His thumb hooked into the waistband of my shorts, dragging the denim down just enough to expose the white line of my hip bone.
16 min read·3,009 words·15 views
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[Voice Memo 01: August 14th, 02:14 AM]
(Sound of heavy, ragged breathing. In the background, the distant, low thud of a bass synth from the Main Stage, muffled by thick walls. The crinkle of heavy-duty plastic sheeting.)
“I’m recording this… for the record. For the sake of the inevitable litigation. My name is Kaelen Vance. I am the lead talent liaison for the Ironwood Solstice Festival. And right now… right now, Rhyan is—god, move your hand, Rhyan—he’s currently in breach of Section 4.2 of the High Court Performance Agreement. The non-fraternization clause. The ‘do not touch the mortals’ clause. The ‘if you break the skin, the festival is over’ clause.”
(A low, melodic laugh, not entirely human. The sound of a zipper being dragged down slowly.)
“Stop talking, Kaelen. Your voice is like a subpoena. It’s annoying.”
“I’m documenting the incident, you prick. I’m—fuck. Okay. He just pushed me back against the catering table. My heels are off the ground. He tastes like copper and the way the air smells right before a tornado hits a cornfield. If I don’t survive this, or if I end up as a permanent resident of the Unseelie Court, let the record show that the initial physical contact was non-consensual on a purely professional level, but… extremely consensual on every other level. He’s biting my neck now. It doesn’t hurt. It feels like a localized electrical fire. I need to… I need to put the phone down.”
(The sound of the phone hitting a soft surface. Muffled sounds of skin on skin, a sharp intake of breath, and the memo cuts off.)
***
[Voice Memo 02: August 10th, 09:00 AM]
(The sound of a car door slamming. The chirp of cicadas is deafening—that oppressive, mid-August Illinois heat you can feel in your teeth.)
“Day one. The site is a mess. The production crew from the Summer Court tried to set up the main stage in a flood zone, and I had to spend three hours explaining the concept of ‘civil liability’ to a creature that literally doesn’t believe in gravity. We’re in the Shawnee National Forest, but the Ley-lines are spiking. The Ironwood Festival is the only time the veil thins enough for the High Court acts to cross over for a ‘cultural exchange.’ Translation: they play music that makes people hallucinate, and we give them enough mortal worship to fuel their glamour for a decade.”
“I just saw the rider for the headliner. Rhyan. No last name, obviously. He’s Unseelie. A cellist. He requested a room with no mirrors, three liters of spring water from a source that has never seen the sun, and ‘a liaison with a backbone.’ That’s me. I’m the backbone. I’ve got my binder, my sensible boots, and a bottle of Xanax. I’ve been practicing my ‘I am a professional lawyer and you cannot intimidate me with your cheekbones’ face in the rearview mirror for twenty minutes.”
“The stakes are high. If a Fae performer touches a human during the Solstice, the magic grounds out. It’s like a massive electrical surge. It can burn a person from the inside out, or bind them to the performer in a way that would make a ‘til death do us part’ contract look like a casual lunch date. My job is to make sure that doesn’t happen. I’m the barrier. I’m the wall.”
***
[Voice Memo 03: August 10th, 04:42 PM]
(Sound of a lighter flicking. Wind whistling through trees.)
“I met him. Rhyan. He’s… he’s a problem. I’ve spent my career dealing with aggressive CEOs and partners who think they own the room because they have a corner office in the Sears Tower, but this is different. He’s not tall, exactly, but he takes up all the available light. His skin is the color of birch bark, and his hair is blacker than a New York City blackout.”
“He was sitting on a crate behind the main stage, tuning his cello. The strings aren’t wire. They’re gut, but I don’t want to know from what. When I walked up with the NDA, he didn’t even look up. He just said, ‘You smell like coffee and anxiety, Kaelen.’ He knew my name before I said it. He looked at me then, and his eyes… they aren’t right. They’re like looking into the bottom of a deep well where something shiny is reflecting. No pupils. Just a shifting, dark amber.”
“I told him the rules. I gave him the lecture on the Compact. I told him that if he even brushes against a fan’s hand, I’ll have him deported back to the Grey Lands before he can hit a high C. He just leaned back, his thumb strumming a string that sounded like a woman crying, and said, ‘And what happens if I touch you, Counselor?’ I told him I’d sue him for breach of contract. He laughed. It was a cold sound. He said, ‘I’d like to see you try to serve me papers in the Court of Thorns.’”
“I’m fine. My pulse is a little high, but it’s just the humidity. I need to find the lead rigger and tell him to move the pyrotechnics. Everything feels like it’s about to catch fire.”
***
[Voice Memo 04: August 11th, 11:30 PM]
(The background noise is a chaotic mix of drumming and distant laughter. The narrator’s voice is lower, more intimate.)
“It’s midnight. The festival officially starts tomorrow, but the ‘soft opening’ for the VIPs is happening now. I’m in the Artist Village. Rhyan’s trailer is at the very end of the line, tucked under a cluster of ancient oaks that look like they’re trying to swallow the metal roof.”
