Chapter 12
SLAYER
The insistent throb of arousal pressing against the firm curve of Bix’s backside pulls me from a restless sleep. Morning light seeps through the windows. Another day in paradise.
I carefully disentangle myself from Bix, not wanting to wake her.
The cascade of soft blonde curls spills across her bare shoulders like sunlight on silk. Just above the ridged edge of the blanket, a single rosy nipple peeks out.
Virgins with angel faces and honey-blonde hair can easily undo the Dark Prince. I remind myself to tread carefully.
I step into the shower, turning on all six jets, and let the hot water pound the night off my skin.
I lather with sandalwood body wash, rich and earthy, and close my eyes as the scent wraps around me, sharp with memory.
My hands glide down my chest. Over my abs. Then lower. I grasp the hard weight of my cock.
Pleasure clenches low in my gut almost immediately, fueled by the images flooding my mind—her green eyes staring wide, her lips parted, her hips rocking forward, slow and shy and bold all at once.
I picture cupping her perfect breasts, kissing the top of each one before nudging my way lower, the smooth head of my cock brushing along her heat.
Guiding myself into her body as she arches toward me, breathing my name against my mouth.
She tasted like cherry lip gloss and need.
The orgasm swells quickly. Sharp, hot, and unstoppable.
It crashes over me, a brutal rush of release. My muscles lock.
I press my fist against the cool glass, and for a long moment, I’m nowhere. No label. No shows. No damage. Just sensation. Just her.
As I come down, I brace both hands on the tile, dripping and spent. I let the water wash the last ripples away, but her face lingers—lingers like the scent of sex and heat and damn near happiness.
Wrapped in a towel, I face the mirror. The steam has fogged it over almost completely. I swipe a hand across the glass, clearing the condensation.
The man looking back at me is both familiar and foreign. Eyes rimmed in regret.
Jaw clenched too tight. I see the wear layered over my skin, the questions still lingering in my gut.
I don’t know what last night was. But I know it wasn’t nothing.
I check my phone. A new message blinks on the locked screen. I missed it last night. Sterling wants me to stop by the studio before France. Urgent. Not planned.
Of course.
It’s barely eight AM, but the Equinox sports club below the Mandarin Oriental hotel opens early.
I pull on joggers and a black tee, drop my towel into the hamper, then toss what I need into my gym bag.
As I return to the bedroom, I pause at the edge of the bed.
Bix lies curled up in the sheets. Peaceful. Pretty. Off-limits now.
Yet some part of me—maybe the only real part left—doesn’t want to leave.
I grab a pen from my desk, intending to scribble a note. Something simple. Thanks. Take care.
Don’t make it messy, I tell myself.
But then I see her red diary, open on the chair. I almost walk away.
Almost.
But I can’t stop seeing her standing by the bookshelf last night, taking notes. At the time, I accepted her explanation. But a part of me didn't quite buy it.
And now, that diary—curled open, practically breathing—draws me in like a dare.
I glance over the first page. It’s book titles, just like she said.
But then...my name.
Not Sam. Slayer.
Her handwriting trembles on the lines.
1. Meet Slayer. 2. Get that record deal. 3. Achieve the dream.
Each word punches a new hole in my gut.
She knew.
She fucking knew the whole time.
Of course she did. Why else would some sweet, snarky little thing “accidentally” end up next to me at a hole-in-the-wall noodle bar at 2 AM? Laugh at my jokes. Pretend she didn’t know my face, my name.
She played me. Hooked me clean.
And I bought it.
Smiles, stories, sweet green eyes blushing with starlight. The whole act. The whole fucking sweet-girl-from-nowhere costume.
Her diary reads like a wish list. Meet Slayer. Get close. Make a move. Record labels. Dreams. Shots worth taking.
And I was the door she walked through to get there.
I slam the little book shut. Hard. Louder than I meant to.
No note. Not anymore.
All I can hear is the rush of blood and the echo of my own stupidity.
I shoulder my gym bag and walk toward the door. She’s still sleeping, wrapped up tight in the same sheets we tangled in.
Her chest rises slowly, eyelashes fanned against her cheeks, face open in sleep.
Fine.
Let her sleep.
If she’s smart, she’ll be gone when I get back. If not, I have staff who handle that sort of thing. They're used to closing circuits I never should have opened.
Clean exit. No drama. No confusion.
This is how you survive when the gold-plated world rots underneath.
Trust? A fantasy.
Faith? A fucking fairy tale.
Girls like Bix don’t stumble into your life. They find the cracks in your armor. Then they smile as they widen them with both hands.
I step into the elevator, slam the lobby button with my fist, and watch the doors slide closed. No more mistakes.