Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Red
Scotch burns a familiar path down my throat, smooth peat and smoke that should numb the edges but only sharpens them. The dim glow of my apartment only makes my mood worse. The leather armchair creaks under me as I lean forward, elbows on knees, phone clutched like a lifeline in my hand.
I refill the glass, the bottle clinking against crystal. Amber liquid swirls, catching the low light from the lamp. It's been too many hours since I saw and heard her, and my thumb refreshes the feed again.
Nothing appears.
I set the glass down and desperately tug the screen again, staring at the video clip she took of herself putting on perfume. Her mouth fills the first frame, lips parted, tongue visible for half a second before the clip cuts. The caption underneath reads, Can you smell me?
My pulse kicks harder just remembering the way her voice sounded in the video that disappeared. Her low, breathy moan taunts me, and visions of her slick fingers sliding between her thighs while she stared straight into the lens taunts me.
Then jealousy hits me when I think of the third story showing my bite mark on her collarbone, her skin flushed around the purple edges, and the caption, Property of no one now. Looking for a new owner. Each word lands like a slap I can't look away from.
I drain the rest of the scotch, reach for the bottle on the floor beside the chair, and pour a generous amount. My eyes flick back to the phone.
Nothing appears, so I force myself to set it down and fixate on the window. The city lights smear across the glass in long streaks of gold and red. I stare at them until my vision blurs at the edges.
She knows I'm watching. That's the only explanation that makes sense. She hacked into my account, changed the settings so I get the notifications, then started posting exactly what would keep me glued to the screen.
It's punishment and an invitation. I can't decide which hurts more.
The phone vibrates once against the wood. I snatch it up before the second buzz can land. Demi's name lights the screen. It's not the private account, but it's tagged in her story.
There's no discipline left in me. I quickly swipe on it, and the video loads, showcasing the new club, Violet Hour.
Neon washes over Blue's face in pulses of purple and electric blue. She's laughing, head thrown back, hair swinging in that wild blue-red cascade.
A guy I don't recognize has his arm slung around her shoulders, casual, comfortable. His fingers rest just above the plunging neckline of her sheer top.
My gut flips, and then she leans into him instead of shrugging him off, moving her mouth close to his ear, and saying something that makes him grin wider.
My jaw locks so hard, my teeth ache. I swipe to the next story, and Cloud appears.
Great.
I take a large swig of scotch, barely feeling the burn as it travels down my throat.
Blue and her dance between two men, their bodies rolling to the bass line, hips swaying in tight circles. One guy's hands settle on Blue's waist. She doesn't pull away. She spins, hair whipping, and throws a teasing glance over her shoulder straight at the camera.
She meant that for me.
I should close the app, delete every trace of her accounts, and go to bed. Instead, I refresh Demi's feed.
Another video pops up.
Blue's at the bar, her shot glass raised, toasting with the group. Her red lips curve around the rim before she tips it back.
The tall, dark-haired guy beside her, with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, leans in and murmurs something against her temple.
She laughs again, bright and unrestrained, the sound cutting through the club noise and straight into my chest.
Anger coils low in my gut, hot and tight. It shouldn't. I told her to move on. I walked out of the house and left her because staying would have gotten me killed and her trapped. So I did the right thing. But watching her glow under someone else's hands makes my vision tunnel.
I stand up too fast. The room tilts for a second before it rights itself. I cross to the window and press my palm against the cool glass. The city sprawls below, with cars crawling along the streets like insects and people moving in clusters, laughing, touching, and living.
Blue's among them tonight, and I'm here alone with a bottle and a screen full of proof that she's not breaking the way I keep picturing.
And it's a good thing. I don't want her to hurt herself. But those men coming close to her, touching her, makes me tighten my fist.
The phone buzzes again. I turn, heart slamming against my ribs. This time, it's Blue's private account.
I quickly open the notification. A new story loads.
She's no longer in the club. The light's dimmer now, and a warm lamp glows, with a soft couch in the background.
It takes me a moment, then I realize it's Cloud's apartment. A round of unease and excitement rushes through me.
I can go see her.
No. I can't.
Blue sits cross-legged on the floor, her leather skirt bunched so high her pussy's barely covered.
