, the hush of ruin outside the walls, the flicker of flame against her skin—safe.
She was curled in a nest of cracked timber and scorched metal springs.
The house was ash.
Open to the sky.
The walls collapsed inward like a black mouth.
Only soot on her thighs, like fingerprints.
Only wind in her hair, whispering something that might’ve once been a promise.
And then—
from the collapsed doorway—
a shadow moved.
