Chapter 14
VICTORIA
Iwake up with cotton mouth, dry, cracked lips, and a pounding in my head that is unrelated to the pounding I should have gotten yesterday.
With probably three hours of sleep or less, my brain is not functioning properly. My skin feels clammy after last night, a mix of sleep-sweat and the lingering residue of a messy orgasm session.
Yesterday was…interesting, to say the least. What Azrael did in that warehouse terrifies me now just as much as yesterday.
He found a crack to exploit and now I have to figure out if I’m really as unbreakable as I thought or if the mask I’ve been wearing for years has always been this weak and just waiting for a chance to crack.
But then the memories of what we did, in this very room, come back. He’d watched me like I was the only important thing on this earth. He’d stroked his cock in response to my every move, because he’d wanted me just as much as I wanted him.
The sound of my phone buzzing pulls me out of my thoughts. Two missed calls and a new message:
Unknown number: This was your plan, wasn’t it? To get in and rot my existence. I will rip you out of my fucking head and break you so badly there will be no pieces left for you to glue back together. You wanted to feel something? Little ember, meeting me will be the biggest regret of your life.
Alex keeps on calling, but I decline the calls, focused on the message.
I never gave Azrael my number, but I don’t need the name to match the unknown number with the face behind it.
His voice is laced through every word. He must have been drunk—I know better than to think he’d willingly message me first in the middle of the night—but it doesn’t change the fact I was the one he thought of while drinking.
I reread it an unhealthy number of times, my lips curled against the pillow like a fucking teenager that just found out the boy she likes, likes her back.
There is rage in the words, but it is the kind that comes from need.
And I like it. I love being the itch under his skin that he cannot scratch away.
He will wake up later and regret his message, but how good of a subject would I be if I didn’t twist the blade just a little deeper?
Victoria: Oh, Professor. Do you always think of me when you drink?
I toss the phone aside and force myself out of bed. For the first time in a long time, I don’t want to go ahead with my day and let life move around me. I want to stay in this very room and relive the image of him here, looking at me with the need I so desperately want him to feel.
The days are passing, and my dear Professor refuses to meet me.
I messaged him on Monday and Tuesday—only ten times, but his drunk text had given me confidence.
On Wednesday, I tried calling him. Thursday, he wouldn’t look at me during the lecture.
I was right there, in my seat, but he acted like nothing had happened and we were back at square one.
And with no active contracts, all I could focus on was my Professor.
The fact that I’d shown him he can’t control me that easily would be quite entertaining, if not for the fact that he’s acting like our little experiment is over—which it’s not, because I still cannot feel a goddamn thing and my brain is the same as it was two months ago.
I even went to his place, ready to ambush him, but when he saw me there, the only word he said was “Out.”
For now, the plan is to abduct him if he doesn’t come back to his senses by Sunday night.
I’ve been dragging myself through the week until today, Saturday.
My unofficial ritual day. If I’ve learned anything in the twenty-six years, I’ve walked this planet, it’s that structure is survival.
Rules, rituals, patterns, anything that keeps the usual chaos on a leash. And for me, that starts with wine.
For that, there’s only one human I can tolerate: Andrew.
He doesn’t ask idiotic questions like, ‘What mood are you going for?’ or ‘Why do you need twelve bottles every week?’ He hands me the bottles, nods, and goes back to pretending his liquor store isn’t obviously a front for something far more illegal. I don’t ask. He doesn’t ask. It works.
The city is waking up slowly, summer creeping under the edge of spring. The sky still holds the glossy shades of morning, the crisp air blending with the smell of weed that follows you wherever you go in this city.
Women push strollers, people walking dogs, they’re all smiling like they are happy to be alive.
It pisses me off and almost destroys the good mood I was in just an hour ago.
I want to scream just to make them drop those pathetic, cheerful faces.
Why are they so happy? What do they have to laugh about?
Go home and fucking stay there. Today belongs to me more than it will ever belong to them.
Andrew’s shop sits tucked between a defunct tailor and a bookstore that hadn’t changed its window display in the six years since I started coming here. The wood-paneled door has no sign, just a brushed steel handle and a buzzer you are expected to know about.
