Chapter 3: The night in the attic

"You really live here?"

Emily carefully climbed the rickety stairs that creaked under her feet. The higher she went, the thicker the smells became—dust, old books, wax, and something sharp, almost electric—like a predator lived here. She raised her head, watching as the light filtering through the wooden beams painted strange patterns on the walls.

"I never said I lived in a palace."

Hunter closed the door behind him, ran his hand along the wall, and suddenly, warm, flickering light filled the room. Emily blinked, trying to take in her surroundings—wooden beams, a low ceiling, shelves overflowing with strange mechanisms, suitcases, even swords. A massive table covered in scattered maps, and in the middle of the attic—a mattress. The space was cluttered like a den, yet somehow organized. A window overlooked a narrow Parisian street.

Emily ran her hand across the table, brushing against an old map, then turned to Hunter with suspicion in her eyes.

"Do you steal?"

Hunter's expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"What?"

"Well, look around. You live like a smuggler—junk everywhere, weapons, maps, all sorts of weird things. Seriously, where did all this come from?"

His eyes narrowed, and then he closed the distance between them in one sharp movement, fast—like a predator stalking its prey. He placed his hands on either side of her, blocking any escape.

"Enough with the interrogation, yeah? What am I, filing a report for you?"

Emily pressed her lips together, trying not to flinch when his voice brushed against her ear with warm breath. A strange heat curled in her stomach, but she forced her gaze to stay cold.

"I just don't want to deal with a thief," she said, pushing against him.

Hunter stared at her in silence. And then, instead of answering, he leaned in—too close. His lips brushed against her neck, barely touching.

Emily held her breath.

Shit.

He pressed her against the wall, his body radiating heat that pulsed beside her.

"I'm not a thief." His lips touched her skin again. "But don't ask me too much. You won't like the answers."

His fingers settled gently around her wrist, keeping her from pulling away. It should have felt threatening, should have put her on edge—but instead, her own fingers pressed against his chest, almost involuntarily. She could feel his scent, his warmth, the slight quickening of his pulse.

She should have left.

But instead, she pulled him closer and kissed him.

Hunter froze for a second, then his hands found her waist, then her neck, his touch hot and certain. He took a deep breath through his teeth, then, without warning, undid her pyjamas shirt.

Emily barely had time to react.

"The hell is this outfit?" he muttered, running his fingers over the silk, where her nipples tightened under the fabric, the touch sending a rush of pleasure through her.

Still breathless, Emily looked up at him and arched into his hands.

"Are you seriously talking about my pajamas right now?"

Hunter smirked, then, without a word, pulled her shirt open and cupped her breasts, as if weighing them in his palms, squeezing gently. Emily let out a soft, high-pitched moan—the mix of adrenaline and arousal made her panties instantly damp.

She didn't even notice how she ended up on his mattress.

His lips closed around her nipples, sucking, then biting lightly before moving up to her ear, one hand sliding into her panties. Three thrusts of his fingers were enough to make Emily put up, straighten and straddle him. Her messy hair framed her flushed face as she finally managed to undo the odd clasp on his pants and pull out his pulsing, hot cock—not too long, but so thick she hesitated, wondering if she could even take him in.

The moment she sank onto him, stretching around his firm hot cock, it felt like the attic tightened around them, like every breath merged into a single, frantic moment.

Nothing else mattered anymore.

***

Emily lay staring at the dark wooden beams of the attic, trying to figure out what unsettled her more—the fact that this had happened to her, or the fact that it had happened between them.

"So..." She shifted, feeling the warm blanket slide off her shoulder. "I'm really in Paris? What year is it?"

Hunter, sitting beside her, lazily reached for the nearest shelf, grabbed an apple, bit into it, and muttered without even looking at her,

"The year? What do you mean? It's summer."

Emily curled onto her side, propped herself up on one elbow, and made him finally look at her.

Hunter smirked, but in a way that made it seem like he knew something amusing but wasn't ready to share it yet.

"You're in another dimension, dear."

Emily went still for a moment.

"And how do I get home?"

He took another bite of the apple.

"You don't."

"What?!"

Hunter raised a hand, motioning for her not to shout.

"Well, unless you know who created the portal, or how you did it yourself, then you don't. It was a one-time thing. It closed back when we ran. It's a miracle our pursuers even made it through—I could already feel it disappearing. And you didn't fuel it, so that's it. Game over. The entrance is on the other side."

Emily froze again, trying to decide what pissed her off more—the fact that the portal was closed, or the fact that he was talking about it like they had just missed a bus.

"Wait," she sat up. "But I didn't activate it."

Hunter snorted, almost choking on his apple.

"Didn't activate it? Then who did, me?!"

"Maybe!"

"Oh, please. I am not a Bender. You're a Bender. You have no idea what you've done."

Emily stared at him.

"I'm not a Bender. What does it even mean? And what are YOU?"

"They say denial is the first stage of acceptance." He said, ignoring her last question completely, even though he clenched his fist a bit when she asked that.

He lay on his side, resting his head against her stomach. The rush of adrenaline and exhaustion made her drowsy, and something told her this conversation could wait until morning. Maybe all of this would turn out to be a dream. She wasn't sure if she wanted it to be.

"My advice? Join the Academy of Wicked Delights. That's where Benders like you learn how to survive in this world and themselves. And being among themselves."

"And why does that sound like they're all perverted criminals?"

"Because they are."

Emily abruptly sat up, making his head slide off her stomach.

"I see. Thanks for the advice, but I still refuse to believe that I'm… this."

Hunter sighed.

"Alright."

"Alright?"

"Alright," he repeated. "Argue all night if you want."

Emily opened her mouth to say something else, but Hunter lightly touched her chin with his finger.

"Sleep."

His voice softened, like wind shifting a curtain. She sighed, ran her fingers over the wooden floor, and closed her eyes.

And just as she was slipping into sleep, through the half-formed haze of thoughts, she heard his voice:

"Don't tell anyone where you are from, if you want to live…"