Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The fires started slowly. A tiny house, a sharecropping community, then the fields that once paid your granddaddy’s bills. Folks say it’s the heat, the drought, or maybe God has come down to smite what’s left of this cursed parish. But you know better. You’ve seen how the flames dance, too clean and precise. The way they lick up walls like they’re searching for something. You’ve felt him near before the smoke even rises. Remmick never leaves soot on his boots or ash on his collar. No, the Devil here walks like a man, smells like cedarwood, and falls from grace. And whenever you hear the sirens wail, you wonder if it’s your turn to be saved or sacrificed.

You woke up in the middle of the night to the smell of thick smoke being carried in the humid southern air. The covers clung to the perspiration that coated your skin as you threw them off your body to the side. Looking out the window, the night sky pulsed orange and red. Down the road, you could see your neighbour’s house lit up like a lantern, flames dancing greedily along the porch beams. You could hear the screams, muffled at first, but their pleas grew louder to a high shrill, then nothing at all—just the crackle of fire swallowing wood, bone, and memories.

The Klan must have struck again. Nothing felt real; everything looked straight out of a fever dream. You stumbled out barefoot with a heart thudding against your ribs like a warning, but you already knew you were too late. The land around you, once quiet, now reeked of smoke and heavy sorrow. Cotton fields looked like little ghosts in the distance, and the countryside plantations were still fresh, a cruel reminder that nothing ever really changes in the Mississippi Delta.

There he was when you looked off to the yard's edge, past the gnarled oaks and overgrown cotton fields. Remmick was watching, shirtless and still as death, a hunter stalking his prey, awaiting the perfect time to strike. You squint your eyes to see if your sight has tricked you. Searching for any signs that may relieve the unease in your spirit. The longer you looked, the more wrong he felt. A single White man observing from a distance the Black community of sharecroppers. The breeze shifted around him, and the cicadas fell quiet in his presence.

You'd heard all of the stories from your Mama and other kinfolk. The tales that are whispered after baptisms and buried deep beneath the guise of our hymns that we hum. They were about things that wore the shape and skin of a man but walked in the shadows, older than time as we know it. Things that couldn't cross salt and garlic or enter uninvited. You don’t know how long you’ve been out there, but you can sense it. It’s been a while since the crowd started to disperse and return to their four-walled sanctuaries. You took note of the death looming around from the devastating fire and returned to your grandmother’s home. Someone will see to it shortly.

You pressed your hand against the door frame, stilling your heart as you locked up again for the night. However, you could still feel him, similar to a weight in your chest. He wasn’t just watching; it was a silent warning, and you were sure of it. But fear didn’t come easily to you. Not since you were twelve when your grandmother taught you how to boil bones and speak to your ancestors for guidance. Before she passed, she handed you an old silver key that opened a crawlspace under the floorboards and taught you, “Whatever walks through that field, baby, don’t let it catch you unarmed.”

You lit the lamp and sat down at the table. Your bloodline blessed you with prayer and ash. Your hands moved gracefully, pulling all the things you would need close. Dirt from your mother's grave, a twist of black thread, and dried petals from your grandmother's rose water jar. The wind whistled low and strange, the tide of grief kissing the grounds of your yard. In the distance, you could hear the firefighters put out the resisting flames, but the souls of the house were long gone by the time they’d arrived. Outside, Remmick hadn’t moved from his hiding place. He was waiting for the night sky to be the darkest and the moon to rise at its highest.

Suspicion is useful when you know how to wear it correctly. It was armour under a nightdress. You crushed the grabbed items, binding them together with a pinch of grave dirt and spit. The words came next and rolled off your tongue in your grandmother’s voice. Protection charms don't work if you whisper them scared. You could feel him coming closer now. The land between you was shrinking, inch by inch.

Remmick wasn’t just a man. You knew that long before tonight. A man didn’t pull flame from bone or walk through housefires without smoke in his hair. You were just a girl then, wide-eyed and disobedient, pretending to sleep but watching from behind the simple linen curtains. Your grandmother had told you to shut your eyes, say your prayers, and rest. But you didn’t listen. And now, all these years later, you’re sure he was the one who started it. A man didn’t make the living restless every time he passed by. After the fire, the whole street wore silence like mourning clothes. The house was gone, nothing left but blackened wood and the smell of something far worse than ash. Nobody talked about the screams. Nobody talked about how the fire danced, moving faster than any flame had a right to. They sure as hell didn’t talk about the figure that walked calmly into the flames, then vanished before the sirens arrived. It had seemed like you were the only one who had remembered what that White man looked like emerging from the flames with blood smeared across his mouth and dripping down to his chest.

Uncertain about Remmick's intentions and unwilling to discover them, you secured the charm bag firmly around your wrist. Searching through the jars in the kitchen, you found garlic and ate two cloves. The unliving had begun to walk among us, and we could no longer hide. It was time to expel the evil, even if it was just you. You were tired of running, navigating through the world with a bent head and pleading hands to the White man who constantly undermined you and spat at your feet. That’s when the knocks came, and it wasn’t at your door. Remmick dragged his claws across the window pane, and the thin glass threatened to crack under the pressure of his touch. His shadow loomed from the moonlight, causing his figure to appear on the curtains. You didn’t even think to peek in the corner, in anticipation that he might try to break it open.
Your breathing turns shallow as you try to think of a plan, but your mind remains blank. There was nowhere to run. Remmick was goading you, seeing what he could get away with before you met your endpoint. He was now on the roof, and the only hint of his footsteps echoing above your head was the ceiling, rickety and creaking under his weight. He was on your Mama’s roof. The haint blue paint covered the front porch, and Nana believed any protection against haints was reasonable. However, you weren’t sure Remmick was a haint, although he seemed restless towards achieving a goal. The problem is that you didn’t know what he wanted. Too afraid to think of what was worse, an aimless monster or a trained predator seeking his prey.
A tiny rock shot through the wooden door like a bullet, grazing the side of your cheek and drawing a surprised yelp out of you. The hot, stinging sensation was immediate. An inch further to the right, and it would've been over for you. You felt the blood trickle down your face.

