Chapter 5
5
I nara
When I open the door to the place I’m renting, a scent hits me—jasmine and a familiar cologne. I know where the jasmine came from; the property manager left some in a vase on the countertop. It reminds me of the sprig of flowers someone dropped in my purse, which must be a strange coincidence.
But the cologne?
I draw my gun and follow the trail of the scent. It’s stronger in my bedroom but dissipates quickly. Did I imagine it?
It smells like him. I smelled it this morning when I woke up and again in the coffee shop. I imagined it at the crime scene, too.
I do another pass of the townhouse, clearing each room. There’s no one here. It feels empty.
So why does the back of my neck prickle like someone’s watching me?
It’s probably my imagination. The events of my life would leave me to believe murderers and monsters are lurking everywhere.
I rub the goosebumps on my arm. I could turn up the thermostat, but I don’t bother. I drop my keys and badge in the kitchen and inhale the stale air. It hadn’t been easy to find a place quickly that was both cheap enough to fit into my budget and already furnished.
I caught a break when I heard about this place. The brass sent an email that the landlord was renting it at a discount, hoping to get a cop as a tenant. It’s in a quiet neighborhood and comes with a state-of-the-art security system. It’s one half of a duplex, with a walk-up shaded by a thick hedge that shields my front door from the sidewalk and road. Even though it’s in the middle of the city, it feels private and secluded. So far, I haven’t seen or heard the person who lives next door, which suits me fine.
The place is a long way from the main police office where I’m stationed, but I don’t mind a long commute. I take the time to think. And it’s not like I have anyone waiting up for me.
If it weren’t for the personal items I just tossed onto the laminate counters and the vase with the sprig of jasmine, the place would look like no one lived here.
A normal person might go to the store and buy some food or dishes. Maybe a potted succulent and dish towels with little ducks on them or something. That would help, right? I have no idea how to make a house a home.
Maybe because I haven’t had a home since I was ten. Not since. . .
I stop that train of thought and head to shower off the day.
The scent is strongest when I open my closet door. Fresh and woodsy, it’s exactly like the mystery dom’s cologne. Maybe his cologne lingered on the lingerie I wore.
I take the satin nightie out of my hamper and bring it to my face, and it hits me like a strike of a whip, bringing me right back to my time on the cross. I can sense the dom pacing behind me. The breadth of his shoulders and the weight of his presence tells me he’s a big guy. Tall, towering over me. Dominating me without lifting a finger or saying a word.
Most of my scene partners are tops. He’s the first one I think of as a dom. The authority in his voice. The assurance in the way he flogged me. His patience and taking the time to build me up to a glorious peak.
The way he tempted me, inviting me to give up control.
I drop the nightie and grab my phone, opening the Club Empire app and scrolling. There are events tonight—a rope bondage class, a drag queen show, plus the opportunity to reserve a room for private play. I’m so tempted to book one and see if I can entice the mystery dom to scene with me again.
But who is he? On a whim, I call the club.
An employee answers, “Club Empire, how may I help you?”
My stomach seizes, and I hang up. What am I doing? I need to follow my own rules.
We had one night together. That’s all I get.
Desperate, I grab my sketchbook, and my pencil flies over the page. The figure of a man takes shape. He’s tall with brooding features and a powerful frame made to dominate.
I sketch him as I’ve imagined him—the proud face, the broad set of shoulders. I draw myself bound to the cross, him standing inches behind me.
“If I can make you come without touching you, will you scene with me again?”
I can almost feel his hot breath against the shell of my ear. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Was that a creak of a step behind me?—
The doorbell rings, shattering the silence. I leap out of bed, and my sketchbook goes flying. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt and grab my gun to confront whoever’s at the front door. The peephole shows no one there. Probably just kids doing a stupid dare.
After a cautious pause, I open the door. There’s a white bag on my stoop filled with clamshell containers. The scent of garlic and butter wafts upward, making my mouth water and my stomach cramp. I grab the bag and slam the door.
According to the receipt stapled to the top of the bag, the delicious-smelling contents are chicken masala, Caesar salad, and tiramisu from a restaurant called Paisano’s. I call the restaurant to report the incorrect delivery, and the person on the line rattles off the address. It’s mine.
“But I didn’t order this,” I insist. “There must be some mistake.”
“Maybe you didn’t, but it’s yours now.”
I stare at the food. I meant to stop for dinner, and my fridge is empty.
