Chapter 25
Jiya
The silence in Calloway’s apartment is a fragile thing, broken only by the distant murmur of city traffic and the soft glug of the wine he’s pouring.
My finger traces the spines of leather-bound classics on his bookshelf.
It’s been forty-eight hours since our hands were slick with the brutal, messy work of the Concord kitchen, and just one night since they were dusted with flour, playing at normalcy.
This quiet moment feels like the aftermath of both.
“So when does Thorne plan on initiating me? Is there a blood oath, or do I have to sacrifice a goat?”
“I honestly don’t know what he has planned.”
“How can you not know? Aren’t you his second-in-command at the murder club?”
“Hemlock Society,” he corrects, handing me a glass of ruby-red wine. “And I never had an initiation.”
I take the glass, the crystal cool against my fingers. I swirl the liquid, watching it coat the sides, catching the light. “Doesn’t everyone get one? What about Lazlo?”
“I’ve been there since the beginning.” Calloway leans back against the kitchen counter. “And Thorne handled Lazlo’s entry himself.”
I sink into the buttery leather of his sofa; the cushions sigh under my weight as I kick off my heels. “Yeah, your friend Thorne seems like the type who needs to control every piece on the board.”
A genuine smile transforms Calloway’s face, erasing the tension and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Thorne’s not what you think. He’s a big softy on the inside.”
I snort into my glass. “A man who owns a hotel with a body-disposal-ready kitchen is exactly what I think he is.”
“He knits, you know.” Calloway’s lips twitch. “Makes these little hats for premature babies at the children’s hospital.”
I stare at Calloway, trying to picture the man in the bespoke suit with a pair of knitting needles. The image is so absurd that I almost laugh. “You’re lying.”
“I am.” The glint in his eyes gives him away. “Couldn’t resist.”
Calloway gestures with his glass toward mine, still sitting untouched on the coaster. “You haven’t had a drop. Wine not good?”
I look down at the deep crimson liquid. “No, it’s just...”
“You think I’m trying to poison you?” His eyebrows arch. “I thought after everything, we were past the point of trying to kill each other.”
I lift the glass, swirling the wine under my nose, inhaling the scent of dark berries and oak. “I can multitask.” My eyes meet his over the rim. “Besides, how can I be sure it’s only wine?”
His smile falters. “What do you mean?”
“Your glaze spray.”
He freezes, the wineglass halfway to his lips.
“The one you use in your studio,” I continue, enjoying the slow-dawning horror in his eyes. “For the fruit.”
Calloway sets his glass down on the table with a sharp, definitive clink. “How the hell do you know about that?”
A slow smile spreads across my face. “I told you. I was there.”
Calloway’s face turns as red as the wine. “Holy Ansel Adams!” He stops, eyes widening as he connects the dots. “It was the day I was working on the berry shoot? You were—”
“Hiding in your wardrobe,” I confess, taking a sip of wine. It’s excellent, rich and full-bodied. “Heard everything. Saw everything.”
“What the actual—” He stands, running his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe you saw that.”
I shrug. “You were never meant to find out.”
He stops pacing to stare at me. “Oh God.”
“Your special secret ingredient?” I offer, barely containing my laughter. “Is that why your food photography wins so many awards? The glaze does catch the light beautifully.”
“I am never going to be able to look at you the same way again,” he groans, burying his face in his hands.
I stand, setting my wine glass on the table with a soft click. I close the distance between us, stopping just inches from him. “If it helps,” I whisper, “I found it kind of hot.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I step closer.
Calloway’s expression shifts to something darker. He takes my hand, leading me down a hallway. “Come with me.”
The bedroom is a sanctuary of shadow and light.
A single, low lamp casts a warm glow across a king-sized bed, making the black silk sheets shimmer.
It’s a room built for quiet moments. The black-and-white photographs on the walls aren’t just decoration; they’re emotion, captured and framed.
A dancer mid-flight, a close-up of eyes filled with a story. They give the colorless room a soul.
I stare at the corner. Black leather straps connected by steel chains to a central hook. It looks both intimidating and inviting.
“Ever tried one of these?” Calloway asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“I bought it for you. Want to try it?”
“Yes.”
His hands move with a slow, sure purpose. The rasp of my jeans, the whisper of my shirt. It’s more than just getting me naked. His fingers are deliberate, and with every touch, he’s seeing past the bartender, past the killer, to the woman I keep hidden underneath.