As if it summoned Remmick to move closer to the edges of the house, he yelled out. His voice is gravelly and urgent with an Irish rasp. “Didn’t mean no harm, just wanted a word, is all. Could we have a talk, yeah?”
You paused before opening your mouth, “S’alright, it's a tad bit too late to be chattin' up strangers.”
When he walked up on the sea blue porch, Remmick made it known that he ain't no regular haint. He was something far more sinister. “We both know i'm not no stranger, now do we?” His voice was almost amused, like he savoured the truth you’d tried hard to forget.

You couldn't answer. Your throat had run dry, and your joints signalled you to run, but your feet stayed rooted to the wooden floor. The porch screeched, and then you saw him peek his eye in the hole he had created in the door.

“Ain’t no need to be afraid now,” he said softly, eyes flicking to the blood still drying on your cheek. “Let me in, sweetheart. Just for a minute.” Remmick’s smile wasn't welcoming, and it was calculated and waiting. “I got all night. But you and I both know… It’s easier when you open the door.” The porch boards groaned beneath his weight as he reached the last step.

“Say yes, and I swear I’ll be gentle.”

The mojo bag pulsed at your wrist like a second heartbeat. He couldn’t cross the threshold unless you let him. And he knew it. Still, he lingered with a purpose. Remmick let the silence stretch for a breath too long, then slipped a small silver flask from his pants pockets. Without breaking eye contact from the makeshift peephole, he popped the cap and poured the liquor steadily across the porch boards, spraying it across where your grandmother used to set out sweet tea and protection jars.

The sharp scent of whiskey hit the air like a warning, and he took a swig of the last drop before putting it back.

“You know, back in the old days,” Remmick murmured, striking a match against the wooden panels,
“Folks didn’t wait for witches to come out polite.” The flame flared, gold and hungry. He held it close to the wood, just long enough before continuing. “They burned ’em. Said it cleansed the sin. Said it set the spirits free, same thing I overheard you, Mama, chat about.”

He leaned forward, flame dancing in his eyes. “But me? I wanna talk.” He flicked the match to the side onto the grass, not lighting the porch yet.

But the threat still stood, “open the damn door, girl. Or I’ll let the fire do the askin’.”
You yanked the door open with rage fresh on your face and fury hot in your belly. “Yah, do you think fire scares me?” Your voice was sharp like a knife, waiting to gut whatever it came in contact with. This porch held sacred memories, your grandmother's humming and Sunday prayers. Stepping close to the doorway, close enough for your shadows to meet.

The way Remmick looked at you like you were some missing piece he’d been hunting for across lifetimes made your skin prickle. It was in his eyes that had seen too many wars, too many deaths, too many rituals performed by candlelight and blood.

“You think I’d come all this way just for talkin’?” he asked incredulously. “You got what I need, girl. Somethin’ old and powerful.”

He tilted his head, gaze dragging over the mojo bag tied to your wrist with a knowing curiosity, “Your blood carries a name older than yours. And I reckon your ancestors know mine.” A cold wind pushed through the trees, and somewhere, something howled.

You yanked your mojo bag tighter on your wrist, heart pounding but unwavering. “You ain’t the first Devil to knock on this porch, Remmick. And you sure as hell won’t be the last.” If you didn't have your grandmother’s house, you had nothing. Your siblings didn’t stick around for long after her heart ran out. But you stayed, gave her the best burial that you could manage out back. You wrapped her in linen and laid her to rest beneath the willow tree out back, the one she always said hummed when spirits passed through.

The Mississippi Delta was your home. All that you've known. Remmick won’t be able to run you out that easily. You’d be damned if he lit your grandmother’s house to nothing but ash, the same way they burned every proof that a Black woman ever owned anything worth keeping.

Every board held a prayer. You could still hear your Mama’s voice humming “Wade in the Water” when she hung herbs to dry.

“I was born on this land,” you said, voice low. “My Mama picked cotton ‘til her fingers split. My grandmama kept a roster of every lie the white folks told. They worked this dirt, prayed over it, and died on it. And now you think you gon’ scare me off it?”

“I ain’t here for no quarrel… unless you make me earn one.” Remmick took one step towards you, stopping short of the doorway, as if it pained him that he couldn’t maneuver his body through. You took a step back in return, more instinct than fear, but he noticed.

“I remember this place,” he murmured, glancing toward the willow tree. “Your grandmother used to have a heap of rituals for protection, she said. Against things like me.” You felt the chill curl around your spine.

“She knew you?”

Remmick smiled then, slow and humourless. “Knew of me. Your kin have been dancing with shadows longer than you think.”

“You got her eyes, y’know,” he said. ”That fire in your veins? Your foolish heart? It was hers before it was yours.” He crouched, letting his fingers play with the pool of liquor that he spilled. “Precious blood runs in you,” he said, voice dipping low like a secret. “Same as hers. Same as the ones before her.”

You tried to let the words digest, but your mind has yet to wrap its mind about how a man who doesn’t look a day over thirty knew your bloodline. “Blood that doesn’t just call spirits... it bends ‘em. Breaks ‘em. Feeds ‘em.”

