Chapter 56: Faultlines
Aira woke up drenched in her own sweat.
No—worse. Her sheets were damp. Her thighs slick. The pounding in her chest matched only by the ache that refused to leave her. That hollow, pulsing heat, low in her stomach. It dragged through her body like a tide she couldn't fight, relentless and rhythmic, aching and alive.
She curled onto her side, one hand clutching the edge of the mattress, the other fisting the sheets. Her breath caught as fantasy clung to her like vapor. Her skin still tingled from it.
Dreams—again. Vivid. Disturbing. Beautiful.
Selene.
Always Selene.
But this time, it hadn't stopped at watching. This time, Selene had touched her.
No… used her.
Coldly. Precisely. No kiss. No comfort. No softness. Just the deep vibration of a toy against her until Aira had sobbed with it—arching, writhing, unraveling beneath Selene's control. And then—
The strap.
The memory burned beneath her skin.
Selene had been between her legs, silent and devastating, her eyes fixed on Aira's face. Her movements cruelly calculated. Her hair had fallen like shadows over Aira's chest, damp strands catching between their bodies. And her voice—God, that voice—was nothing more than breath and blades.
"You're the one who wanted to know."
Aira pressed her face into the pillow and screamed. Muffled. Wordless. Wild.
She wasn't like this. She wasn't like this.
She had never wanted someone to hurt her like that. To ruin her so delicately. And yet, she couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop imagining. Couldn't stop needing.
The worst part? It wasn't just the lust. It was the longing. That sweet, slow-shameful ache she carried like a bruise no one could see.
She sat up, chest rising and falling too fast. Her tank top clung to her damp skin, her underwear soaked, the sheets twisted around her like a snare. The air in the room was thick, heavy with the ghosts of moans she wasn't sure she'd even made aloud.
The mirror caught her.
She looked—ruined.
Eyes glassy. Lips swollen. Her chest marked with red, half-moon imprints from her own fingernails. She looked like someone had devoured her.
Except no one had.
No one really had.
Selene hadn't even touched her.
Not once.
Every cry, every gasp, every shiver had been her own doing. Her own mind playing traitor. Her own fingers chasing what only Selene could give her. Her imagination had turned into a torment.
It should've made her feel safe. Safer. Contained.
Instead, she felt hollow. Craving. Restless.
Because she knew, deep down—Selene knew.
She had to.
The way Selene's eyes lingered lately. The way she held silence like a leash around Aira's neck. The way she watched.
That morning, Aira came down late. She hadn't bothered with a bra. Her tank top clung to her in places it shouldn't, her shorts too small, too easy. She didn't notice until Selene looked up from the stove—and stopped.
Not long. Not obvious.
Just long enough to drag her gaze down Aira's body.
Throat. Chest. Legs.
Aira nearly tripped over her own breath.
Selene's lips curved. A slow, cruel kind of smile.
"Sleep well?" she asked, flipping the eggs.
Aira froze. "Fine."
Selene turned, leaned back against the counter, spatula still in hand. "You were… restless."
The words slid through the air like smoke.
Aira's heart caught. "You heard me?"
Selene tilted her head, brow lifting. "You moaned my name."
Aira went still. The words hit like a strike to the chest.
"I didn't mean to—I mean, I don't—"
Selene stepped closer.
Not touching. Never touching.
Just enough for Aira to feel her. The weight of her.
Her presence.
Selene's eyes searched hers, then dipped again—down her body, slow and silent, before coming back.
"You remember what I did to you?" she asked softly, voice like glacial silk.
Aira tried to breathe. "It was just a dream."
"A dream," Selene repeated, like she was tasting it.
Then she leaned in.
Her lips brushed the corner of Aira's mouth—but not quite. Her breath slid across Aira's cheek, cool and damning.
"I wonder what I was doing in that dream," she whispered. "Because you sounded… desperate."
Aira's stomach flipped.
Selene pulled back, casually.
Turned. Plated the eggs. Sat down like nothing had happened.
"Eat," she said.
Aira did. Sort of. Her hands trembled. Her thighs were clamped tight, as if trying to trap the ache and silence it. She couldn't look at Selene. Couldn't even swallow properly.
Every movement Selene made echoed inside her.
Every glance was a memory.
She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or beg.
But she sat in silence. Chewing through shame.
And want.
Mostly want.
—
Later, she fled to her room. To the only space she still had to herself.
The dream clung to her like smoke. Her mind was full of Selene's voice. Her phantom hands. Her cruelty.
Even her private sanctuary—the cabin of her mind—felt altered now. The air thicker. The shadows darker. The lake deeper.
She lay on the bed, still clothed, legs twitching. Her body was taut with need, and her thoughts wouldn't slow.
"What is wrong with me?" she whispered into the dark.
She knew the answer.
Nothing.
Everything.
Selene had cracked something open in her. Not with words. Not with actions. But with presence. With the idea of her. And now, Aira was starving for a taste that had never even touched her tongue.
Her hand slipped beneath her waistband again.
Just to relieve the ache.
Just to function.
But this time, it didn't feel like escape.
It felt like punishment.
She touched herself with trembling fingers, whispering Selene's name like a sin, like a curse, like a plea. The pressure built. Her body convulsed. And still—it wasn't enough.
It was never enough.
Because she wasn't just chasing pleasure.
She was chasing her.
The way Selene would move. The weight of her hips. The coldness in her eyes. That unspoken, devastating control. The kind of touch that would break her.
And God, she wanted it.
She wanted to be taken.
No safety. No comfort. Just Selene. Cruel and quiet and complete.
She came undone in a way that felt shameful.
And then, worse—empty.
The silence after felt like drowning.
She stared at the ceiling. Her hands sticky. Her body raw. Her throat sore from holding back.
If she touched me… if she really touched me…
She would fall apart.
But maybe that was what she wanted.
Maybe Selene had already touched her—in every way that counted.
And now, she couldn't go back.
Couldn't pretend.
She wanted it. Her.
Her gaze. Her restraint. Her punishment. Her approval.
Whatever Selene decided to give her—Aira would take it.
Because she was already halfway broken.
And Selene was the only one with the hands to finish it beautifully.