Inside, the light is dim, but not dark. Lamps cast soft amber puddles over stacked shelves, bottles lined the walls, and the smell of oak would make you believe you are in a public library.
As I step in, the bell above the door gives a tired chime, and I see Andrew behind the counter turning his face to me. He nods once and quickly heads to the back to bring out my order.
When he comes back with the bottles, I pick them up and I’m ready to leave when I stop halfway back to the door. I turn back around and go to the counter, something I’ve never done in the past.
“Scotch?” I ask, hoping to sound as normal as possible.
Andrew blinks at me, slightly confused, but only asks, “What kind?”
“Celebrating an event I’ve been waiting for, for years,” I vaguely mention, and based on my extremely limited knowledge of anything but wine, I hope it’s enough.
I can see a string of questions forming behind his eyes, but luckily he doesn’t push it, and after a moment in front of a shelf he returns with a bottle that looks older than this country. The perfect gift for my Professor.
I take it without another word and walk out, holding the bags full of bottles as I walk back.
The shop is close to my apartment, precisely eight minutes of walking at a normal pace.
It’s the same route every time, and I’ve followed enough times that I can walk it without turning my brain on.
After last night, I need this quiet moment for myself.
The first few minutes, everything is normal. Then it suddenly isn’t. There are no loud sounds or heavy footsteps, just a presence that is following me, a shadow in my periphery.
Fuck, here we go. I knew getting the scotch was a bad idea.
Every nerve lights up, my hand instinctively shifting to the bag where the small gun is hidden between clinking bottles. They must know I would notice, so there was no point in being subtle. I grab my weapon of choice and spin around, pointing it to where the fucker is standing.
The street noise fades into the background as I track the tension in the air, my body is in full attack mode, all my senses alert. I’m about to shoot the first bullet when I see it…
“Oh shit, not you,” I curse under my breath. “So, it’s finally my turn. Just fucking great.”
Back inside my home, I let the intruder rumble around the house as I peel off my blazer and let it drop somewhere between the entrance and the kitchen. My shoulder cracks. My knee aches. The entire situation wore me out.
I drop the bottles on the counter and push my hands against the counter’s edge. To distract myself, I pour myself a glass of wine and take my phone out of my dress pocket to reread the message, only to see he actually replied.
Azrael: It was just the grade for your performance. Just facts.
Facts.
I stare at the screen, biting my lip as the gulp of wine I just swallowed burns its way down my throat. I can’t believe it! He disappears for almost one week and comes back with this stupid explanation?
Facts, he says.
Like the way he looked at me wasn’t pure hunger. Like he didn’t rub his cock at the sight of my body. Like he didn’t grind his teeth just to stop himself from touching me. Men.
Victoria: Sorry, who is this?
He cannot possibly believe I will accept this as an explanation and welcome him back like he’s the most important thing in my life. I will and he is, but still.
His reply is not coming, and I’m starting to second-guess myself. The last thing I need now is for him to disappear again. After an acceptable waiting period—three minutes—I text him again.
Victoria: It was shame, right?
Azrael: Shame?
Victoria: The first feeling you tried to dissect in the warehouse. Huge mistake.
The time he spent ignoring me was pure torture, but I had time to think about what Azrael was trying to achieve in the warehouse.
Azrael: You think I was wrong?
Victoria: I’m just saying it seems like you were looking for a quick ending.
Azrael: …go on.
How do I make this man understand that I haven’t felt shame in more than a decade? Anyone else saying this would make it sound cocky, but he should know me by now, and I have no reason to hide it.
Victoria: You thought shame was some sort of pivot point that would pull something out of me.
Victoria: That if you could make me feel ashamed, I would lose the strength to fight.
Victoria: Unfortunately for you, I don’t know how to feel that.
Another glass of wine for me. And lactose-free milk for my intruder.
Victoria: You should’ve started with pain.
Azrael: For someone who pretends not to feel, you’re oddly fluent in emotions.
Victoria: I had an excellent teacher.
I mentally slap myself for saying this. Why the fuck did I over-share with him, again? He doesn’t need to know about my past, he would only use it against me. Luckily, he says nothing, so I just continue.