“That’s what your grandmother never told you, right?” His voice softened, almost pitying. “She shielded you as best she could. Wrapped you in prayers and grave dirt. Hid you from the ones who’d drink you dry to taste a little of that power.”

You didn’t move, didn’t breathe. “But me?” He tapped his chest with two fingers.

“I don’t wanna bleed you, baby girl. I want to build with you. You and I could own every acre from here to the Gulf.” He grinned, wide and wolfish, like he could already taste it. "All you gotta do is let me in."

“I ain’t born yesterday, you ain’t welcome ‘round these parts.” You stated.

He got up to his full height, towering over you. His pupils flashed red for a split second. “You ready to burn with me, baby girl?” In a flash, before you could blink, he got out his pack of matches and lit one. Remmick struck the match against his boot. A hiss, a flare of orange, and then he pressed the little flame to the porch rail. The old wood caught instantly, hungry after so many dry seasons. Flames licked upward, low but fast.
Your rage was insurmountable, but something profound inside you shivered awake. The air around you shifted, thickened, heavy with the copper scent of stirred magic. The flare that had just begun to spread stuttered. The wood blackened but refused to break. The fire coiled on itself, guttering, whining that it's been trapped.

Remmick’s eyes narrowed, watching. “There it is,” he said, a rough purr. “Knew you had it in you.” As he stepped back from the smouldering porch, the matchbook dangled from his fingers.

“You ain't just your grandma’s girl,” he murmured. “You're a goddamn birthright walking.” You barely heard him. The power in your body pulsed once, twice, a rhythm as old as the Delta itself. And though the fire still flickered at your doorstep, it did not touch you. The fire roared where Remmick had pressed it to the porch rail, growing faster than it should have. The flame that stuttered moments ago now surged, as if your blood had called to it, but you hadn’t meant to, and you didn't know how.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. If you stayed at your grandmother’s house, the last piece of her you had would be transformed into nothing more than the dirt and ash that filled your mojo bags.
A harsh sob broke from your throat as you yanked your bag tighter and slammed the door shut before charging out the back door, sprinting off and taking that last leap into the heavy night. Behind you, the fire roared louder, and somewhere in the crackling din, you swore you heard Remmick laughing triumphantly.
The ground shivered under your feet as you ran, and the willow tree at the back of the yard, which was your grandmother’s grave, hummed as you sprinted past it. Before you felt him creep up behind you, you barely made it off the land and already stepped into a current too strong to fight. The fire behind you spat and snapped, the light throwing his silhouette in sharp, devilish relief.

"Thought you could outrun it?" he drawled, voice like velvet dragged over gravel. "Outrun me?" He pushed off the tree, slow and sure, that lazy grin stretching across his face, it was hard to ignore how tempting the Devil looked then. There was a hunger in his eyes that was dark and sharp; he was a man stepping up to claim something he’d already marked as his. Remmick moved with a raw, predatory grace, the kind of man who didn’t need to chase.

Broad shoulders strained the worn fabric of his shirt, with sleeves rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms dusted with old scars and new sins. His jaw was sharp, stubbled, and dangerous, and that mouth was full, crooked, and parted just enough to flash the sharp gleam of his elongated canines. Lord, his eyes burned with something hungrier than lust, pupils blown wide, rimmed in a glow that no mortal could ever have.
"You can feel it, can’t you?" he said, closing the distance in unhurried strides. There was magic in your blood, old and defiant, and it screamed at you to ward him off, salt the earth he walked on, and spit in his wicked, beautiful face. But another part that knew loneliness, quivered toward him like a smoker starved for air.

“Mmmm,” he said. “You’re overthinking, sugar.” He stepped closer, the tip of one claw tracing lazy circles in the space between you. “Thinking gets you killed.” Before you could answer, he flicked the matchbook in his hand and tossed a lit match into the dry brush at the yard's edge.

Fire bloomed, crackling and eager, a rough circle hemming you both in. “Could you fucking stop lightin shit on fire?” He's destroying everything that he sees with his touch.

“You wanna run so bad?” Remmick asked, fangs fully bared, cruel and gleaming. "Let’s make it interesting." He licked his thumb, snuffed out the match he'd struck, deliberately never taking his eyes off you. "You've got ’til the count of three." The thrill of the hunt made Remmick excited.

The heat behind you pulsed like a heartbeat. Flames curled at the yard's edges, circling in toward the house but not touching it. They were waiting for his command. And in the middle of it all, Remmick stood like the conductor of some unholy symphony.

“Before we play,” he said in a low and sweet tone, “I want you to know what you agree to.” He circled you as he spoke.

“You run,” he murmured, pausing just behind your ear. “And I chase.”

You swallowed hard, and it felt like something was lodged in your throat. “If I catch you before the sun touches your porch, you’re mine. Fully. Not just your blood. Not just your gift. You.”

He came back around to face you, his gaze pinning you like a hand to the neck, not violent, just sure of its power. “No more hiding behind salt lines. No more prayers whispered in your sleep. You gone let me into that little heart wrapped in bones and grief.” He leaned in, forehead nearly brushing yours.

“And I’ll teach you what your grandmother never did. What your Mama was too scared to face. I’ll open every locked door inside you and let the fire run wild.”

You shivered, despite the warmth licking at your ankles. “And if I don’t catch you…” He said, stepping back now, hands open like he was offering peace. “Then I walk away. No tricks. I won’t cross your land again, unless you ask for me.”

He gestured toward the tree line, just beyond the fence. The woods had never looked so dark.

“But,” He tipped his head, “You’ll never make it ‘til dawn.”

