7. Halloween Eve
7
Halloween Eve
H alloween Eve wraps the city in a chilling stillness, but Sasha’s apartment pulses with warmth and life. Orange lights frame the windows, casting a soft glow that turns the world outside into a distant memory. The faint scent of cinnamon and baked apples weaves through the air, anchored by a single candle flickering on the counter. Sasha’s home, so calm and welcoming, feels like a sanctuary—a sharp contrast to her razor-edged personality and the jagged lives we lead. I realize that this is a side of her I’ve never seen before. It’s different, but in a good way.
I stop at the doorway, letting the warmth seep into me. Esmé sprawls across the couch, her Halloween costume glittering under the light as she flips through channels. A bowl of candy sits in her lap, wrappers already scattered around her. I will hear her complaining about her teeth later on. When she notices me, her lips curve into a grin, her hat tipping precariously.
“You’re late,” she teases, tossing a mini chocolate bar in my direction.
I catch it midair and smirk. “Traffic.”
“Traffic,” Sasha mocks from the kitchen, her voice sharp and pointed. “Like you don’t live twenty minutes away.”
“You know how old people are. They forget things and need to run out at the last minute. Tomorrow is Halloween, and they need their candy to rot all the children’s teeth out.”
She steps into view, dishrag slung over one shoulder, her dark eyes cutting through me in a way only she can. I smirk at her.
“Esmé wanted cookies,” Sasha says, rolling her eyes as if the request had been absurd. “You’re welcome.”
“You baked cookies?” I raise an eyebrow, skepticism curling my words.
“She supervised,” Esmé chimes in with a smirk, not looking away from the TV.
Sasha scoffs but doesn’t argue, retreating to the kitchen.
I drop onto the couch beside Esmé, the cushions sagging beneath my weight. She’s gone all out with her costume—glitter dusts her cheeks, and her pointed boots look like they belong in a storybook, not in Sasha’s living room. Her hat wobbles as she leans toward me, handing over another piece of candy.
“Don’t,” she warns, narrowing her eyes.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You’re thinking it,” she accuses.
“Thinking what?” I feign innocence.
“That I look ridiculous.”
I smirked but stayed silent, unwrapping the candy slowly.
“You do know Halloween is not until tomorrow. Right?”
“No dip, but it takes practice to look this good.”
She says, holding her hands under her face and grinning. I shake my head.
Esmé laughs, a bright sound slicing through the shadows I carry. Her laughter reminds me why I fought so hard to keep her away from my world. She doesn’t belong in the dark spaces I inhabit and doesn’t deserve the weight of the choices I’ve made. She belongs somewhere, with glitter on her face and a bowl of candy in her lap, waiting for the day she can finally be free of it all.
That day still feels impossibly far away.
“She’s doing good, you know,” Sasha says, reentering the room with a plate of cookies.
She places them on the coffee table, brushing stray hair from her face. “She’s comfortable here. She is patient. She’s not blind. She knows more than you think she does. You can’t hide everything from her, ya know? She’s not a baby anymore.”
I glance at Esmé, now fully engrossed in some ridiculous horror movie, laughing at a particularly over-the-top scene.
“She wants to come home,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“She’s waiting,” Sasha replies, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.
“Patiently, too. More patient than I’d be in her place.”
I sigh and rake a hand through my hair. Sasha saved me when I had nowhere else to turn, taking Esmé in without hesitation. She gave her a haven, a space to breathe, a semblance of a normal life. I owe her everything, and she doesn’t let me forget it.
“You’re doing everything you can,” Sasha says, her voice softening. “And she knows that. Don’t tear yourself apart over it.” I nod, but her words only tighten the knot in my chest.
For a few hours, life feels almost normal. Esmé forces me to eat one of Sasha’s cookies, which is better than expected despite Sasha’s protests. We watch the rest of the movie, Esmé’s laughter filling the room. Even Sasha cracks a smile when the movie’s final girl makes an especially stupid decision.
The warmth feels good. Too good. It twists something in me, a reminder that this can’t last. Esmé waits for a life she doesn’t even know I’ve put at risk. Marklov waits, always watching, ready to unravel the web of lies I’ve begun to spin.
When I leave, the cold night air hits me hard, stripping away the comfort Sasha’s apartment offers. Each step toward my home feels heavier, the warmth fading with every breath.
Inside, silence greets me like an old enemy. The walls press in, trapping me with thoughts I can’t escape. How much longer can I keep this up? How much longer before Marklov catches on?
I pour a drink, but the burn doesn’t numb me. Nothing does.
The phone in my hand feels like an anchor, pulling me under. I unlock it and download a dating app in a desperate bid for distraction. It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself—just a way to kill the noise.
But I know it’s not true even as I swipe through the smiling faces and curated profiles.
I want control—something solid to hold onto while my world spins out of reach. I want to release myself, forbidding any strings to be attached.
Then she appears. Not her, but close enough to make my stomach tighten. Dark eyes, sharp angles, a smirk that teeters on the edge of danger. My thumb hovers over her photo before I swipe right. The match buzzes instantly, and a sick wave of relief washes over me.
