Chapter 2

Stop it. The rational voice sliced through the haze, sharp and desperate. John. Sophie. Grace. Home. She scrambled for the familiar anchors. Her husband’s steady smile. Her daughters’ laughter echoing through their tidy suburban hallway. The pendant’s persistent thrum mocked them. Forget the Box. Elara’s words slithered back, cold and certain. Wear it against your skin. Always. The silver chain felt like a serpent coiled around her neck now, cool metal kissing her collarbone. She would remove it. As soon as she boarded her flight. Lock it away in the cedar jewelry box John gave her on their tenth anniversary. Bury it beneath pearls and forgotten charm bracelets. This aberration would remain confined to New Orleans dust and shadow.

Yet ... the phantom pressure lingered. The deep, resonant ache low in her spine. The ghostly buzz vibrating her core. Her thighs pressed together, slickness betraying her resolve. Definitely the herbs, she lied to herself, shifting uncomfortably on the velvet sofa. Elara’s knowing chuckle echoed faintly. Mary gulped air thick with incense and musk. None of this was real. She wasn’t... this. Attraction was John’s strong hands, the scent of his aftershave, shared laughter over burnt toast. Not Cora Henderson’s hesitant smile flashing through her mind unbidden. Not the sudden, visceral image of Cora’s pink lips parting, her soft gasp as Mary’s imagined fingers traced her jawline. Mary flinched, the pendant pulsing warm against her skin, amplifying the forbidden image until Cora’s imagined pulse seemed to thrum against her own fingertips.

“No.” The whisper ripped from her throat, harsh in the silence. Now. She needed it off now. Before she boarded the plane. Before she saw John’s trusting eyes. Before she smelled Sophie’s strawberry shampoo. Fingers trembling, she clawed at the delicate silver chain clasped securely behind her neck. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Just unhook it, pull it free, toss it onto the dusty rug. Simple. Her nail scraped the clasp. A sudden, searing agony exploded a thousand invisible needles piercing her fingertips, burning down her hand. Worse, a band of white-hot fire constricted her throat, choking her breath. She gasped, reflexively jerking her hand away. Instantly, the blinding pain vanished. Only her ragged breathing and the pendant’s steady, mocking pulse remained.

Defeated, Mary slumped onto the velvet sofa, hugging herself. Sleep was a battlefield. Every shift of her hips against the worn velvet sent aftershocks of remembered violation humming through her core. She pressed her thighs together, slickness betraying her body’s treacherous memory. Faces flickered: John’s steady gaze, Sophie’s gap-toothed grin, Grace’s serious frown anchoring her sanity. Then, unbidden, Cora Henderson’s flushed cheeks and wide eyes. Focus on John. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Dawn bled through dusty lace curtains. The pendant lay cool and insistent against her sternum. She dressed mechanically, pulling on yesterday’s blouse and skirt, avoiding the mirror. The silk felt alien against her hypersensitive skin. Outside, the humid New Orleans air hit her like a damp towel. She walked stiffly, every step echoing the phantom vibration deep inside. She needed basics – water, aspirin – before the flight home. Normalcy. The fluorescent buzz of the corner grocery felt jarringly mundane.

Aisle nine: cereals, bright boxes mocking her fractured reality. Then she saw them. A mother, late thirties like her, pushing a cart, laughing with her teenage daughter. Sun-kissed skin, matching honey-blonde ponytails swaying. Strikingly similar, effortlessly beautiful in their easy grace. A pang pierced Mary – Sophie and Grace, in a decade. But the pang morphed. Darker. Hungrier. The pendant warmed sharply against her skin. Her gaze lingered, tracing the curve of the mother’s jaw, the girl’s coltish legs in denim cutoffs. Like twins. The thought slithered, unbidden. Attractive. So very attractive. An invisible hook snagged deep in her belly.

Mary walked past, head down, basket gripped tight. Her shoulder brushed the mother’s arm. A sharp intake of breath. Mary glanced back. The woman had frozen, staring after her, a flush creeping up her neck. Beside her, the daughter shifted, her fingers tightening on the cart handle. The girl’s eyes, wide and startled, locked onto Mary’s retreating form. Confusion warred with something raw in both gazes – a sudden, magnetic pull neither understood. It wasn’t polite appraisal. It was primal awareness, sharp and unsettling.

The mother abandoned her cart. Her hurried footsteps echoed on the linoleum. She caught Mary near the dairy cooler, breathless. “Excuse me?” Her voice trembled, honey-blonde ponytail swinging. Close up, her resemblance to her daughter was startling high cheekbones, full lips, eyes a startling deep blue. Mary smelled sunscreen and faint lavender detergent. The pendant pulsed hot beneath Mary’s blouse, a drumbeat against her ribs. The woman’s pupils dilated slightly. Her hands twisted nervously. “I ... I’m sorry, this is strange ... I don’t know why I’m doing this.” Her blush deepened. “But I want ... I need ... to know you better?” She stumbled over the words, helplessness etched onto her face. “My name’s Alana. My daughter’s Chloe. We...” She gestured vaguely toward the aisle they’d fled. “Coffee? Our place is just a block away?” The invitation hung thick with unspoken urgency.

A thrill surged through Mary, sharp and electric. Guilt flickered John’s trusting face, Sophie’s bedtime story voice but it was drowned instantly by a predatory wave. Dominate them. The command resonated from the pendant, vibrating her bones. Their mutual attraction, raw and bewildered, was palpable. Mary saw Chloe lingering near the exit, watching them intently, biting her lower lip. Possession coiled hot and tight in Mary’s belly. She smiled slowly, deliberately. “Coffee sounds perfect, Alana,” she murmured, her voice low. Alana shuddered visibly, a soft moan escaping her clenched teeth. The submissive reaction sent pure power crackling through Mary’s veins. “Lead the way.”

Mary’s sedan trailed Alana’s sleek SUV through the leafy Garden District streets, the midday sun dappling the pavement. Each turn, each stop sign, felt charged. Through the rear windshield, Mary saw Chloe twist constantly in her seat, straining to catch glimpses of Mary’s car. Alana’s hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white. The pendant pulsed rhythmically against Mary’s sternum, feeding images: Alana spread beneath her on a cool sheet, whimpering ... Chloe’s youthful skin flushed with heat, trembling under Mary’s touch ... The possibilities unfolded, vivid and irresistible. A low hum, barely audible, began deep within Mary – an echo of the harness’s vibration, summoned by the pendant’s magic and her own burgeoning hunger. Her fingers clenched the steering wheel. Mine.