It took everything in you to turn your back on him and map out a plan, because your survival depended on it. Even if you didn’t make it past dawn you were going to try your damn hardest to put up a fight. Wasting your breath on conversation wasn’t going to make him spare you.
Behind you, Remmick’s voice followed, "One..."

Chapter Text

The taste of blood filled your mouth as you pumped your legs to take you further than you had ever been before. Your lungs felt as if they would combust at any moment. Branches clawed at your arms like jealous hands, and the thick Delta heat clung to your skin, sticky. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop. Behind you, something moved with unnatural grace, silent but sure as a living nightmare gliding through the trees. You didn’t know how long you’d been running. Time felt stretched, twisted. The trees had blurred into shadows, the firelight swallowed whole by distance. Only the woods remained, dark and strange. You could barely make out the trees in front of you, let alone your surroundings. 

Though you didn’t dare look back, you’d seen enough. The bag at your wrist, the protective herbs inside, warning you that what chased you wasn’t made of this world. And it knew your name. Your foot caught on a root, and you hit the ground hard, the impact rattling your entire being and knocking the wind from your chest. Before you could scramble to your feet, you felt him close in. Fuck me, out of all nights he had to find me is when i haven’t ran since I was a youngin’.  

“Run all you like, baby girl. Ain’t nowhere in this world you can go where I won’t find you.” His voice echoed from above your head, and tears pricked in your eyes from frustration. It was too dark to see, and your last good nightgown was muddy and torn. You pushed yourself up on trembling arms, every muscle screaming in protest. But before you could move again, he was there, Remmick and his old boots crunched down beside your hand, as if he changed his mind at the last minute not to step on you. 

“Look at you,” he murmured, getting low so that his face hovered above yours. His eyes gleamed, pupils like pinpricks in the dark. “Still tryin’ to outrun what’s already in your blood.”He reached out, dragging a claw-tipped finger down your jaw with terrifying tenderness, smearing the dirt and sweat on your cheek. You jerked away, but he only chuckled low in his throat, like thunder rolling over wet earth.

“One day,” he said, voice dipped in lust and mockery, “you won’t be runnin’ from me. One day, that skin of yours, it’s gon’ thrum with joy when I touch it. Gonna sing for me. Beg me not to stop.”

His smile was wicked and wide enough to flash fangs. “And the worst part?” he whispered, leaning closer, breathing hot on your neck. “You’ll mean it.”

You swung at him instinctively, but he easily caught your wrist, laughing like he had all the time in the world. “Feisty,” he growled, licking a drop of blood from his thumb. “Just how I like ‘em.” 
Your wrist burned where he touched you, not from his grip, but from something beneath your skin, an ability that has been long asleep. Although you didn’t know how you slowed the burn of the fire back at your house, your blood remembered how to stave off his unwanted touch. 

It started with sound. A low vibration in your ears, like a hymn sung by the earth, wordless and ancient. It wasn’t yours, not entirely, but it lived in you. Rooted in the marrow, passed through the womb and will, carried down from every woman in your bloodline who had worked by moonlight and murmured to dirt.

As Remmick touched you, that drone grew louder, until it drowned out the pounding of your heart. Your body seized up in recognition. The mojo bag split on impact, spilling its contents into the soil, grains of salt, dirt from your grandmother’s grave, wood dust from the cabin, and a lock of hair braided. The ground hissed where it landed. The air shuddered. And then your skin lit from the inside, golden and smouldering through your veins like sunlight poured into cracks.

Remmick’s hand jerked away as if burned, smoke rising from his palm. “Shit,” he spat, stumbling back. “What the hell are you?”

Your eyes rolled back, and the whites turned gold, glowing with the strength of ten thousand prayers whispered. Your feet dug into the earth, and the wind circled you violently, lifting your hair and snapping the hem of your nightdress like a flag.

A sound tore free from the base of your throat, a raw and guttural scream, part chant. The trees bowed in response to your vocals, crying out to the wild. Remmick fell to one knee, claw fingers twitching as he tried to rise. “They told me you were sleeping,” he growled, eyes wild. “Didn’t say the whole goddamn Delta would rise with you.”

He grinned, blood staining his teeth. “But I like this game even more now.”

The power howled through you and cracked open inside your chest. Your fingers twitched in the dirt, still gritty with grave dust and salt, but the bag was gone, burned, broken beneath you. You could still hear the echo of your scream in your ears. You didn’t know what you had called, only that something had answered. Your legs trembled and your head throbbed as you swayed and felt your chest heaving, pulsing up through your soles like a second heartbeat. The power was retreating fast from you, like a wave pulled back to sea, but its imprint remained in your insides like the sand remembers the ripples of water.

Remmick rose slowly, unsteady, but not done yet. Smoke curled from his skin, and his pitch black eyes watched you with something sick and awed. “They always said your line was blessed,” he murmured, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.  

“I don’t want this,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“But you were born for it,” Remmick said, his voice low, almost admiring. “The Delta doesn’t care what you want. It only cares what you are.”

You clenched your fists. “And what’s that?”

His grin widened, cruel and awestruck. “The last goddamn rootworker this land will ever need.” Your breath hitched. Rootworker. The word rang through your being like a loud, undeniable bell struck at your birth, a weaver of thread, fate, blood, and bone. 

You opened your mouth, but Remmick stepped forward, the waft of burnt flesh met your nose, and you scrunched up your face.

“Doesn’t matter if you meant to awaken or not,” he said, voice dripping with hunger. “Power like yours doesn’t stay buried long. And technically…” He gave a little shrug, as if the whole damn thing amused him. “I’ve caught you.”
“Caught me?” Your pulse jumped.