The messages come quickly—flirtatious and meaningless. But my focus stays elsewhere on her. She resembles her. The one Marklov wants. The one I can’t stop wanting for myself.
When I close the app, the whiskey bottle lies empty, and the storm in my head rages on.
Halloween Eve masks the world with costumes and laughter. But no mask can hide the monster I feel myself becoming again.
After a string of cheesy replies and borderline flirtatious banter, she finally agrees to let me come over. Her place, no less. I can’t help but shake my head at the audacity—or maybe the sheer stupidity—of her decision. Is she na?ve, reckless, or just someone with a thrill-seeking death wish? She doesn’t know me. Not really. For all she knows, I could be the type of guy who’d walk through her front door, do unspeakable things, and leave her for dead. Maybe she thinks her charm or intuition is enough to protect her. Or perhaps she doesn’t care.
The streets are quieter than usual as I ride through them, my bike cutting through the cold night air like a knife. I take my time, letting the tension build in my mind. When I pull up outside her house, the place looks exactly as I expected: modest, ordinary. The kind of home that doesn’t draw attention.
A dim porch light flickers, casting uneven shadows across the cracked driveway. Her house is small, maybe two bedrooms at most, with an overgrown lawn and a couple of mismatched flower pots on the front steps. The whole setup reeks of someone scraping by, though she’s trying to give it a touch of personality.
I roll my bike to a stop at the curb, letting the engine rumble for a moment. My fingers hover over the throttle, and with a smirk, I give it a hard rev, the sound shattering the silence of the sleepy neighborhood. The roar echoes in the stillness, announcing my arrival loud and clear.
The porch light flicks on instantly, almost like she’s been waiting for the signal. A shadow appears in the doorway before the door creaks open, revealing her figure against the yellow light inside. She’s smaller than I imagined, bundled in an oversized hoodie that swallows her frame. Bare legs and bare feet. She’s holding a glass of something dark—whiskey, maybe, or just Coke. Her casual stance tells me she’s not worried, nervous, or even curious. That’s either confidence or stupidity; I haven’t decided which yet.
“You always gotta make an entrance like that?” she calls out, her voice cutting through the night like it belongs there. There’s a teasing lilt to it, like she’s daring me to make the next move.
I kill the engine, swinging my leg over the bike as I stand. My boots hit the gravel with a crunch, and I take a moment to size her up. She’s got a face that doesn’t quite match the attitude—soft features but eyes that gleam with something sharper, something darker. She’s braver than most women I’ve met, or maybe just too stupid to know better.
“Only for special occasions,” I reply, my tone as cool as the air around us. I step closer, my boots heavy against the ground, the weight of my presence undeniable.
She raises an eyebrow, sipping from her glass as if we’re old friends instead of strangers.
“Special, huh? Don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.” There’s a slight smile on her lips, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s observing me and assessing me like she’s trying to decide whether I’m worth the risk she’s clearly taking.
“You gonna invite me in,” I ask, stopping at the foot of her steps, “or is this where the games begin?”
She takes another sip, then sets the glass down on the small table by the door. She looks at me for a moment like she’s trying to read something on my face. Then she steps back, opening the door just wide enough for me to slip inside.
“Door’s open. Just don’t try anything stupid.”
The way she says it—low, steady, with just a hint of warning—gives me pause. She might’ve invited a stranger into her home, but she doesn’t seem as helpless as she looks. There’s something guarded behind her nonchalance like she’s used to dealing with the unpredictable. Luckily for me, I don’t plan on learning about her life story tonight. Or ever.
I step inside, and the air shifts as the door clicks shut behind me. This house smells faintly of vanilla and something floral, an odd contrast to the tension that lingers between us. For someone so reckless, she’s got a strange sense of control.
The room is dimly lit, the faint glow of a single lamp casting warm light across the modest living room. It’s cozy—an old couch, a stack of books on the coffee table, and the faint scent of vanilla lingering in the air. She stands by the door for a moment, her arms crossed loosely, watching me with an intensity that’s hard to ignore.
“You want a drink or something?” she asks, her voice quieter now but still carrying that same edge.
I shake my head, stepping farther inside. “Not here for small talk.”
Her lips twitch into a half-smile like she was expecting that answer. Without a word, she moves past me, her bare feet padding softly against the hardwood floor as she leads me toward the back of the house. The hallway is narrow, the walls lined with faded photos that I barely glance at.
When we reach her bedroom, she flicks on the light. The space is just as unassuming as the rest of the house—a simple bed with a plain comforter, a cluttered nightstand, and a window that lets in just enough of the moonlight to soften the edges. She turns to face me, leaning against the door frame like she’s testing how far she can push this unspoken game between us.
“So, what now?” she asks, her tone teasing but low.
I step closer, closing the space between us, my hands slipping into my jacket pockets to keep from touching her just yet.
“That depends on how far you’re willing to go.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver, her confidence unwavering. “Far enough.” Her voice in a light whisper.
