6. Cora
6
CORA
Six weeks later…
I van’s naked body looms over me, his presence swallowing the space, the world, everything. He is all I can see, all I can feel. His hands find my hips, burning them with his grip, fingers pressing deep.
A gasp spills from my lips, a shiver racing through me, not from fear but from the raw intensity in his eyes—molten dark, smoldering with a hunger that terrifies my soul as much as it heats my body.
“You belong to me,” he murmurs. “Say it.”
The command ripples through me. My body responds before my mind can catch up. My lips part, but the words tangle in my throat.
He leans in, the heat of his skin searing against mine, his breath brushing my ear. “Say it, Cora.”
A tremor rolls through me. “I belong to you.”
His hands slide up my sides, fingertips tracing fire along my ribs, then lower, molding to my waist as though I was made to fit beneath him.
A kiss lands just below my ear, then another, descending, trailing heat down my throat. His scent, the faint spice of something forbidden makes my head spin.
“You are mine,” he says, his lips hovering above mine. “Forever.”
My pulse hammers against my skin, every nerve attuned to him, to his touch, to the way his body cages mine without crushing.
“I will always protect you,” he vows, his mouth brushing against my collarbone, the warmth of his breath sending goosebumps skittering over my skin. “No one will ever hurt you again.”
A moan escapes me. His hands tighten on my hips, guiding me, his body pressing me deeper into the bed. My skin hums where he touches, every inch of me alive with anticipation.
“Ivan,” I whisper, clinging to the sound of his name. “Take me.”
He pulls back, just enough to meet my eyes. “Of course, Cora. You will come. Say my name.”
He slides into me and I groan, my nails clawing at his back.
“Ivan.”
The world tilts. Darkness curls at the edges of my vision, creeping closer, pulling me away. No. No, I don’t want this to end.
But it’s too late.
I jolt awake with a sharp gasp, my chest heaving. The sheets are tangled around me, damp with sweat. My skin still tingles, my body trembling from the remnants of the dream. The room is silent, cold, empty.
It takes a second to remember where I am. Not there. Not with him.
My tiny New York apartment is dark except for the pale, early light slipping through the blinds. No rich silks. No scent of leather and expensive cologne. Just the faint, lingering scent of sawdust from the recent renovations downstairs, and the thin, cheap cotton of my sheets sticking to my skin.
I sit up, pressing my palms against my face. It was just a mistake from more than a month ago. One night. So why can’t I stop dreaming about it?
My body still craves him. Still betrays me. Even now, my thighs clench at the thought of his touch, my skin hypersensitive. My breathing is uneven. I hate that.
My hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms. I force the feeling down, bury it where all my other regrets live. He doesn’t matter. No one does. Only me.
The world doesn’t give. It only takes. That’s the first lesson I ever learned, and the only one that’s ever held true. He took what he wanted, then made clear he was done with me.
I pull myself out of bed and move toward the bathroom, my bare feet silent on the polished wooden floor. The apartment is tiny—just a single room with a kitchenette and an even smaller bathroom—but it’s mine.
I looked round a few places when I first arrived, did the math, worked out they would all eat through my stolen cash way too fast. Then I did more math and realized how fast I’d get through the money staying in a crappy hotel room in Brooklyn. So I sat wondering what the hell to do.
Then the landlord of one place I viewed calls me up out of the blue, offers it to me for half the rent it said on the ad.
I didn’t ask why. I’ve learned not to question when something good happens. It’s usually followed by something much worse. I thought he might try to hit on me but no. If anything he looked afraid when he handed me the contract, God knows why.
Next day, I’m moving in when I get a call from one of the jobs I applied for. Offered it to me at a higher rate of pay than in the ad. Hell, maybe New York’s not as bad as they all say.
I smile at myself in the mirror. My bruises are gone. The deep shadows beneath my eyes have faded now that I can afford decent food, but my eyes still hold that wary edge, that hollow sharpness I can’t shake. I look healthier. Stronger. And yet, still like someone waiting for the world to come crashing down.