Remmick’s grin sharpened. “You screamed. You rose. You answered the call. And I was the one who drew it outta you. You’re tied to me now, girl. ”

“No,” you said, backing away. “That ain’t how it works—”

“Ain’t it?” he cut in, stalking closer. “You think those charms kept me out? You think the salt and grave dust held me back? Baby, I let you think that. I needed you to believe you were safe. That way, when the fire touched your grandmama’s house, it’d wake what was sleeping. And oh, did it wake.” The wind had calmed, but the air buzzed like static. 
You could still feel your power coiled inside you, tense, ready, terrified.

“I ain’t yours,” you spat.

Remmick leaned in, close enough for you to smell smoke again. “Not yet. But the binding’s begun. You know it. I know it. Hell, even the dirt knows it.” He touched the center of your chest, right above your sternum, with the tip of his nail. You flinched as a spark leapt from your skin to his. He grinned, “And when you come into your full self, when that golden light pours out of you like it did tonight, you’ll beg for someone who can hold it without burning completely. That ain’t gonna be some church boy with a cross on his chest.”

You smacked his hand away, voice trembling with fury. “You don’t get to claim me.”

He chuckled, stepping back into the dark like it was made for him. “I don’t have to. I just aim to be the one who survives you.”

You didn’t see him move. One second, he was calmly standing in front of you. Next, his hand was on your throat, not tight, not choking, but forcing you into submission. His palm was still hot, as if the burn from earlier hadn’t fully cooled, but it had already healed.

“Time to go,” Remmick whispered, his mouth at your ear, voice edged. “Nana’s house won’t protect you anymore. She’s served her purpose.” The kind of silence that follows finality. You struggled, legs kicking against the loose-packed soil, your voice caught behind clenched teeth. But it was no use. Remmick lifted you with impossible ease, cradling your body like you were something sacred and breakable. “Don’t fight me, girl,” he muttered, almost tender. “You think you’re running from the devil, but the devil ain’t never looked at you like I do.”

You punched at him, a wild swing, desperate. “Put me down! This is my home. My grandmother’s house—”

“Your grandmother ain’t here,” he said, his voice harsh, cutting like a switch. “And she’d be the first to tell you. You've been living in the ghost of what once was. That house? It’s a grave! You keep digging up shit, trying to make them breathe again.”

He turned toward the woods, toward the places where the map ends and the hushed stories from the elders begin. The places your family told you never to set foot in. He carried you into the thick dark where even the crickets held their breath.

Your scream broke free again, raw and furious, but the trees only echoed it back. And the Delta swallowed you whole.

He carried you like a groom might, if the wedding was cursed and the bride was already halfway to damnation.

You writhed in his grip, breath hitching. “Put me down.”

“I plan to,” he said, “But not until I show you where you belong.”

As he zipped past the untamed wild, the forest peeled open like a secret just for him, just for you. And there it was, his home, or should you say mansion. An old mansion, too perfect to be real. Vines clung to the railings like lovers unwilling to let go. The glass in the windows gleamed, catching every moonlight shimmer. It was grand, silent, too well-kept for something left alone in the Delta. At the moment, you weren’t sure what was worse, a house haunted by spirits, or one haunted by him. He pushed the door open with his foot and stepped inside. The place didn’t creak, and it didn’t groan like yours. 

“You live here?” you asked, breath catching as your bare feet hit cool marble.

He finally set you down, his hand lingering at the small of your back. “What? Not what you pictured?” His voice curled with that accent, Irish, smooth as whiskey, all slow vowels. “Thought I’d be sleepin’ in the dirt somewhere, did ya?”

You hadn’t thought much about where he had been lurking all this time. But you wouldn’t have pictured him living somewhere luxurious if you had.

 
“This place belonged to no one when I found it. I kept it and fixed it up. Needed somewhere quiet.” His hand trailed along the banister. You noted that Remmick didn’t ask for permission when he escorted you inside. His actions made it clear he was always going to bring you here. The door shut behind you, and it felt as if your fate was sealed. He didn’t lock it, cause there was nothing for him to fear; predators never worry about the cage. You stood barefoot on the cool marble floor, nightdress clinging damp to your body, breathing too loudly in the hush of the house.

“You drag all your food home,” you muttered, forcing your voice steady, “or just the ones stupid enough to stand their ground?”

He turned slowly, “Just the ones who bare their teeth when they should run.” He stepped toward you, and you stepped back.  “That’s it. You feel it now, don’t you?” 

“I feel your delusion,” you said, even as your spine brushed the wall, heat coiling low in your stomach.

He laughed, low and dark. “That’s not what that is, love. That’s instinct. The kind your blood tries to ignore, but your body remembers.”

 “You don’t scare me.” Your lips curled in disgust. 

“No,” he whispered. “I thrill you.”

The word hit deeper than it should’ve. You hated how your breath hitched, how your knees felt loose. “I could take you right here,” Remmick murmured, eyes half-lidded. “But where’s the fun in that?”

He leaned in, mouth nearly brushing your ear. “It’s so much better when they beg for it.”

And then, just like that, he stepped away, unbothered, unrushed, turning his back to you.

“Guest room’s down the hall,” he said over his shoulder, voice already cooling. “If you want to play nice.” A beat passed. “Or,” he added, looking back with fire behind his eyes, “you can come upstairs, where I sleep.”