The air between us thickens, charged with tension neither of us tries to break. When I finally reach for her, the movement is slow, deliberate. My fingers brush against the side of her face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. Instead, she tilts her head up, her breath hitching ever so slightly.
I lean in, the distance between us disappearing as my lips graze hers, soft at first, testing. She responds immediately, her hands finding their way to the collar of my jacket, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens, heat sparking between us as the restraint starts to slip. My hand slides to the small of her back, pressing her against me as her body molds to mine.
The room fades away—no awkward small talk, no lingering doubts. Just the two of us, caught in the magnetic pull of the moment. Her breath is warm against my skin, her touch insistent, and I let myself get lost in the rush of it all.
I feel like I can go a little further than I typically would with any other encounter. However, my cock will not be going inside of her.
She begins playing a playlist with the title ‘Songs for Sex.’
When I glance over at her, her eyes are vast, and her cheeks are flushed. She’s beautiful. Her caramel skin and clean but jagged style makes me want to get this over with even sooner. It feels dangerous to think good things about a woman I don’t know. Tormenta is out there, and I need to find her.
Everything goes fast. Red lights string up in the corner. This chick kisses my chest, trailing her way just above my trousers, licking and moaning.
“Tell me what you want.” She lets out in a light, seductive voice.
“What I want, I can’t have just yet.”
She leans closer, her eyes fixed on mine, and before I can say a word, her lips crash into me. The kiss is urgent and hungry; I meet it with equal intensity. My hands move instinctively to her waist, pulling her body flush against mine as I take everything she’s offering. I catch her bottom lip between my teeth, grazing it just enough to draw a soft gasp from her. When I nip it lightly, a moan escapes her, sending a shiver down my spine.
“Play with yourself,” I growl, my voice low and commanding, cutting through the haze of our shared desire.
Her lips hover over mine, her breath warm against my skin as her tongue teases the corner of my mouth.
She pauses, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze, her expression laced with both confusion and curiosity.
“What?” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You asked me what I wanted,” I remind her, my tone firm, leaving no room for argument. “I’m telling you. Play with yourself.”
Her brows knit together in hesitation, but I act before she can protest or question me further. With a swift, deliberate movement, I rise and shift her body, my hands firm but careful as I guide her back onto the mattress. The black sheets beneath her only highlight the contrast of her skin, her breath hitching as I position myself between her legs.
Her body reacts instinctively, her back arching as I settle in, the heat of her anticipation mirrored in her gaze. I take a moment to drink her in, watching the way her chest rises and falls, the flicker of uncertainty giving way to something far more primal.
“I said, play with yourself,” I repeat, my voice softer now but no less demanding, my hands sliding along her thighs as I wait, watching her every move.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly, and her breathing begins to calm at a steadier pace. Her anxiousness leaves her mind when the song ‘Sex With Me’ by Rihanna starts to play. Her hands take control of her own body as I sit upright on my knees, watching her. Her fingers trail down her sternum and cup her breasts.
“Keep going.” I command.
She rubs her hand over my mouth. I spit. Her eyes never leave mine. She spreads wider for me, and she looks so fucking delicious. My cock is practically begging to be set free. She wipes her hand, spreading my spit over her lips, and traces her bud, moaning with satisfaction. Rihanna is still going in the background.
I pull my thick length out. The red lights in the room cast my silhouette on top of her. Her eyes widen with how hard I am or maybe even my size. Who knows. I’d say I am perhaps a little above average when it comes to size. Stroking my cock as she rubs her bud in circles, I match her pace. Her back arches up and down in an alternating pattern, and she moans even more. I close my eyes, picturing her. Tormenta .
She grabs onto my sides, interlocking me with her thighs, and I open my eyes and snap a little bit.
“Do not fucking move.” I snarl.
She lays back quickly. Hesitating to continue any further.
“Relax. I was only kidding. I want to see your beauty. Show me you can satisfy yourself with no help from anyone else.”
Her body relaxes and she gives a half smile.
The pace picks up. Her body grinds against her hand as her fingers go in and out of her. My throbbing length is taking a beating from my hand. My veins are popping out with the workout pump I’m getting.
She begins moaning louder as her release is about to come. Shit. Fuck.
“Fuck, fuck, fuuuck!”
She lets out an uneven, breathy voice.
“Fuck!” I let out after.
“Get on your knees!” I command.
She listens. Her fingers are still sliding in and out of her as I release my load, painting her face in my seed and taking controlled breaths.
When it’s over, the silence is different, heavier somehow. She leans against the bed, her hair tousled, her hoodie discarded somewhere on the floor. I stand by the window, staring out at the quiet street, my jacket slung over one shoulder.
“You’re not staying, are you?” she asks, her voice soft but knowing.
I glance back at her, shaking my head. “Not my style. Sorry.”
She nods, her expression unreadable. “Didn’t think so.”
Without another word, I slip out the door, leaving the house and the woman behind as I step into the cool night air. The engine of my bike roars to life, the sound cutting through the stillness as I disappear into the darkness.