“I had to go in. He refused to sign the revised safety protocol for the stage. I found him sitting on the floor of the trailer, the lights off, just the moon through the small window. The air in there was freezing. Not cold—chilled. Like a walk-in freezer at a butcher shop. He was shirtless. His back is covered in scars that look like frost patterns on a windowpane. I stood there with my clipboard like a total idiot, and the power dynamic shifted so fast I got dizzy. It was like a hostile takeover where I was the one being liquidated.”
“He told me to come closer. I didn’t. I told him he needed to sign the document. He stood up—he moves like water, no wasted motion—and walked right into my personal space. The air around him hums. It’s a literal vibration you can feel in your marrow. He reached out, his hand hovering just an inch from my cheek. I could feel the cold radiating off his skin. He didn’t touch me. He just traced the air, following the line of my jaw. ‘You’re so fragile,’ he whispered. ‘Like a glass contract. One crack and the whole thing is void.’”
“I should have walked out. Instead, I said, ‘I’m tougher than I look.’ He smiled, and for a second, I saw his teeth. They’re too sharp. He said, ‘I know. That’s why I want to see you break.’ I left then. I’m in my own trailer now, and I can’t stop shaking. It’s not fear. It’s… it’s a terrifying level of arousal. I haven’t felt this since I was twenty-two and dating a guy who rode a motorcycle and stole my car. I’m thirty-two. I have a 401k. I shouldn’t want to be ruined by a cello-playing monster.”
***
[Voice Memo 05: August 12th, 08:15 PM]
(Sound of a crowd cheering in the distance—a massive, rhythmic roar.)
“He’s on stage. I’m watching from the wings. This is… it’s not music. It’s a weapon. He’s playing the cello, but he’s not using a bow. He’s using his fingers, and every time he pulls a string, the crowd gasps in unison. The lights are hitting him, and the glamour is thick tonight. To the fans, he probably looks like a god. To me, he looks like a predator who’s found a hole in the fence.”
“He’s looking at me. While he’s playing for ten thousand people, he’s staring directly into the wings, at me. I can’t move. My feet are heavy, like they’re rooted in the mud. I’m wearing a silk blouse—professional, or at least it was until the humidity got to it—and I can feel my nipples rubbing against the fabric every time I breathe. I’m wet. Just standing here, watching him work, I’m soaked. It’s unprofessional. It’s a liability. If any of the partners at the firm saw me now, they’d revoke my license.”
“He just hit a low note that vibrated through the floorboards, straight up my legs, and settled in my pelvis. I actually moaned. Out loud. In front of the stage manager. I pretended I had a cough. I have to get out of here. I have to go to the production office and look at spreadsheets. Spreadsheets are safe. Numbers don’t have teeth.”
***
[Voice Memo 06: August 13th, 01:05 AM]
(The sound of crickets and the low hum of a generator. The narrator sounds breathless, her voice cracking.)
“The First Breach occurred approximately twenty minutes ago. Location: the equipment storage unit behind the Main Stage. I went in to check on the inventory of the wireless mics. Rhyan followed me. He closed the door, and for a minute, it was pitch black. Then the emergency light kicked on—that dim, sickly red glow.”
“He didn't say anything. He just pushed me against a stack of flight cases. The metal corners dug into my shoulder blades, but I didn't care. He finally touched me. His hands are like ice, but where they hit my skin, it felt like a brand. He grabbed my wrists and pinned them above my head. I’m stronger than most, but against him, I was nothing. He’s not human. He has the strength of something that’s lived for five hundred years and never had a desk job.”
“‘The contract,’ I gasped out. I was trying to be the lawyer. I was trying to mitigate the damage. ‘Rhyan, if you do this, you’re stuck here. You’ll lose your seat in the Court.’ He didn’t care. He leaned down and licked the side of my neck, from the collarbone up to my ear. His tongue was rough, like a cat’s, but wet and hot. ‘Let it burn,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent an eternity playing for statues. I want something that bleeds.’”
“He reached down and unzipped my shorts. I didn’t stop him. I helped him. I kicked them off, standing there in just my lace underwear and my work boots. He dropped to his knees. The sight of him—this elegant, terrifying prince of the Unseelie—kneeling on the dirty floor of an equipment shed… it broke something in me. He didn’t use his hands at first. He just breathed on me. That cold air hitting my heat. I was shaking so hard I had to grip the edge of the crate to stay upright.”
“When he finally put his mouth on me, I thought I was going to die. It wasn’t like being with a man. It was like being consumed by a storm. He used his tongue with this clinical, devastating precision, finding the exact spot where all my nerves gathered and just… staying there. I could feel the magic. It felt like needles of light shooting through my thighs. I screamed his name, and he just growled into my crotch, his fingers digging into my hips, leaving bruises that I know are going to be there for weeks. Bruises I’ll have to hide under a suit on Monday.”