Remmick wasted no time retreating to his quarters. It didn’t come as a surprise that he would take his time to give you a tour of his lair. You turned down the hall, heart pounding like you’d just run for your life. The guest room door creaked open under your hand, and the first thing you noticed was how clean everything was. Inside, you could find crisp sheets, a robe, a nightie, a candle lit and a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand. He prepared for this, making your stomach turn because it reminded you how much you could still feel his presence. The weight of his stare. The brush of his fingers at your throat. The filthy, honest things he said without blinking.

“It’s so much better when they beg for it.”

God help you. You hated how those words clung to your skin more than your dress.

You paced the room once, twice, trying to shake it off, but your body remembered. Your body didn’t want love or tenderness, just the raw violence of being seen and wanted back. You sat on the edge of the bed for what felt like forever, just breathing. Trying to piece together the hours, no, the weeks that led you here. You lifted the linen nightgown that was laid out beside you. 
“Of course,” you muttered, pulling it out with a bitter laugh. “Why wouldn’t he have a fresh gown in the exact size of the girl he kidnapped?” You peeled off your socks and gown and cringed at their state. There were two additional doors in the guest room, one probably leading to a bathroom, you hoped. 

“He brings me out to the middle of nowhere, shoves me in his house like I’m some goddamn stray cat, then stares at me like he wants to take a bite outta me” You pulled the gown over your head. It smelled like cedar and cotton. “What does he want?”

You caught your reflection in the mirror, and your hair pointed in every direction as you pulled twigs from your curls. Your collarbone marked faintly where he’d touched you. It looked like heat was beneath your skin now; his presence lit a slow-burning fuse inside you.

“He says I burn. Says he likes it.” You paused, scoffing. “What does that even mean?”

You moved to the small vanity in the corner and found a folded cloth you didn't trust but used to wipe your face anyway. “He talks like I’m already his. Like this place already knows me. Like I’m supposed to… stay.” You shook your head and leaned on the edge of the table. “Stay and what? Be a pet? Be a woman he can drag around when he’s bored?” You paused. The words hit hard. You weren’t afraid of men. You weren’t afraid of devils. But you were scared of how he saw you, like he knew things about you that you didn’t know yet. 

You turned back to the bed, slowly pulling the sheets down. The mattress dipped under your weight, but you didn’t get under the covers. Still sitting upright, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes trained on the closed door across the room. Unsure if you wanted it to stay closed…
Or swing open.

Chapter Text

You bit the inside of your cheek, grounding yourself in the sting. What did he want with you? He hadn’t said. Not clearly. Just riddles and veneration, as if your name were some long-lost hymn he was trying to remember. And maybe that’s what scared you most. The doorknob twitched. Not turned. Twitched like the house itself was holding its breath.

“Come on then,” you whispered to no one. Maybe to him. To God. To whatever force was pulling the strings in this haunted place. “You already dragged me out here. Might as well finish what you started.” The door creaked open, slow and deliberate. He knew you were watching like he wanted you to.

And there he was, Remmick. Leaning in the doorway, shirt unbuttoned, his chiselled chest and abdomen were left bare for you to see.  Something in his eyes was not quite human or kind. It unsettled you when his gaze was on you, and you weren’t sure if that was good or bad. 

“I figured you’d be dressed by now,” he said softly. You didn’t speak. Just stared, pulse fluttering at your throat. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a hushed click.

“If you dragged me all the way out here just to kill me, then go on and do it. At least I’d finally get some damn rest.”

Remmick tilted his head, and a sliver of a smile curled one corner of his mouth. Amused and intrigued, he reacted in a way that you’d just told a particularly bold joke.

“You think I brought you here to hurt you,” he said, voice low and smooth, with that eerie softness only killers and lovers had the nerve to wear. He took another step, the floorboards not daring to creak beneath him. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your nightgown, the only shield between your skin and his gaze. It wasn’t fear exactly, though something close enough to it itched beneath your ribcage. It was anticipation wrapped in unease. “But you’re wrong.”

“Then why? You haven’t given me much reason to believe otherwise.” You stiffened.

“You’ve got something old in your blood,” he murmured, fingers lingering at your jaw. “Something they thought they burned out centuries ago. But it’s still in you. Burning brighter every time I touch you.”

Your breath caught. “You’re not here because I want to kill you,” Remmick said, eyes dragging over you like candle wax down your skin. “You’re here because I can’t.” Your breath caught. He closed the distance in another slow step. “You’re the thorn in my side, sweetheart. I’m not sure if I want to worship you…” His hands fondled the edges of the bedsheets, and you were fighting not to give your escape one last try. Remmick’s tall frame loomed over your seated position on the bed now. “Or ravage you.”

You shuddered before you could stop yourself, not from his closeness but from the feeling that crawled up your spine. Something feral inside you was waking up, reaching for him with trembling hands and barbed teeth. “Ain’t I tell you I don’t belong to you?” you said, your voice barely steady.

“No,” he agreed. “But you will.” His hand lifted, slow and deliberate, like he meant to touch your face, then stopped, hovering just an inch from your cheek, trembling like he didn’t trust himself. That’s when you realized it wasn’t the control he was playing at. It was restraint, and it was wearing thin. “I always collect what belongs to me.”

You lifted your chin and met his eyes head on. “You think you own me,” you said, steady. “But you don’t even know my name.” Remmick’s smile twitched slightly, not from amusement but from the thrill of the challenge. He loved it when they pushed back when they didn’t make it easy.

“But I will,” he said. “I’ll learn it from the inside. One drop at a time.”

You stood up slowly, letting the sheet fall from your lap. The hem of your nightgown brushed your thighs, sheer in the moonlight. “So that’s what this is?” you asked, stepping toward Remmick. “You dragged me out here just to feed?”

