Death’s Umbrella

Lyra

Rain spills from the sky, a steady fall that has soaked my hair and clothes. 

My fingers carefully dig through the soaked soil, smiling as I kneel over one of the garden beds. With gentle fingers I scoop up a handful of the dirt, the tiny white eggs resting atop before placing it in a case I brought for them. 

You could say I’d taken over the Pierson family estate since moving in. In a year I’d been here, I’d stolen most of the garden for species breeding and the greenhouse built into the east wing was now my office. 

Click.

Click.

Click. 

The sound of footsteps across the stone pathway echoes in my ears. 

Normally, I hear him before I see him. 

This house is too fucking big to actually hear anything, but I’ve witnessed the process of him getting home from a work trip so many times that I’d know the sounds by heart. 

There is always a hum as he rolls his suitcase out of his way, leaving it at the front door until later, until after he’s seen me. A slight shuffle of fabric as he removes his suit jacket, the popping of buttons as he begins to roll up his sleeves. 

But I’d been so wrapped up in this, I hadn’t noticed this time. Or maybe it’s because he isn’t supposed to be back today and I was expecting to see him so soon. 

I sense his presence behind me, a heavy weight of anticipation and longing. His eyes bore into the back of my head, sending shivers down my spine. 

“Lyra.” 

That voice, always so sharp. 

I stay focused on my task, sifting through dirt in search of Japanese beetle eggs. 

“Darling Phantom,” he tries again, using my favorite nickname to draw me out. But I refuse to turn around. The smell of damp earth fills my nostrils as I work, the occasional flicker of an earthworm catching my eye.  

“I’ll be inside in a few minutes. Need to finish my silly work.” I bite, dropping a few more handfuls of dirt inside the glass tank. 

The argument from last night still lingered in the air between us, a thick tension I could feel pressing on my chest. He’d been a fucking pompous asshole. 

Even though I love every sharp edge Thatcher Pierson has, I refuse to let him be cold. That’s the easy way out and he fucking knows that. It’s his defense mechanism. 

We are so similar yet so very different that sometimes, times like this, it’s hard. I am constantly drowning in my emotions while he still struggles to make sense of his own. 

It doesn’t matter that I know why he was irritable on the phone last night when I told him I couldn’t go on work trips with him because of my research. None of that matters, unless he understands for himself why he reacted the way he did. 

I’d never leave him, he’d never leave me. But if he doesn’t meet me halfway, we are going to rip each other apart. There will be nothing but blood and bone left. 

The pitter-patter of raindrops ceases completely. A rustling sound catches my attention and I look up to see a vibrant red umbrella clashing against the grey sky, shielding me from the rain. 

I arch my eyebrow, eyes connecting with his like magnets. They always seem to find each other. 

Suppressing a smile, I ask, “Is this your way of apologizing?” 

Breathing feels hard when he looks this handsome.

He stands still as a statue, umbrella clasped tightly in one hand and the other tucked casually in his pocket. Eyes piercing, the color of cold water, hold my gaze. His white dress shirt clings to his body, revealing the muscle beneath and his nearly white hair is drenched, matted against his forehead. 

He’s miserable right now, continuing to get soaked from the rain, but he refuses to seek shelter beneath the umbrella. He just keeps it at arm’s length, letting it protect me. 

Thatcher looks like a mess, and I selfishly love him like this. 

Messy. Uncoordinated. 

Not the put together successful Thatcher Pierson, or the impeccably dressed billionaire. 

Without all the layers in this moment? He’s just Thatch. 

My angel. 

He jerks his head towards the empty flower garden. “Take your time. We can talk when you finish.” 

I almost hate the way all of my annoyance melts away. How easily I bend for him, but it’s so fucking hard to stand firm when he’s soft. So instead of throwing myself at him, listening to my screaming heart to curl my body around his and never let go, I keep working. 

