Chapter 17 Estella
Istare at the phone, its glow painting my face in pale light, every flicker revealing the storm beneath my skin.
The message lingers for only a few seconds before vanishing, swallowed by the screen’s emptiness, yet it leaves behind a pulse I can’t quiet—a warmth that spreads fast and deep.
My cheeks flush crimson, the heat sinking lower, and a single bead of sweat gathers beneath my hairline.
The rush of adrenaline surges through me, wild and electric, setting every nerve alight.
I don’t reply. I can’t. Words feel meaningless in the wake of what I just read. Instead, I rise and walk to the window, the phone still clutched tight in my hand.
The handle turns with a faint metallic click. I push it open, and the night air spills in. Its cold slaps against my face and body, but it can’t reach the heat simmering in my bones—that molten thread of emotion winding tighter and tighter inside me.
I scan the street below, eyes darting between the pools of light and shadow, searching. For something.
For him.
For the man who might be out there, hidden in the dark, watching.
My pulse rockets, spine snapping taut as every muscle tightens in anticipation.
The city lies hushed, shadows stretching long across empty buildings, dark fingers tracing the streets.
Not a sound stirs. Not a breath. Yet I can feel him—that invisible presence clinging to me like the lingering echo of a heartbeat that is not my own.
Do I want him to be here?
Do I want him to watch me? To drink in a reaction from the game he started?
He knows exactly what he’s doing. But I am not blind.
He has looked inside me, peeling back the surface, brushing past the layers I show to the world, and uncovering something raw—something that mirrors his own reflection.
He has studied me, observed the subtle rhythms of my movements, listened to the cadence of my voice, and watched the flickers behind my eyes.
Patiently. Methodically. With a precision that feels almost surgical. He knows what I crave, and he knows how to give it to me.
That’s why he’s here now. That’s why his presence presses against me like heat from an invisible fire.
It goes beyond mere liking or attraction. It is an obsession sculpted into precision. He’s digging deeper, reaching for the places no one else has touched, meticulously giving me exactly what I want.
The silence stretches between us, thick and electric, humming with a weight I can feel pressing in from all sides. My own breath fractures it, becoming quick, shallow—a rhythm too jagged to be ignored. I can almost feel the heat of his gaze tracing the lines of my skin.
A sharp inhale pulls me back, and the perfume coils around me again, clinging like a second skin. Each note carries him, a whisper of presence that threads itself through my senses. And beneath it, I recognize the truth I can’t deny.
These gifts aren’t mere gestures. They are a control dressed up in the guise of thoughtfulness. He has chosen each detail with precision. Every element is a tether, an invisible hand resting lightly on my shoulder, guiding, nudging, weaving me into a pattern I cannot escape.
He is not suffocating me.
He is leading me.
Watching and waiting. Keeping just enough distance to make me feel safe while ensuring I never truly am.
A storm builds low in my stomach, twisted and beautiful. I don’t understand why this connection feels so magnetic, why the thought of him woven into everything around me feels… comforting.
Maybe it’s because, for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel alone.
My fingers tremble as I finally begin to type, each tap of the screen echoing through the room like a drumline in an empty hall.
ME:
I’m surprised at how long you’ve been able to suppress the control freak inside you.
The message flies off my screen, the letters dissolving into glowing dust before vanishing completely, like grains of sand scattered by the wind.
Seconds later, the reply comes.
UNKNOWN:
Just lending a hand. Also, I need your opinion on my taste.
A soft laugh escapes me, light and quick, swallowed by the hollow stillness of the apartment. It’s strange how easily he pulls this out of me, as if he always knows the exact frequency of my nerves.
I remember what I promised him—that one day I’ll take him out on a real shopping trip. After this, that promise feels less like a tease and more like a craving.
ME:
I’m almost never so pleasantly surprised. To truly grasp it, you’d have to be here, feel it yourself.
The three dots appear, lingering for a while before they vanish.
I stare at the phone, my pulse loud in the silence, the tip of my tongue pressed against the roof of my mouth as something restless coils in my chest. I shift from one foot to the other, impatience ballooning until it feels like my skin can’t contain it.
When I finally tear my eyes away from the phone, I glance out the window again. The street lies empty, motionless. But the longer I look, the more I feel the weight of unseen eyes tracing the lines of my body.
It’s absurd. I know it is.