“I brought you here to know you,” he replied, gaze raking over your body like a hunger he barely kept at bay. “To taste what has been hidden from me. There’s gold in your blood like sunlight, ain’t it?”

You stopped inches from him, heart pounding. “And what happens when you do? When you take what you want?”

His nostrils flared. “Then I burn slow from the inside out. And walk in the daylight with your fire in my veins, even if it’s only for one day .”

He reached for your wrist, but you caught his hand in midair this time. His skin was cool, but your palm radiated warmth like something holy. It hissed where your fingers touched.

“You sure you want to play with the sun, Remmick?” you asked, voice low and dangerous. “You might walk in the light for a moment. But I’ll kill you sweeter than any stake could.”

“You’re not what I expected,” he whispered.

You smiled, wicked and glowing. “Good.” And then, like the fool he was, he leaned in anyway, unable to help himself. His mouth was closer to yours than it had any right to be. Stilling yourself, you didn’t move or dare flinch this time. This wasn't about hunger; it wasn't even about you. It was about power. 

Remmick didn't crave just anyone’s blood. He craved yours. The kind that came threaded within you from women who whispered devotions and spoke curses into the cotton fields. Your grandmother had warned you once, or at least you think. “They’ll come for us; they always know how to find us. Our pleas are like a church bell ringin' just for them.” At the time, you thought she was talking about the white hooded men, not the beasts in the night who bared fangs. 

It was too late for a mother’s warning. In front of you stood a creature of the night drawn to the rhythm running in your veins. The reason Remmick hadn't killed you yet was because he couldn't. He needed you alive. He needed your fire, your rootwork, and your inheritance. A single taste could buy him a few hours in the daylight. But a bond? The more he feeds on you, the more he will become complete, sealed in the flesh that could buy him forever. That's why he looked at you the way he did. 

“I see it now,” you murmured. “You want to possess me as a charm and think I’ll keep the sun from turning you to ash.”  

“I want what's mine.” Remmick’s jaw clenched, and you were close enough to see the stubble begin to sprout along his cheek. 

“You think I'm yours,” you shot back. “But baby, I ain't even mine most days.” 

A laugh ghosted past his lips, but no humour existed. Only the sound of a man who'd waited lifetimes for something he had never meant to touch. Still, he leaned closer, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. “I'll wait, I'll burn, fuck, I’ll even bleed for it.” 

“Oh, trust me, you will.” 

His eyes darkened at that. You knew how tightly he held himself back and could see that he wouldn't be able to stop the moment he let go. Your lips parted, and a breath catching between you was all he needed. His mouth came down to yours in claiming. Remmick kissed you like he meant to memorize your taste before it was taken from him. Rough, unrelenting and feverish in the way his hands held your waist. Trapping you in place, keeping you like a prayer he hadn't dared to whisper aloud. The warmth of your body against him unmade him. 

“You have no idea what you're doing to me,” he whispered into your mouth. 

You pulled back with a tight throat. “Then show me.”  That was all it took. 

He backed you into the edge of the bed, never breaking the kiss. His hands slid under the hem of your nightgown like he'd done this a thousand times. Fingers brushed your thighs, waist, and ribs, mapping their way around your body. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he paused just long enough to look at you, to see you. 

“This ain't about power,” he said softly. There was a tremor in his voice. “It's about you. What you carry and what you are.” 

“You sure you wanna play with it?” you responded. 

“I’d rather burn with you than live without it.” His smile was crooked, breathless. Then Remmick was kissing you again, deeper this time. You felt his hand press over your chest, palm flat, where your heart pounded like a drum. Lips tracing a downward path down your jaw to your neck with an achingly slow movement. Each touch pulled the breath from your lungs. When he reached the hollow of your nape, he paused, inhaling your scent. 

You knew what would come next. Remmick’s fangs sank deep into you, making you surrender. You gasped a startled, breathy sound that melted into a moan. The pain bloomed sharp, then faded beneath a heavy warmth. Your knees gave out, but he held you steady, his arm locked around you, drawing you tighter to him as he drank. He was gentle at first and then desperate. 

With each pull of your bloodline, he was pulling pieces of you, tasting your strength, your grief, and your lineage. You felt your grandmother's voice in the air, your mother's prayers pulse, and the earth under your feet humming with your bones. And still, he drank. It was a wonder if Remmick felt it all through you. 

You gripped his shoulder, nails biting into his skin, and let out an almost silent order, “Don't take too much.” The warning was lauded as a tender threat. He pulled back, lips slick with crimson, pupils blown wide. His breath was ragged. 

“I can feel it… inside me.” He rasped. You stared at him with a strange, knowing ache blossoming in your chest. 

The heat between you didn't break. It deepened and darkened with the beginning of the vampiric bond. He looked at you like you were divine. He couldn't decide whether to fall to his knees or pin you to the mattress. He chose both. 

Remmick looked dazed and wrecked as if your blood had undone an archaic side in him.

“You done?” you asked, voice sharp, hand fisting in his curls as you yanked his head back just enough to make him look at you. You tilted your head just enough for him to see the pulse still thudding at your throat, defiant, alive, yours. 

Remmick groaned low in his throat in a mixture of pain and desire and shook his head, tongue darting out to lick the blood and drool from the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t think so,” you muttered. 

Remmick lowered you onto the bed with a reverence that bordered on idolization, eyes never leaving yours. Your nightgown bunched high on your hips. His hands trailed down with purpose like he was tasting you through touch alone. His fingers slid beneath the fabric, brushing over the warmness between your thighs.