Maybe the restaurant has the townhouse number wrong, and the delivery is for my neighbor. I force myself to go knock on the door beside mine. In between knocks, I turn and scan the yard. I still feel like someone’s watching me, but no one’s around. No kids peering through the hedge’s dark green leaves. No neighbor with binoculars in an upstairs window.
I scrub the back of my neck and give up knocking when there’s no answer. I force myself to wait another half hour and see if anyone comes knocking on my door, looking for their dinner. Then I pull out the food.
When I remove the last container, a note flutters to the floor. Welcome to the neighborhood, it reads. It’s not signed.
Maybe this dinner is for me. But who sent it? I study the note. It’s handwritten, not typed, and on thick paper.
I’m overthinking this. I’ve spent so long as a detective I’m suspicious of everything and everyone. Events from my childhood taught me to be cautious, too.
But I am hungry, and the food looks so good. My instincts tell me it’s safe.
In the end, I devour the pasta, using the bread to mop up the extra sauce. It warms me through and brings back memories of good, home-cooked meals. The kind I haven’t had in a long, long time.
When I’m finished, exhaustion slams into me. The food weighs heavily in my sated stomach.
I drag myself to my bedroom, pick up my fallen sketchbook, and set it on the bed. I brush my teeth and change into a skimpy sleep set, the satin cooling my overheated skin.
Then I go through the routine I’ve had since the first time I got a gun. I learned long ago that the monsters who haunt little girls at night are real. And then I grew older and realized no one could protect me, so I had to protect myself.
I check the townhouse. Windows and doors: locked. Deadbolt secure. Security system: armed. My pistol is loaded, and the safety is off, so I set it on the bedside table but within reach.
If I’m lucky, these precautions will allow me to sleep deep enough that I don’t dream.
I stretch out on my bed and pull the covers up to my neck. I want to reach for my sketchbook again and trace the image of the man I drew over and over again. My mystery dom, strong and solid.
Even now, I can imagine him beside me, smelling like that delicious cologne. If I close my eyes, I can sense him.
But when I open my eyes, there’s no one there. Which is as it should be.
If life has taught me anything, it’s that everyone I’ve ever loved has died. So it’s better for me to be alone.
***
Him
I stand at the foot of her bed. My shadow falls across her, swallowing up her small form.
It’s dangerous to be here. With the tech I had installed in her place, I can watch from the comfort of my own home. But tonight, I need to be closer to her.
Under normal circumstances, this would be impossible. She sleeps too lightly, with everything locked and a gun within reach. But I own this place and set up the locks and security system. It’s impenetrable unless you have the keys and codes.
It was easy enough for me to slip inside. First, I made sure she would sleep deeply. The knockout gas I used saw to that. Not too much, though. I must be careful with my little bird. The dose I gave her would put her under for an hour or so.
It had been so satisfying to watch her eat the food I provided. She barely ate today; I must make sure she’s fed. My little bird needs care, and I am here to provide it.
She works too hard. Did she get the clues I left for her? I’ll have to make sure to drop more breadcrumbs to lead her where I want her to go.
As I watch her sleep, her forehead wrinkles. The drug must be wearing off. She shakes her head, growing restless, twisting in the sheets. Is she dreaming?
I want to reach for her, soothe her nightmares away.
Instead, I reach for the sketchbook she left on the bed beside her. I need to see what she’s been drawing. I need to know what’s inside her head.
The first picture is of a couple smiling at one another. They’re headed in different directions but looking back at each other, fingers still entwined.
Another sketch of them clinging to each other. Kissing. She’s spent time on them, shading their faces. You can see the passion in their expressions and the way they hold each other.
She’s so alone. Night after night. She pushes people away. She’s built herself a prison and calls it safe.
I turn the page, and my whole body goes rigid.
The man on the page is more than familiar. Dark hair, glaring eyes—it’s me.
How does she know? She hasn’t seen me.
She was blindfolded at her own request.
She’s never seen my face. Right?
I’m questioning everything.
This is the extent of her gift. This is what she’s hiding and why she works so hard to keep the world at bay.
My hand shakes as I turn the page. There I am again. In this one, I’m in a thoughtful pose. Perched on my hand is a little bird with a distinct pair of tail feathers.
A swallow.
I shut the sketchbook, my throat dry. This is too much.
She’s won this round. I am undone. And she doesn’t even know it. She won’t know it, either, not until I reveal myself to her.
That moment is coming soon. I will be ready.
“Sweet dreams, little bird,” I murmur and leave her to her dreams.