All Chapters of Marked By Hell: Chapter 1 - Chapter 8

The morning after the first bell, the village woke as if it had been scolded in its sleep. Elizabeth stepped into the lane and felt the difference at once—not only the quiet, but the way the quiet watched her back. The air had a weight to it now, thick with fog and smoke and something softer that still made her stomach tighten: the sour-sweet undertone of sickness, like fruit left too long in the sun. Doors that had once been left cracked for air were shut tight now, boards nailed across the worst of the gaps. Cloth hung in windows like bandages—old linen, torn skirts, strips of sackcloth—anything to cover a mouth-shaped opening where breath could escape. The smoke from hearths rose straight and heavy, too thick for the wind to carry away, turning the village into a bowl that held every breath, every prayer, every smell. They were trying to trap warmth. Or keep something out. Elizabeth pulled her shawl closer and walked toward the well. Dampness clung to her skirts, soaking t

Elizabeth lay on her narrow bed with her hands folded over her stomach, listening to the village settle into its nightly stillness. It was not the quiet of peace. It was the quiet of things shut away too tightly—breath held, fear pressed down until it seeped into dreams. The candle on her table burned low, its flame wavering as if unsettled by movement the room itself did not acknowledge. Shadows gathered in the corners, thickening where the walls met the ceiling. Elizabeth closed her eyes anyway. When sleep finally claimed her, it was shallow and heavy, dragging her under rather than welcoming her in. Her dreams were not images, but sensations. Warmth, first. Not the fevered heat she had come to associate with sickness, but something steadier. Close. As though another body occupied the space beside her, radiating presence without weight. She shifted slightly, brow furrowing. The air changed. It thickened—not with smoke or rot, but with something older. Dry. Metallic. Li

Dawn crept through the cracks in the shutters, painting faint stripes of pale light across Elizabeth's tangled sheets. Her body stirred, heavy with the remnants of sleep and something deeper, more insistent—a dull ache that pulsed from her core outward, making her skin prickle with unmet need. She blinked awake, her frame shifting under the covers, nipples still hard and throbbing against the rumpled nightshirt she'd yanked back down sometime in the night. The fabric chafed them roughly, sending fresh sparks of heat straight to her core,, already slick and swollen from whatever dreams had haunted her. Elizabeth's breath came shallow, her chest rising and falling as she lay there, staring at the wooden beams overhead. The room smelled of sweat and faint musk, her own arousal clinging to the air like a secret. She swung her legs over the bed's edge, bare feet hitting the cool floor. Every movement rubbed her sensitive body wrong—or right—fabric whispering against her thighs. El

Elizabeth waited until dusk. The light had softened by then, the sun sinking low enough that its warmth felt borrowed rather than owned. The sky bruised slowly—lavender bleeding into gray, then deepening toward violet—as if the day itself had been handled too roughly. The village retreated inward as it always did now. No one noticed her leave. Elizabeth slipped beyond the last line of cottages, following the narrow path that wound between hedges and stone walls, pressed into the earth by generations of feet. Feet that had carried water and laundry. Feet that had carried bodies, too. Grief had its own paths, worn as deeply. The stream lay low in its banks, swollen from recent rain, its surface darkened by shadow and leaf-fall. It moved steadily, quietly, unconcerned with plague or prayer or the careful rules of men. Reeds bent along its edges, whispering softly as the current passed, their thin leaves brushing one another with a sound like breath. Elizabeth paused at the ban