I take another twenty minutes, walking around and inspecting the other beds for larva or eggs, and Thatcher follows me to each one. Steadily holding the umbrella over my head, keeping away the rain. Even as thunder cries in the distance and I hear the drops pelt against the shield above with an angry vengeance. 

My yellow rain boots squeak against the floor as I enter the greenhouse, setting the case of eggs on my worktable. My bare knees are covered in mud, hands dusted with soil. It was impractical to wear a dress for this, but I didn’t feel like wearing pants today. 

“What did you want to talk about?” I hum. 

My breath catches as I turn around and find him standing inches away from me. Every line of his body drips agony. I can feel the pain emanating off his skin like heat. 

He didn’t mean to hurt me last night, and I hate that me being upset has hurt him. I want to soothe every ache, not cause it. 

Without a word, he takes another step closer and effortlessly lifts me onto the worktable. Forcing my legs to spread to make room for his frame, I can’t help but lean into his touch as his fingers gently graze my cheek. 

“Thatcher—” 

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, leaning down and resting his forehead against mine. His thumb stokes my bottom lip. “Your work is not silly. Finishing your PhD is not pointless. I don’t know what grasshoppers have to do with pain management, but it matters to you and that’s all that matters to me. You know that, don’t you?” 

My chest constricts, my palms against his abdomen and tracing the defined lines of his abs beneath his shirt. I nod my head in agreement, feeling the heat between us intensify as I pull him closer, wrapping my legs around him. The taste of his skin lingers on my tongue as I flick it against his thumb. 

His words spill out, raw and untouched, all the ones he locked inside of him and was afraid to admit out loud. Soft words that belong to me, and only me.  

“I’m trying to be better with my feelings. I’m trying to be better for you. Your reasons for not being able to travel with me are valid. I understand them.” His lips ghost against my nose, laying a quiet kiss. “But I fucking hate being away from you.” 

He lets his head drop, burying his face in the crook of my neck. I can feel his hot breath on my skin as he inhales me, breathing my scent deep into his lungs. My arms wrap around his neck, while his hands trace the curves of my waist.

Tilting my head back, I give him more access, feeling his nose rub against my neck. His lips trail along the curve of my throat, a low moan escapes my lips as his tongue traces a slow path up the column of my neck.

It’s a slow heat that builds in my lower stomach, one that’s mingled with yearning and lust. A week was hard without him. I couldn’t even fucking imagine a lifetime. 

When he rolls his hips against mine, the pressure and friction of his cock against my panties turns me into a blaze. A feral thing that’s desperate for him in any way I can have him. 

“If you would have given me a second, I was going to tell you I’d go with you. I just need a heads up.”

My fingers grip tighter around his neck, pulling him closer as my hips lift to meet his movements. It feels like electricity is coursing through my body, my whole being humming in tune with his. 

Being without Thatcher physically hurts. It’s an ache that doesn’t go away until he comes back. 

“I missed you. I hate missing you and I lashed out instead of telling you that. I’m sorry for hurting you.” His long fingers grab at the elastic band of my underwear, and I use his neck to lift myself up so he can slowly peel them down my trembling legs.

We had eternities to do this. Our souls were tangled from the very beginning. In death we would dance. In reincarnation, we’d find our way right back to one another. 

“Is that why you came back three days early?” My teeth nip at his neck playfully, while my hands undo his belt and zipper. “To tell me you missed me?”

Thatcher pulls back, hand coming to cup my cheek as he tilts his head. Happiness, so bright and consuming it nearly kills me, shines in his eyes. Happiness I helped put there. 

“Yes.” He says firmly, a smirk touching his lips. 

I grin, shaking my head, making a few dark curls fall in front of my face. 

This fucking man. 

“Did you lose money?” 

“I could lose it all, Darling Phantom.” 

A moan crawls up my throat as he presses his cock to my entrance, thrusting once before he buries himself inside of me. My nails dig the bluish purple veins on his forearms, lightening bolts cracking against his pale skin. My own blood mingled with his inside those prominent veins. 

