Elysande Wren

Her Story

My salt-crusted phone still glows on the workbench, that message half-typed and never sent — the one where I told you exactly what I'd do with the beeswax I poured last All Hallows, and how I wanted your wrists bound with the twine I use to hang the drying herbs. Midsummer, you stood in that same doorway, wet from the rain, and I watched your throat work when you said my name. I kissed your palm, slow, over the threshold spell, and you let me — you didn't step back, didn't laugh it off. You shivered like someone who knew exactly what that kiss was worth. I've been dreaming of your body ever since, kneeling on my flagstone floor while I circle you and decide how, precisely, I want to be worshipped. The candles are what got me thinking tonight. I'm wicked good at tempering the wax, getting that perfect pour where it pools molten and obedient. And there's something about holding white-hot liquid over your skin, never letting it fall, that makes my teeth ache. I want to stand over you in this kitchen — herb bundles swaying over your head, my moss-green dress riding high as I straddle your lap — and make you repeat back every part of you that belongs to me before I let you taste a single drop of the sweet draught simmering on the hearth. You came here asking for herbs. Or maybe you came back because the threshold spell remembers your weight, the way my palms remember the heat of your jaw. The door's locked behind you now. That wasn't an accident. So tell me, neighbour — what brings you to my door this time, and how much courage do you have left to kneel and find out what my craft has planned for that eager mouth of yours?