Cloud kneels in front of her, knees brushing Blue's.
Their hands are linked, fingers laced. Cloud's thumb strokes the inside of Blue's wrist in slow circles.
Blue's head tilts, lips parted, eyes half-lidded.
The ten-second clip ends with Cloud leaning closer, her forehead almost touching Blue's, and both of them smiling like they share a secret.
Rage fills me. My pulse beats so hard between my ears, I can barely see straight.
Another photo drops. They're in the same position, but now Cloud's hand rests on Blue's bare thigh, caressing a scab.
She hurt herself again?
My insides tremble harder.
Blue's fingers curl around Cloud's wrist, and then she brings them to her lips and lightly licks the side of her thumb.
"So you do want to play?" Cloud asks in a breathy voice.
Jesus Christ.
I swallow hard, slink down into the armchair, and hate myself for wanting to see more but also wanting them to stop. Heat floods my groin, and my cock thickens against the seam of my slacks, pulsing. I shift, trying to ease the pressure, but the friction only sharpens it.
Another notification pops up with a photo. Cloud's palm rests flat on Blue's bare thigh, her fingertips grazing the edge of a pink, raised, still-shiny-at-the-center scab.
I can barely process it before a new video appears. Blue's hand stays tight on Cloud's wrist. Her tongue flicks out, slow and deliberate, licking the pad of Cloud's thumb from base to tip.
My breath stalls in my throat. The erection surges harder, straining, and heat pools low and heavy while something colder twists behind my sternum. My free hand curls into a fist on my knee, my nails biting into the palm until the sting registers.
Those men in the club earlier with their hands on her waist, fingers brushing her neck, their mouth too close to hers already carved grooves in my gut.
Now, Cloud's fingers linger on the exact spot where Blue's skin still bears the evidence of her own destruction, the place I used to kiss when she let me close enough to see the damage.
And her tongue that used to be on me is on Cloud.
I zoom in on the scab. The edges look raw, like she pressed too hard tonight.
My chest tightens, ribs squeezing until the next inhale scrapes.
She hurt herself again. Alone. Or maybe not alone.
Maybe Cloud was there. Maybe Cloud talked her down, or her thumb on Blue's wrist was the steady thing she reached for when the urge hit.
The thought lands like a blade between my shoulders. Yet my cock throbs in time with my heartbeat, and the images overlap. Blue's parted lips on Cloud's skin, the way her tongue moves, deliberate and teasing, the same slow drag she used along my shaft the last time she explored my body.
I press the heel of my hand against my erection through the fabric, trying to force it down, but the pressure only drags a low sound out of my throat.
I should be relieved she isn't curled in a ball somewhere bleeding out.
I should shut the phone off, walk away, let her have this, whatever this is with Cloud, with the club guys, or with anyone who isn't me.
Instead, my thumb hovers over the replay button.
The video loops. Blue's thumb circles Cloud's wrist again. That shared smile flashes once more.
My fist tightens until the knuckles turn white. Those hands on her, Cloud's now and the strangers' earlier, belong to people who don't know how her breath catches when the razor first bites. They don't know the exact pressure it takes to pull her back from the edge without making it worse.
They don't know her the way I do.
Still, my body betrays me, my cock aching, hips shifting restlessly against the leather as the images burn behind my eyes.
Excitement coils tight in my gut, warring with the cold knot of rage that makes my vision narrow.
I want to storm to the floor below mine, kick Cloud's door in, and pull Blue against me, reminding her exactly whose hands she's supposed to arch into.
I want to erase every touch that isn't mine.
My pulse hammers in my ears, loud enough to drown out the city noise outside. Mikhail's threats ring loud in my ears, but they aren't strong enough. I leap off the chair, rush out my door, take the stairs to the floor below mine, and burst through Cloud's front door.
The door bangs open against the stopper, wood shuddering in the frame. I step inside without waiting for permission, breath ragged from the stairs and the fury and the unrelenting ache between my legs that hasn't let up since the first private story loaded.
Cloud stands closest, halfway between the couch and the entry, purple dress creased, pink hair falling into her eyes. She freezes for half a second, then squares her shoulders. "Hey, Dr. Mercer—"
"Don't!" I warn, cutting past her, eyes sweeping the room.