Chapter 16 Estella
Barcelona, Spain
“Oh, fuck, yes, baby, that’s it,” he groans, the back of his head pressing against my couch. “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.”
My lips twitch, my jaw locks like a vise as searing anger coils hot and tight beneath my ribs. It’s been less than five minutes, and this idiot is already ready to cum in his pants from me just grinding against him while I pin him against the couch.
I’d come out today to dull the ache—to chase that fierce, impossible burn I felt with Dante—but whatever I tried only twisted into something ugly. My eyes snagged on the man across the bar, a tourist, a garbage imitation of Dante: dark eyes, a similar jaw, a scruffy shadow where a beard should be.
I was hoping he’d help me relax, but now, as I tilt my head, I can’t stop picturing how I’ll end him if I decide to act on it. A blade to the throat crosses my mind, but even my fantasies have standards.
That would be messy. I don’t want to spend the rest of my day scrubbing his blood from my couch.
For the first time in my life, failure sits over me like a stone—and it’s not a small thing. It’s a hot, corrupting ache.
I pulled him out of the bar with barely a thought and dragged him back to my apartment. Then I climbed on top of him, trying to force the same delirium Dante wrung from me.
But it’s pathetic. A bad parody. Every move feels practiced, hollow, like watching someone lip-sync a scream.
He mumbles stupid things between clumsy groans, words that tear at something raw and private because they aren’t coming from Dante’s lips. Up close, he lacks everything Dante has—the weight in his gaze, the quiet violence in his hands, the cruelty that feels like a promise.
I am capable of questionable things sometimes. Today is one of those times—an ugly, small decision that leaves a bitter taste and the heavy certainty that some fires refuse to be rekindled by anything but the original flame.
He throws his head back farther, throat bared under the light like an offered target, and the world narrows to the brutal perfection of this single moment—the exact angle, the clean line where I could finally end him.
A groan reverberates across the room as he cums in his pants, his body twitching, his grip on my hips tightening.
Disgust churns in my stomach, bitter and burning like cheap alcohol on an empty gut, twisting my insides as a grimace spreads across my face. I look down at him, and everything about him feels… wrong.
His eyes lift to mine, a lazy, infuriating grin on his lips. “Did you cum?”
My eyes widen, and I inhale sharply, repeating the mantra in my head.
Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him.
“No,” I say flatly, and in that instant, a flicker of disappointment flashes across his face.
Seriously?
I huff, abruptly sliding off him, my hands smoothing over the wrinkles in my clothes as if the act itself could erase the feel of him entirely. I walk to the mirror, ignoring the tidal wave of his questions and stupid suggestions, taking a long, critical look at myself.
Today’s outfit is intentional. Fold-over jeans with leopard print hidden underneath, layered under a second pair of brownish denim, unzipped so that the wild pattern beneath catches the eye.
My top matches in muted brown, slashed on both sides just below my breasts, hinting but not giving in.
A single golden pendant rests at my throat, while matching rings catch the light, reflecting across my skin like tiny sparks.
I run a hand through my hair, and a ghost of memory flashes before me—Dante’s strong fingers buried in my scalp, kneading, tugging, guiding me with quiet command.
Nothing could ever replicate what he made me feel. There are men who resemble him, even faintly, just like this nameless man sprawled behind me, but I’d rather wear skinny jeans than let someone like that touch me.
“You don’t understand, Julian,” I say, a thread of frustration cutting through my voice. He looks like a Julian, so Julian he shall be.
“My name is—”
“Exactly,” I cut in, turning around and pointing a lazy hand in his direction. “I don’t care. Not about your name, not about you.”
A sigh slips past my lips as I step closer to the wall, leaning my back against it. My gaze drifts across him from head to toe, pausing at the dark, unmistakable stain between his legs.
“How can’t you see it?” I murmur, tilting my head, disgust shimmering beneath the surface. “I’m a fucking shooting star in a sky full of dull, boring, and bland people like you.”
He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of frustration igniting in his eyes—the first real emotion he’s allowed himself to show all day.
He opens his mouth—no doubt to protest or explain something I’ll never care to hear—but before he can speak, the sharp click of the door handle slices through the room. His head jerks toward the sound, and my eyes follow.
Cane steps inside like he owns the air itself, then stops dead in the middle of the room. His gaze lands on the idiot on the couch.