Victoria: Professor, my brain is broken, remember? You cannot start with the mind. You have to start with the body.
If the conversation is useful to him in any way, he doesn’t show it. Twelve hours later and there’s still no reply.
I almost give up hope until there’s a sudden knock on my door.
Now, it could be anyone, if not for the fact that nobody besides Alex and the woman who cooks my food know where I live, and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him in the past four years.
This can only be the one person I am desperate to see.
He really needs to stop playing hard to get and just admit that he loves me already, so we can move on with our lives.
“Is this your version of texting back?” I ask, opening the door so he can come inside.
Azrael looks at me for just one second before something—someone—behind me catches his eyes.
“I see you’ve got company.” A smirk forms on his lips.
I turn around to see Cat perched on the armrest of the couch like a gargoyle, grooming himself and uninterested in the presence of the new guest.
And while Azrael’s lips are slightly curled, the way he looks at the poor soul is almost hateful. Which only gives me more reason to keep him.
“Not much of a cat person, are we?” I ask with pretend innocence.
“More like not a fan of things that cannot take care of themselves. It broke in, didn’t it?”
“He, not it. He followed me,” I correct him. “He ambushed me during my walk like a fucking ghost, so I had to bring him home—The Cat Distribution System and all that shit. Plus, Cat is a very determined predator with apparently very good taste in wine.”
“Cat?” he repeats, one brow raised. “Audrey Hepburn?”
I shut the door behind him. “Exactly.”
He tilts his head, seemingly still trying to process the unusual turn of events. “So you named your cat, Cat, like in—”
“After Cat.” I correct him again, heading for the wine.
“He also bites if you move too fast,” I add, emptying my wineglass. “Which, ironically, makes him the second-most dangerous thing in this room.”
I’m about to grab a second glass, hoping he will join me for a drink, but he anticipates my move and cuts me off.
“I didn’t come for a drink. Get dressed.”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. “You disrupt my evening, and now you’re kidnapping me? Or is this your way of taking me on a date?”
He steps in closer, looking straight into my eyes, and I need to remind myself to breathe. “Save the fantasies for when you’re alone. I just want to give you what you asked for.”
“You’ll have to be more specific. I ask for a lot of things.”
His eyes flick down, then back to mine, unreadable. “Clothes. Shoes. Now.”
I hold his stare a second longer, but it’s useless, he won’t tell me anything.
Ten minutes later, I am ready. “If this ends with my body in a ditch, I want it noted that I looked phenomenal.”
“I don’t do ditches,” he says, following me. “Too predictable.”
When we reach the door, Cat meows, seemingly rushing us out. Then he turns his back on us both and heads for my office, leaving us behind.
Fifteen minutes with Azrael, and Cat is learning how to be just as dismissive as he is. Smart bitch.
Azrael’s Rolls-Royce Wraith smells like fresh leather, sandalwood and the hint of cigarette smoke that follows him everywhere.
His driving style is just a mirror of his personality: utterly precise yet restless. During the ten minutes we’ve spent in the car so far, he’s broken three or four traffic laws, but it only makes sense. This is a man who really doesn’t give two flying fucks about anything.
At the first red light, he finally stops the car. That’s when he acknowledges my presence for the first time since we left.
“You were right,” he says, looking straight into my eyes. “Shame was almost a mistake.”
Dropping his eyes to the console, he flips it open, pulling out a brown bottle. Uncapping it, he pulls out a cloth and slowly drenches it in the clear liquid.
What kind of chemical fantasy bullshit is this? Am I thrilled? Yes. Just like during my missions, the adrenaline rushes through my veins.
The scent inside the car slightly shifts as a note of sweetness is added to the mix. Oh, fuck no, anything but this.
“Don’t you fuc—” But I don’t have time to finish the sentence. His right hand shoots to the back of my head while the other shoves the chloroform-soaked piece of fabric against my mouth.
I try to fight it—nails to skin, knees to glass—but the combination of him pinning me down and the fastened seat belt doesn’t help.
The chemical burn hits first, and then a blur seeps into my vision and coats my brain, making everything fuzzy.
His voice is the last thing I hear before the darkness kicks in. “You wanted pain. Now choke on it.”