Blame

The door clicked into place with a sharp, final sound that offered little solace in the quiet bedroom. Stacy slid down the side of the bed until she hit the floor, her back pressed against the mattress, knees drawn loosely toward her chest. The room felt too big, too still. Soft lamplight cast warm shadows across the walls, but none of it touched the tight, twisting knot in her chest.

The wine bottle rested heavy in her hand.

Glass met her lips without ceremony. Just a long pull straight from the bottle, the sharp, dry taste flooding her mouth before burning its way down her throat. It didn't help. Not really. But it did something, dulling the edges just enough to make the thoughts a little less sharp.

Tears blurred her vision anyway.

A shaky breath slipped out, and then another, until the pressure broke and she folded forward slightly, shoulders trembling. One hand came up to cover her mouth, like that might somehow contain the sound of it.

Violation. That was the only word that fit. Not embarrassment. Not anger. Violation.

The memory of the dining room sat heavy in her mind. The candle. The wine. The carefully plated food. Her own hands moving with purpose, setting everything just so, like she'd wanted it, like she'd planned it.

Except she hadn't.

The intention had been simple. Grab something quick. Eat alone. Stay as far away from Evan as possible. Instead, her body had betrayed her. No, not her body. Something had taken control of it.

A bitter, humourless laugh slipped out between uneven breaths. It felt like being roofied. Not for sex. Not for anything like that. At least not yet.

For cooking.

Another pull from the bottle followed, longer this time, reckless. The wine sloshed slightly as she lowered it, a drop slipping from the corner of her mouth and trailing down her chin. The back of her hand wiped it away roughly.

God.

Memory shifted, unbidden. Dim lights. Music thumping through worn speakers. The sticky edge of a bar counter beneath her palms. Bartending. Long nights. Drunk crowds. The constant, low-level vigilance that had become second nature. Eyes always scanning. Watching hands. Watching drinks. Watching men who leaned a little too close, smiled a little too easily. Staff meetings where managers drilled it into them: watch for it. Protect the girls. Step in early. Don't wait until it's obvious.

She had known the signs. Had known the risks. Had known how to stop it. And then...

Her grip tightened around the bottle. The image came back with painful clarity. A small vial of potion in her hand. Evan's voice in the background, saying something, warning her, maybe. Explaining. It didn't matter now.

The seal breaking. Liquid pouring. A drink.

Her drink.

And then she'd lifted it. And swallowed. A strangled sound caught in her throat.

"I did this," she whispered hoarsely to the empty room.

The words tasted wrong.

Because she was the victim. She knew that. Knew it the same way she'd known, years ago, how to spot a man slipping something into someone else's glass. The fault didn't lie with the person who drank it.

And yet...

A part of her twisted anyway, sharp and accusing. She had taken it. Opened it. Poured it. Drank it.

Another long swallow of wine chased the thought down, like it might drown it before it could take root any deeper. The room tilted slightly.

Good.

Maybe if she drank enough, she could just pass out. Skip the whole nightmare of trying to sleep. Skip the punishment the magic seemed so eager to inflict whenever they stayed apart. Maybe **** could blunt it. Maybe it could overpower whatever twisted rules the potion had decided to enforce.

Or maybe not.

A hollow feeling settled into her chest, heavy and cold. What if this didn't stop? What if it got worse?

The woman who had sold the potion, smug, knowing, had warned them. Fighting it would only make things harder. The magic wanted something from them, and it wasn't going to be denied.

A slow, dangerous thought began to creep in. What if she just gave up? The idea settled in her mind like a poison of its own.

Lean into it. Play along. Be what the magic wanted her to be.

A bitter smile tugged weakly at her lips.

Be a slut.

Throw herself at that snot-nosed kid... well... man, technically, but that didn’t make it any better... and just get it over with. Give the magic what it wanted. Take whatever reward came with it.

Sleep. Real sleep. Waking up rested instead of wrecked. God, that sounded good.

Would it stop there?

Or would the magic keep pushing? Keep changing things, reshaping her, sanding down every edge of resistance until there was nothing left but compliance?

The thought made her stomach turn.

"No," she said aloud, voice firmer this time despite the tremor running through it.

No.

That wasn't who she was. Yes, she’d made choices in her life. Calculated ones. Marrying David hadn't been an accident. Stability had mattered. Security had mattered. But it hadn't been empty. There had been real feelings there. Real affection. Real moments that meant something.

She had loved him.

Now that was gone. Not just ended. Erased. Rewritten into something else entirely. All she had left of it were memories. And if she gave in now, if she let this twisted version of reality dictate who she became, what she did, who she wanted, then those memories would mean less.

Cheapened.

Corrupted.

A slow breath filled her lungs, shaky but determined.

"I'm not doing that," she muttered, more to herself than anything else.

Not for magic. Not for survival. Not even for sleep.

A knock at the door shattered the fragile quiet.

Her body went still.

"Stacy."

Evan. Just thinking his name sent an unwanted, familiar warmth curling low in her body, a soft, insistent reminder of the bond the potion had **** into existence. It made her jaw clench.

"You okay?"

"Leave me alone."

The response came instantly, sharp and brittle.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," his voice came through the door, quieter now. Hesitant. "Like, really sorry. And what happened downstairs... that wasn't cool."

"I said leave me alone."

A pause.

"Okay," he said after a moment. "I brought you a plate of food. It's outside the door. Thought it might go well with the wine. I'll, uh, be downstairs if you need me."

Footsteps retreated down the hall.

Silence followed.

The wine bottle rested loosely in her grip now, her fingers slack against the glass. For a brief, dangerous moment, something inside her pulled, an urge to move, to go after him, to drag him back into this room. Not for anything like sex. God, no. Just to sleep. Just to feel that strange, impossible peace that only seemed to exist when she woke up in his arms. The one place where the noise in her head quieted, where the tension melted away, where everything felt right.

Fake.

Manufactured.

But real enough to feel.

"No," she said again.

The word came out softer this time, but it held. He could stay downstairs. She could stay here. That was still her choice.

For now.

Minutes passed.

Eventually, she pushed herself up off the floor, legs unsteady beneath her. The room swayed slightly as she crossed it, one hand brushing the wall for balance. The lock clicked open carefully, the door pulled just wide enough to reach through.

A plate waited on the floor.

Still warm.

Still smelling...

"God damn it," she muttered under her breath.

It smelled incredible.

The door shut again. Locked. Back against the bed she went, sliding down to the floor with the plate balanced awkwardly in one hand and the wine bottle in the other. A forkful lifted slowly. Hesitation lasted all of half a second. Then she took a bite.

Her eyes squeezed shut.

"Damnit."

Of course it was good.

Of course it was really good.

A humourless huff escaped her as she chewed, shaking her head faintly.

"I hate this," she whispered.

Another bite followed anyway.

The wine burned.

The food melted on her tongue.

Everything about the situation felt wrong. Unfair. Completely out of her control. Still, the truth lingered stubbornly at the edges of her thoughts, impossible to ignore no matter how much she wanted to.

Credit where it was due.

The magic, apparently, could cook.