And yet, the sensation doesn’t fade.
It seeps through the cracks of reason, through every wall I build inside myself, until it settles low in my stomach. Then it rises, pushing up through my chest until my heartbeat aches beneath its pressure.
The phone vibrates suddenly in my damp palm, nearly slipping through my fingers.
UNKNOWN:
Do you want me to be there?
My breath catches. The words blur for a moment before the message vanishes, leaving nothing but the ghost of it in my mind.
My heart wildly hammers against my ribs, adrenaline surging through me like a flood of fire. It burns its way across my skin, leaving sparks wherever it touches until I feel branded by the very idea of him.
My mind drifts for a moment, a picture forming in my head—Dante coming in here, stepping out of the shadows and grabbing me, those possessive, strong hands wrapping around my body. Lifting me up, using my disorientation to his advantage.
I’m always alert, always ready to defend myself. I’ve spent years training for that, sharpening my skills, preparing for anything.
But with Dante, I feel like I can relax. Like I can let go, even for a moment, and pretend to be confused, pretend to be weaker than I actually am.
Because I know he will never exploit my weakness.
I squeeze my thighs, feeling a slick warmth between them. Biting my lower lip, I picture more, the scent of the perfume making me slightly dizzy. Tingles spread, and a shaky, quiet moan slips past my lips, breaking the stillness.
UNKNOWN:
Are you picturing naughty things, little shadow?
A shiver slithers down my spine, crawling across every raw nerve. That pet name hangs in the air, and I don’t know what it’s supposed to awaken in me.
Without thinking, my fingers begin clicking against the keyboard, the sound of each key blurring into chaos.
ME:
You must be very brave to think I won’t put a knife in you the next time we meet, considering that absurd pet name you just invented.
A spark of rebellion flashes inside me, but it’s dim, and nowhere near as strong as the amusement and pleasure swelling together.
Still, I’m curious about what he’ll say.
UNKNOWN:
I’m never sure you won’t kill me.
I chuckle, impressed by the way he navigates the game—how effortlessly he keeps me engaged, always just out of reach.
UNKNOWN:
And there’s nothing absurd about it. You’re like a shadow, clinging to me everywhere I go, haunting me even in my dreams.
I stare at the message like it’s a spider’s web glinting in shadow—sticky and patient, daring me to step closer. My cheeks burn crimson, and I know that once I let the words catch me, they’ll wrap me up completely.
ME:
Poetic or not, you surely are being a creep right now, you realize that?
My eyes flick behind me, landing on the neatly folded clothes on my bed. Chewing on my lip, I consider walking closer, touching them again. I move to the bed and set my phone beside the clothes. Even with our texts now vanished, Dante’s presence lingers.
No matter how much time passes, I can’t calm the storm brewing inside me. A low warmth keeps sparking in the pit of my stomach, my mouth drying as the burn slowly descends between my thighs.
I nearly choke on my own air when a new message sends a vibration spreading across the sheets.
UNKNOWN:
Don’t you want to wear it?
A persistent tug gnaws at the back of my mind—a cocktail of emotions sharpening every sense at once, the intensity pulsing into a dull, throbbing ache across my skull.
I do. I want to wear them, to let the fabric brush against my skin, while a faint, almost imperceptible rebellion coils in my stomach, stopping me from giving in. Two opposing desires collide inside me, each fighting for dominance.
Sweat gathers along my spine, sending a cold shiver through me as the intensity grows.
I gasp when my phone begins to ring, my eyes snapping wide as I stare down at it, fear coiling tightly around me. My body freezes, panic surging and spreading, stealing every scrap of control.
The ringing persists, so I force myself to move, trembling from head to toe, and lean in. My fingers shake as I snatch the phone, my thumb pressing the green button with a tentative, almost desperate motion. Slowly, I raise it to my ear, each second stretching unbearably.
Breathe, Estella. Just fucking breathe.
“I didn’t know it was possible—to see that you have nothing to say,” Dante’s voice drifts through me, carrying a dark, sinister tone. “And I am not the type of man who has much patience, not when it comes to you.”
I lower myself onto the bed, and the air thickens around me. The darkness seems to press closer, almost tangible, and my instincts flare, screaming Code Red through every nerve.
But those instincts gradually yield to my emotions as his words begin to sink in. A ripple of pleasure wracks my spine as I silently mouth his second sentence.