You gasped more in surprise than fear, and he paused, his eyes searching yours like a man who’d just found a sacred thing and wasn’t sure he deserved to touch it.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached for him, dragged his mouth back to yours, and pulled his hips between your legs. The copper, slippery warmth of your blood is still wet on his lips; you could taste your blood on his tongue. The act of it all felt sacrilegious. He groaned low in his throat, the sound of constraint slipping. His fingers found you again, sliding through your wet entrance like your body had known he was coming long before you let him in.

He pushed your legs apart, burying himself in the cradle of your body. Raw and urgent. There was no teasing now. When he sank into you, the breath punched from your lungs. He filled you slow at first, then harder, each thrust dragging a broken sound from your throat.

Your hands clawed at his back, legs locked tight around his hips. The bed creaked under the rhythm, an old house bearing witness to something primal, something ancient. He buried his face in your neck, mouth brushing the bite mark he left behind.

“I’ll never stop wantin’ you.” he rasped. 

You believed him because every thrust was desperate like he was trying to carve his name into your body. It felt as if Remmick was trying to remember what it felt like to be alive. Your body met him over and over, hips lifting to match his rhythm, to pull him deeper. You could feel the bond stitching between you, a tether forged in magic and lust.

You came with his name on your lips, a cry that shattered the silence. He followed moments after, spilling into you with a moan. It hurt to let go. His body trembled above yours, then laid beside you, chest heaving.

You climbed over him, straddling his hips, your thighs slick and trembling but steady.  Remmick let you. Hell, he looked like he’d been waiting for it.

The nightgown was useless now. Spilled blood 

stained the front. You gripped his still-hardened dick in one hand and guided him back inside you, slow and mean. No ceremony, no gentleness. 

He cursed again under his breath“Fuck.” As your pussy swallowed him whole again, the pool of your arousal was enough to make even a dead thing believe in resurrection.

You rode him like you meant it. You were trying to make him feel what it cost to crave you. Each grind of your hips was rough and punishing, your nails dragging across his chest hard enough to sting.

“I ain’t your charm,” you said through clenched teeth, bouncing on him with a rhythm that slams the bed frame against the wall. “And I sure ain’t your salvation.”

Your thighs ached, muscles burning from how long you’d been riding him, but you didn’t stop. You wouldn’t stop. Not until he understood. Not until every inch of him was carved with your memory.

Remmick moaned like it was killing him. You had given him exactly what he wanted. His hands came up to your hips, gripping tight, trying to meet your pace. But you slapped them away and leaned down until your lips hovered over his.

“You don’t get to touch unless I say so.”

His eyes rolled back slightly, the tension in him sharp and coiled. “Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“I fuckin’ hope so.” You smiled darkly, dragging your nails down his stomach.

Remmick lay flat beneath you. Body strung tight like a pulled wire, eyes glazed, and jaw clenched. His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to hold you down, like instinct demanded he take back control, but he didn’t dare. You’d already made it clear. This was your show.

You leaned over him, hips grinding slow and deep, the drag of him inside you hitting the spot that made you see stars behind your eyes. Sweat dripped from your brow onto his chest. You let it. Marked him with it.

“You’re takin’ it,” you panted, riding him harder now, your hands braced on his chest. “All of it. Ain’t no sweet thing for you to use and toss out come sunrise.”

He tried to sit up, to grab your hips, but you shoved him back down with a palm to his chest, eyes flashing. “I said stay down, Remmick.”

He groaned, head slamming back against the pillow, the veins in his neck taut. “Fuck— yes, ma’am.”

That pulled a smile from you. A cruel, satisfying one. “That’s what I thought.”

The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet, rhythmic and obscene. Your pussy gripped him with every bounce, dripping down the base of him, pooling at his thighs. Every roll of your hips dragged a lewd sound from his throat.

You felt his fangs graze the arm keeping you steady, lazy, aching to sink in again. You took the chance to use your other hand to tangle your fingers in his hair, tug his head away, and press your bitten neck right against his lips.

“You wanna feed?” you dared, breath hot in his ear. “You better earn it.”

His body bucked like a wild thing under you, but still, he obeyed. He opened his mouth and suckled gently at the already broken skin, lips cherishing the wound he’d made.

As he drank, you fucked him harder and meaner. The double sting of pain and pleasure made him whimper, hands fisting the sheets like he might tear the bed in half. You could feel him close, his stomach tensing, his thighs trembling beneath yours.

“You hold it,” you growled, tightening around him just as he started to lose it. “You don’t come ‘til I say.”

“I can’t,” he stuttered, mouth smeared with red, hands finally flying to your hips in a frantic grip. “I can’t—fuck, please!”

You slowed, grinding your hips in a punishing circle. His eyes rolled back. “Please what?” you asked, voice soft and taunting.

“Please let me come,” he begged, voice wrecked. “Please—I need to… oh baby.”

You leaned down, licked the blood from his mouth, and whispered, “Go ‘head.”

Remmick’s teeth clenched, his body jerking beneath yours, and he came with a cry as he fucked his cum into you. You followed right after, clenching hard around him, shivering from head to toe as heat bloomed in your gut and squirted on his thick and long dick.

When it was over, you collapsed onto his chest, both of you slick with sweat and blood, panting like animals that had survived the hunt.

Remmick’s voice was barely a whisper. “You gonna kill me like this.”

You smirked against his throat. “Nah. Not yet. There’s no fun in that.”

Then you brushed your lips against his and whispered low, “Next time you wanna take from me, Remmick, you better come harder than that.”

Because you knew now that every drop he took only stroked the fire, your blood might let him touch daylight, but eventually, it would consume him. When it did, you'd be left standing in the ashes. Still whole and still you.