“I came so hard I saw stars. My legs gave out, and he caught me, lifting me up like I weighed nothing. He looked at me, his eyes completely black now, no amber left. ‘That was just the interest,’ he whispered. ‘I haven't even touched the principal yet.’ Then he just… left. He walked out and left me shivering on a pile of cables. I’m a mess. I’m a complete and utter disaster. And I want him to do it again.”
***
[Voice Memo 07: August 14th, 11:50 PM]
(The sound of the festival’s final firework display—booms and whistles.)
“It’s the final night. The Solstice is at its peak. The veil is so thin you can see the trees in the Otherworld shimmering behind our own. It looks like a double exposure. The air is thick with the smell of sulfur and ozone. Rhyan just finished his final set. He played a piece that made half the audience weep and the other half start stripping off their clothes. The police are having a nightmare out there.”
“I’m in his trailer. He told me to wait here. He said if I wasn’t here when he got back, he’d find me in Chicago and drag me into the dark with him. I believe him. I’ve spent my whole life playing by the rules, making sure every ‘i’ is dotted and every ‘t’ is crossed. I’ve been the perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect associate. But sitting here, in this freezing trailer, waiting for a monster to come and take what’s left of me… I’ve never felt more alive.”
“The door is opening. I can hear the boots on the metal steps. This is it. This is the Final Breach. If I don't record anything after this, tell my mother I love her, and tell the senior partner that I’m resigning, effective immediately. I’m going off-contract.”
***
[Voice Memo 08: August 15th, 04:10 AM]
(The background is silent now. The narrator’s voice is a low, gravelly whisper. She sounds exhausted, satisfied, and slightly dazed.)
“I’m still here. I’m alive. Barely.”
“When he came in, he didn't say a word. He just locked the door and ripped his shirt off. The glamour was gone—or maybe it was fully on. He looked… ancient. And beautiful. And terrifying. He walked over to the desk where I was sitting—the desk with all my files, my contracts, my life—and he just swept everything onto the floor. Thousands of dollars of legal research, gone in a second.”
“He picked me up and sat me on the edge of the desk. My legs were wrapped around his waist before I even realized I’d moved. He tasted like the end of the world. We fought at first—it was all teeth and nails and frantic, desperate energy. He bit my lip, and the taste of my own blood seemed to drive him insane. He flipped me over, pressing my face into the wood of the desk. I could smell the old wax and the sharp scent of his sweat.”
“He entered me from behind, one hard, uncompromising thrust that felt like it was splitting me in two. I’ve never felt anything like it. It wasn't just physical. It was like he was filling up every empty space in my soul with that cold, dark magic of his. He was relentless. He didn't move like a man; he moved like a machine, like a force of nature. Every time he hit my cervix, I felt a jolt of electricity in the back of my skull. I was sobbing, begging him for more, for less, for everything.”
“He grabbed my hair, pulling my head back so I had to look at him in the small mirror on the wall. I didn’t recognize myself. My face was flushed, my eyes were blown out, my hair was a bird’s nest. I looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge. And he looked… he looked triumphant. ‘Look at you,’ he hissed in my ear. ‘Where is your backbone now, Counselor? Where is your jurisdiction?’”
“I told him to shut up and fuck me. And he did. He did until the sun started to come up, until I couldn't feel my legs, until the desk was shaking so hard I thought it would collapse. We came together in this explosion of light and cold that felt like a circuit breaker blowing. I think I blacked out for a minute. When I woke up, he was holding me. Truly holding me. His skin was warm for the first time.”
“He’s asleep now. Or whatever they do instead of sleeping. He’s curled around me like I’m the only thing keeping him grounded to this earth. And maybe I am. The Compact is broken. I can feel the change in the air. The festival is over, but something else has started. I have to figure out how to explain this to the insurance company.”
“Actually… no. To hell with the insurance company. I think I’ll just stay here for a while. I’ve always been good at negotiations. I think I can negotiate a new life out of this.”
(A long silence.)
“Yeah. I definitely can.”
(Sound of the recording being stopped.)
***
[Voice Memo 09: August 16th, 10:00 AM]
(The sound of a car engine idling. Traffic noises. The narrator sounds back to her professional self, but with a new edge.)
“Update. I’m at a rest stop on I-57, heading north. Rhyan is in the passenger seat. He’s wearing my oversized Chicago Bears hoodie and a pair of sunglasses. He’s currently fascinated by a bag of Funyuns. He’s never had processed corn before. It’s an adjustment.”
“The festival site is being dismantled. The official report will state that the High Court performer ‘vanished’ following a localized atmospheric anomaly. My firm is already drafting the force majeure clauses. They’ll be fine. They have plenty of other lawyers who don't sleep with the talent.”
“As for me… I have a passenger who shouldn't exist in this reality, a bite mark on my hip that’s glowing faintly blue, and a complete lack of regret. The power dynamics have shifted again. He might be a prince of the Unseelie, but he doesn't know how to use a microwave or file a tax return. He’s going to need a very good lawyer. And I’ve always been the best.”
“Case closed.”