Naked, I let him guide me to the swing. The leather is cool and as smooth as a second skin against my back. The metallic click of the buckles is the only sound in the room.
“The beauty of this is the support,” he says, helping me position myself. “It takes all the weight off.”
He secures my thighs, then my wrists, until I am suspended, spread, offered up to him. The gentle sway is a disorienting, floating sensation.
This is insane. I don’t do this. I don’t give up control. Control is survival. Control is power. Control is the only thing that’s kept me alive this long.
But here I am, completely at his mercy, and the vulnerability should terrify me. Instead, heat pools low in my belly as his eyes drink me in like I’m something precious he’s been searching for his entire life.
“Look at you,” he whispers, his voice breaking slightly. “You’re letting me see you. The real you.”
His fingers trace the curve of my hip with something close to worship. “Do you know how rare this is? How brave you are right now?”
The words hit deeper than any physical touch.
“You’re not just beautiful, Jiya. You’re...” He pauses, searching for words. “You’re everything I never thought I’d have.”
My throat tightens. I’ve spent years being untouchable, unreachable.
Now I’m an offering, and I am the altar. I have never been more vulnerable, or more powerful.
“I have to say,” I manage, my voice husky, “this is a significant improvement on my original plan for you.”
His fingers trace a line up my inner thigh, a whisper of a touch that sets my nerves on fire. “You’re terrible at killing me.”
“I’m excellent at killing,” I argue, my hips twitching toward his touch. “You’re just exceptionally difficult to murder.”
“Thank you,” he says, his voice a breath against my skin as he drops to his knees before me. “I work hard at it.”
My breath catches. He, on his knees, still put together in his button-down and slacks. Me, suspended and bare for him. He’s not just kneeling; he’s worshipping. He’s at my altar. His head is level with my hips, and when his breath touches my center, it’s a hot, reverent promise.
“Are you going to tease me all night?” I ask, attempting to sound demanding despite my compromised position.
“Patience,” he murmurs, placing a single, delicate kiss high on my inner thigh, “is everything.”
His tongue finds me. Not a tease, but a claim.
A single deliberate lick that sends a jolt of pure electricity through my system.
I gasp, my body trying to move closer, but the swing resists, then answers, rocking me gently against his mouth.
He works his tongue in slow, knowing circles, a delicious, maddening pressure that promises oblivion.
“Fuck,” I breathe, the word a shattered prayer.
He pulls back, just enough for his breath to ghost across my wet skin. “That’s it. Use the swing.”
I press my hips forward, a slow, deliberate grind, finding a rhythm that meets the slick, knowing movements of his tongue.
“Fuck, you’re good at this,” I gasp as pleasure builds between my legs.
Calloway pulls back a little. “I’m good at a lot of things. Photography. Murder. Making women come with my tongue.”
“Humble, too,” I manage, but the word dissolves into a moan as he dives back in, his focus absolute.
The leather straps creak as I strain against them.
“You know,” he says, his voice a low vibration against my inner thigh, “I’ve imagined you like this since the first time I saw you behind that bar.”
“Really?” My voice is tight. “I was busy imagining how I’d poison you.”
His laugh vibrates against me. “That’s what makes this so perfect.”
“More,” I demand, my body a taut wire.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to give orders.” His fingers trace the strap across my thigh. “Not when you’re all tied up like a present.”
“I could still kill you from here,” I threaten with no real malice.
“I’d like to see you try.” He leans in close, his lips brushing my ear. “Nothing has ever made me harder than watching you kill Marcel.” He circles his thumb over my clit, the direct pressure a shock to my system, while sliding two fingers deep inside me.
I arch against the straps, a strangled cry tearing from my throat. “Fuck, Cal—”
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his fingers curling inside me, hitting a spot that makes the world fracture. “Call my name.”
The pressure builds, a frantic, desperate climb. My head falls back, the swing rocking with the force of my hips straining against his hand.
“Not yet,” he says, and pulls his hand away.
The pleasure shatters, leaving a raw, desperate ache in its place. I’m about to protest when he reaches for the bedside table. A sleek, black wand of silicone catches the dim light.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice husky with need.
His lips curve into that photographer’s smile. “What do you think?”