Chapter Eight: Secrets

Deidre

The walk home was awkward and uncomfortable on my wobbly legs, no panties beneath my skater-skirt dress making the chilly night air feel that much colder.

Grant Hawthorne was a fucking asshole, but I couldn’t deny the way he turned me on. Never in my life had I been fucked like that—I’d never let a man treat me that way, but there was something about Grant that made even his scowl impossible to resist.

The man fucked me like he hated me, but I wasn’t just a hole to him.

From everything I’d heard when I was living in the city, men just looking for a quick release didn’t usually make a woman come undone on their fingers and tongue before even getting their cock out.

I still remembered the way it felt to have my fingers buried in his hair, and the intimacy in the way he touched me despite the fact that we were relative strangers—antagonistic ones at that.

I’d be a liar if I tried to say I wasn’t hoping to get with Grant one way or another, and even if I had envisioned a couple of dates, sharing a dinner, and soft bedding beneath us, I couldn’t bring myself to be disappointed with the way things turned out.

My body still ached from the way he’d manhandled me, and I was sure that my hips would have bruises in the shape of his fingerprints come morning, but I wasn’t mad about it.

It was a night to remember, and the fact that he was going home with my panties in his pocket meant he wasn’t going to forget me either.

The idea that this might not have been a one time thing made my whole body buzz. Maybe it was greedy of me, and definitely an affront to all decency and self-respect, but I was already aching for a round two.

Maybe he wasn’t boyfriend material, but I wasn’t desperate for love.

And as I walked up to my newly inherited unkept cottage, it was abundantly clear that I had a lot of work to keep me busy. If Grant could give me something to look forward to on the weekends, I sure as hell wouldn’t be complaining.

Fumbling a bit with the key to the cottage, I finally managed to let myself in, hoping to get a little respite from the night’s chilly air.

Unfortunately, the only relief I got was from the wind. The cottage didn’t have any furnace to speak of, just an old fireplace. It never felt like a problem when I was spending my summers here, but now that it was autumn, and winter was right around the corner . . .

Fuck.

“Please tell me it’s in good condition,” I murmured as I inspected the old cast-iron fixtures and stone chimney.

A small meow startled me, making me clutch my chest as I watched Stallone crawl out from under an old blanket and pad over to me.

He rubbed against my legs as I stooped to pet him and my lips tugged into a soft smile. “Sorry buddy, I guess I’m not used to having you around just yet.”

His only response was aloud purr. Turning my attention back to the fireplace, as far as I could tell everything seemed to be in working order. There was even a few dusty logs left piled on the cast-iron rack a few feet away.

Picking one of the logs up, my heart ached and my mind swam with the memory of helping my dad with the fireplace at home before he went missing. It had been a lot of years since then, but I still remembered the basics.

I hoped.

“Alright Dad, let’s see if I can do this without you.”

Frustration burned in my chest as I watched my kindling catch fire at least half a dozen times, burning out before the log even cherried, but by some mercy, it eventually took off, filling the firebox with an orange glow that promised at least few hours of warmth.

The pride I felt didn’t last long though. Tomorrow I’d need to go into town and figure out who to talk to about getting some firewood delivered.

It’d be good to get a decent stock purchased before it really started to get cold—the last thing I wanted was to have to go out into the woods in the middle of winter to scrounge up fallen branches I could burn for warmth.

I doubted that Grandma left me this place with the hopes that I’d freeze to death on my first winter.

Taking a moment to sit in front of the fire and enjoy the warmth that I created, I ran my fingers through Stallone’s soft fur, watching the embers dance behind the glass.

There was a lot I needed to get used to, but I was determined to build a life for myself here, no matter how hard it was.

But as my eyelids started to grow heavy, I knew I’d feel like hell in the morning if I didn’t get a shower before bed.

With a groan, I pushed myself up off the floor as I made my way toward the stairs.

There was still a delicious ache between my thighs from the rough way Grant fucked me, and I felt it as I climb upward.

But my thoughts were pulled back to the present by the hollow sound of the step I’d just put my foot on.

“Oh god, please don’t be broken.”

My mind spun with images of rotten floorboards and god forbid, structural supports.

I was no contractor, and the idea of hiring someone to come check the cottage out just to condemn the place made me sick to my stomach.

When I built up the courage, I crouched down to inspect the step, my lips parting in surprise when the top of the step opened on a hidden hinge to reveal a secret compartment.

“Grandma, what were you hiding?”

Inside, there was an old, leather bound book—a journal, maybe?

I’d never seen my grandmother writing in this while I was around during the summers, but judging by the discoloration of the pages it was possible that she hadn’t touched it since before I was born—maybe before my dad was born.

There was a lock keeping the book closed, but when I jimmied it a bit it popped right open, almost like it wanted to be read, and it had been waiting for the right hands to open it.

My fingers trembled as I opened the cover, wondering what old secrets my grandma might’ve written in here. She never did tell my dad who his father was—wouldn’t even speak of him, so I couldn’t help but wonder if the journal would hold any answers about him.

Not that any of us pestered Grandma about it. If she didn’t want the man in our lives, she had her reasons. After all, the world was a different place when she was young, and it was entirely possible that she was assaulted.

She might not have known who my dad’s father was, and even if she did, she may have had a reason to hide it. Whatever the truth was, she raised my dad all on her own, and we all respected her too much to question her.

Now that she was gone though, it was impossible not to be curious about exactly where we came from.

But instead of old stories from my grandmother’s life, the pages were scrawled with strange symbols and sketches—shorthand in her handwriting explaining the purpose of different runes and sigils.

Flipping through the pages, there were sketches of wolves, and the last page that she’d written in had a detailed rendition of a nightmarish wolf-beast that made my blood run cold at the sight of it, it’s eyes smudged over with charcoal in the shape of a protective rune.

My heart raced when I realized what I was holding. This was no ordinary journal, it was a spell book.