“I didn’t know you were expecting guests,” Julian stammers. He rises quickly, extending his hand toward Cane like a nervous intern. “Hello. I’m—”
“He’s my fuck buddy,” I interrupt smoothly before he can destroy the little illusion I’ve built for myself. I’ve already settled on Julian, and I won’t let him ruin it. If he says his real name, I might actually lose control, and that would get messy fast.
Cane freezes for a second, his expression unreadable, except for the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth as he bites down on it. Then, his gaze drops to the dark stain between Julian’s legs, and I catch the flicker of surprise in his eyes.
Julian retracts his hand awkwardly, clearing his throat loud enough to make me grin. I can’t help the small chuckle that escapes, slicing through the heavy silence.
“How rude of you,” I say, pushing off the wall and sauntering toward Cane. Snaking an arm around his shoulder, I lean close enough to breathe in his sharp cologne—that dark, masculine scent that always clings to him. “Forgive my father,” I purr. “He has a condition.”
I can feel Cane’s stare burning into the side of my face, and it takes everything in me not to burst into laughter. My lip trembles with the effort, but I keep my expression steady, feigning pity as I turn my eyes back to Julian.
“It’s dementia,” I whisper solemnly.
Cane exhales through his nose. “Would you give us a moment?” he asks evenly.
I roll my eyes, the last thread of my amusement unraveling. He’s always so serious when he walks into my chaos.
“Why don’t you wait in the corridor, Julian?” I suggest, nodding toward the door. He stares at me for a long moment, his expression a swirl of confusion, shame, and disbelief, then finally clears his throat and nods.
He bolts out of the room in a rush, leaving behind a heavy cloud of cheap perfume that makes me wince. The scent clings to the air like bad spray, and just like that, the uninvited, inevitable thought slices through my mind.
Nothing and no one can ever replace Dante.
Not his voice, not his touch, not the way his scent wraps around me like a secret.
Woodsy, with a trace of musk and something else—something that belongs only to him.
My mind can recreate it just enough to torture me, and the ache that settles low in my stomach is almost comforting in its cruelty.
I wonder what he’s doing now. What he’s thinking.
Though that last one isn’t really a question.
Of course he’s thinking about me. How could he not?
Especially after what we did.
“Who is this?” Cane’s voice cuts through my thoughts, steady but edged, pulling me back into the room.
I untangle my arm from around his shoulders, stepping aside with a small shrug. “My boyfriend,” I lie, the word slipping out with a bitterness that tastes like rust.
His brows shoot up to his hairline, surprise flashing briefly across his face. “Boyfriend?”
I shoot him a sharp look, a smirk ghosting on my lips. “Is that so hard to believe? That I finally found someone who truly loves me for who I am?”
His expression softens into amusement, one brow lifting as he tilts his head, giving me that familiar oh, please look that makes my blood heat with annoyance. “How many different ways of killing him has your mind gone through already?”
I frown, exhaling a sigh of frustration that echoes faintly in the quiet room.
He knows me too damn well.
“You’re no fun,” I mutter, folding my arms. “And I suppose there’s a great reason you decided to interrupt us in a heated moment?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches into the pocket of his coat, and the golden band on his ring finger catches the harsh light. Bright and polished, it gleams, stinging my eyes more than I want to admit.
Cane. The man who managed to build himself a family, to weave a perfect little lie out of the ruins of truth. His wife and child don’t know who he really is.
They think he works for U.S. intelligence, a respectable man serving a noble cause.
But in reality, Cane is a ghost within ghosts—a double, maybe even a triple or quadruple agent.
He’s the kind of man who can reinvent himself in a breath, his mind always adjusting, molding, calculating. A chameleon in an endless masquerade.
That’s all he’s ever done—wear masks.
But not with me.
With me, he’s stripped of them all. I know him better than his family ever will. Even better than he knows himself. And that thought alone stirs something jagged inside me.
Somehow, he managed to create a family. But I can’t shake off the question that always lingers in the back of my head.
Does he even love them? Do they love him?
Not the illusion, not the mask, but the real him.
No. They don’t.
Not in the way I do.
I accept him for what he is—a bastard who’ll do whatever it takes to survive. But unlike them, I don’t lie to myself about it. I don’t demand redemption. I don’t play at moral boundaries and pretend he’s something better.