Page 33 of Tangled at the Root
I’ve been starving myself for so long I’ve gone way past propriety and the threat of tomorrow’s consequences.
Now that I have Genevieve right in front of me—now that I’ve finally given in to this wicked, all-consuming hunger, all I want to do is eat.
10: A FUCKING FOLKTALE
My mouth is flooded with saliva, my clenched fists the only thing preventing my claws from extending. My lower belly hasn’t stopped clenching, that awful, delicious heat still blazing between my legs.
The back of my head thunks against my closed bedroom door.
I want to fuck her. I could’ve wrapped my hand around her throat and pinned her to the wall, held her up just enough that she’d scrabble for purchase on the tips of her toes, her fingers scratching uselessly against my wrist—fuck, she’d fuckinglovethat, wouldn’t she?—press my other hand between her legs, make her whine and squirm for me until she sobbed and begged.
And I want—after I’ve made her come, after she’s limp and sweaty and satisfied, I want to rip open her chest—slash her skinto ribbons underneath my claws, crack open every single rib like I’m unwrapping a gift, then tear out her heart and eat it whole.
I’d watch her heal, after. Watch her body put itself back together just so I can rip it apart once again.
I’m nauseated; disgusted—but I still press the heel of my palm between my legs, rocking hard, my sharpened teeth sinking into my lower lip, saliva forming an ocean in my mouth.
You’re sick, I tell myself as I remember the sharp tang of fear that had pierced her scent underneath all that arousal. I swallow then lick my lips with an unnaturally slick, thin tongue, like I can still taste it. Like I’d be able to taste the blood—herblood—that had splattered on my face, coated my lips.
You’re a filthy fucking beast, as I think of ways I can make her even more afraid, even more deliciously twisted up in want for this fucked up thing.
You’re nasty. Fucking disgusting.
I think of ripping open the soft, vulnerable meat of her belly, of feasting on her fat and muscle and blood—of herlettingme,givingit to me, and I come with a muffled cry.
I don’t have time to drown in shame and revulsion. I don’t have time to wonder why this hunger has become so tangled up with everything else, why this need to devour is now practically indistinguishable from my mortal love and lust.
The moment I stop trembling, the hunger becomes practically unbearable. I’m at the window in a blink, burying my claws into the concrete and holding on for what feels like dear life. I’d thought giving in would appease it a little, but instead, it’s made it worse.
I’m in an odd in-between state, fluctuating rapidly between beast and human like my brain has forgotten what it looks like. My fingers lengthen and shorten, my teeth and claws doing the same. I grow scales, feathers, tough hide—my skin brighteningto an unnatural polish before dulling back to its usual warm brown.
I don’t know how long I stand there, trembling and clutching at the wall, before I finally regain some semblance of humanity, the urge to run downstairs and rip Rosemary’s throat out fading to a dull throb.
My head drops like it’s suddenly too heavy, chin dipping to my chest. I bite my lower lip. Hard. My teeth sharpen like I’d subconsciously ordered it, ripping brutally into the soft flesh. Blood fills my mouth and spills down my chin. My stomach cramps painfully when the copper makes it down my throat.
It’s an agony, trying to accept that this is my reality. That the faint reflection in the glass in front of meisn’treally me.
That I’m going to get worse. The deal with the dagbato only suppresses—it doesn’tchangeanything.
I don’t think I can do it.
Ican’t.
“You shouldn’t be upstairs, Genevieve.”
I don’t turn around. “Then why areyouupstairs?”
“I’m not.”
I glance over my shoulder.
My room door is still shut, the way I’d left it. There’s no one here.
Except, there is.
It’s that heavy presence, the one I feel every time I walk underneath the door to the attic. The air fills with the stench of rot and mould.
I turn so I’m facing all four corners of the room, my back to the window.