“And I wouldn’t care as long as I have this.” He groans, eyes shutting as he stilled, unmoving as if savoring this moment. Being buried deep within me, sliding home like it’s where he’d always belonged. 

“I missed you too.” I murmur, sinking my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

I tug on the nearly white strands when he pulls out and thrusts again. Thatch’s grip on my hips is brutal, bruising my pale skin with purple marks that I will press, just to remember this moment. 

The table rocks beneath his, jars and pens rolling to the floor of the greenhouse, but he doesn’t stop and I wouldn’t let him. There is a feral need in our bodies, one that calls to each other. Close is never close enough. I want below his skin, in his heart. I don’t believe in God, but I would, if only he’d turn me back into Thatcher’s rib when I died. 

Thatcher is in my mind, body and soul. There is no existence without him. 

My teeth sink into his shoulder blade as he yanks my body towards his, forcing his cock in and out of me, my body a pliable thing for him to mold. I can feel every inch rubbing along my inner walls. Every long stroke forward, he hits that one spot that makes me see stars. 

“Thatch, more.” I whimper, “Give me more.” 

The breath is knocked from me, my back suddenly pinned to the table with Thatch’s hand pressing down on my throat to hold me still. My ass is practically hanging off the edge, but he holds me here, shoving so deep that my toes curl. 

“Play with your pathetic pussy for me, make it beg for my come.” He grunts, squeezing my airway, just to remind me how far he could take this if he wanted. 

My hand scrambles down my body, finding the apex of my thighs. I’m soaked, leaking into my palm as I circle the sensitive bundle of nerves. 

“Fuck!” I cry, the pleasure building inside my stomach forcing me to arch my back, pressing towards him. 

Thatcher’s body lays flat atop mine, thrusts never slowing as he presses his lips to mine. A brutal kiss of longing, pouring every ounce of himself down my throat. My tongue chases his until they are dancing together in harmony. 

He is devouring me, and I’d happily let him. I would let him rip me open just to touch the heart that beats for him because I know he’d let me do the same. I know if I carved my way into Thatcher’s chest, I’d hear his blood red heart calling my name, over and over again. 

“Say it.” He demands against my mouth, my lips vibrating with the sound of his voice. 

A blissful smile takes over my face, pressure building in my lower half as I rub my clit a little faster. The coil inside of me was so close to snapping in half. 

“I love you.” I whisper, watching the way his eyes light up. 

“Say it again.” 

“I love you. I love you. I love you…” 

I chant the words over and over again while he finds pleasure in my body. I say them until I can’t, when my back bows and a silent scream takes over. Ecstasy washes over me in waves, the feel of Thatcher’s cock pulsing inside of me, filling me. 

My body is buzzing with a frenzy of endorphins, each one racing around trying to catch the other in my brain. Thatch’s head drops to my chest, still buried inside of me as his chest heaves. 

We lay there in silence. Reveling in the feeling of being close to each other. I softly run my fingers through his hair until he lifts his eyes. Chin resting just above my breasts, watching me. 

“Let me die first.” I murmur, as if it’s not random or morbid, maybe because it’s not to us. 

“No.” 

“I can miss you. I can be mad at you, but I refuse to live in a world without you.” 

If I told people in Ponderosa Springs that Thatcher Pierson held umbrellas for me and begged me to decode emotions, they’d all laugh. They’d call me a liar. They wouldn’t believe me if I said in the mornings he holds me so tight I almost can’t breathe, that he always waits for me to fall asleep before he blows out the candles around the house. 

They’d never believe the boy who is winter, the monster of Ponderosa Springs, is burning beneath my hands, placing a kiss far too soft for his reputation on my chest, before saying. 

“No dying first or second.” He whispers, “You and me, Darling Phantom? We cheat death. We go together, always.”