I turn on the shower and step in, letting the scalding water burn the last remnants of my dream from my skin. It shouldn’t take this long to forget one man. It shouldn’t hurt this much to force him out of my thoughts.
I scrub harder.
By the time I step out, my skin is flushed red but I’m not thinking about Ivan. Hardly at all. I dry off quickly, pulling on my waitress uniform—black slacks, white button-up, plain and simple.
I move around the apartment in a well practiced rhythm, grabbing my shoes, tying my hair back into a neat ponytail.
I glance at the books stacked on my nightstand—guides on restaurant management, business finance. My way out. My proof that I don’t need anyone but myself.
Then I run back into the bathroom, nausea gripping me like I’m sea sick and there’s a storm rolling my ship.
A sharp, rolling wave of dizziness hits me so fast I have to brace my hands against the sink. My stomach clenches, tight and uncomfortable, bile rising to the back of my throat.
What the hell?
I inhale slowly through my nose. It passes, but not quickly enough. My fingers dig into the porcelain of the sink as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My skin looks paler than it did ten minutes ago, my lips pressed into a thin line.
I shake my head. It’s stress. That’s all. The last six weeks have been a whirlwind of building a new life. It makes sense that my body is protesting. I’m working long hours. I’m adjusting to a new city, a new routine. That’s all.
I splash cold water on my face before I grab a towel and pat it dry. My stomach still feels off, a faint queasiness lingering, but I push it away. It doesn’t matter. I have to get to work.
I brush my teeth, spit, rinse. The thought of breakfast makes my stomach twist, so I don’t bother.
I grab my bag and head for the door.
The hum of the restaurant settles around me, the soft clink of forks against porcelain, the quiet murmur of conversation, the occasional scrape of chairs against the polished wooden floors. It’s steady, predictable.
I like predictable.
I weave through the tables, balancing a tray in one hand, the other tucking a notepad into my apron pocket.
The lunch rush is thinning out, and the air smells of basil and oregano, the remnants of the special. I set down a plate in front of an older man at table six, offering him a small, professional smile.
He doesn’t look up from his book, just gives a distracted nod before reaching for his fork.
That suits me just fine.
I like the work. It keeps my hands busy, my mind occupied. And I’m good at it.
But today, there’s a gnawing unease.
It’s not the faint queasiness still lingering in my stomach from this morning. No, this is different. A slow, creeping sensation like the weight of unseen eyes.
I glance over my shoulder, scanning the restaurant, but no one is watching me. Just the same handful of regulars, the same tired businessmen, the same bored couples picking at their meals.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling.
I push it aside and focus. I’m here to work, not unravel.
I pass the register where Emilio, the owner, is wiping his hands on a dish towel, frowning down at something. I catch the sharp flick of his gaze when I approach. He always watches me like that—like he’s a little afraid of me.
I glance at the counter and immediately see the problem he’s wrestling with. There’s a receipt book open next to the register, a list of expenses scrawled in Emilio’s messy handwriting.
My eyes flick over the numbers, and I frown. The cost of produce has been creeping up for weeks, but he’s still ordering the same amounts, even though certain ingredients are getting wasted.
“You’re over-ordering tomatoes,” I say, my voice low so the customers don’t hear. “We had to throw out half a crate last week.”
Emilio blinks, his thick brows drawing together. “What?”
“The tomato basil soup barely sells, and it’s the only thing using fresh tomatoes in bulk,” I explain. “The caprese salad isn’t popular, either. You’re buying for dishes that don’t move, which means we’re throwing money in the trash.”
He stares at me. Then down at the receipts. Then back at me. “Huh,” he mutters. “You don’t say.”
I shrug, wiping down the counter. “You should adjust the order. Swap out the extra tomatoes for more potatoes. The steak frites and shepherd’s pie are the biggest sellers, and we ran out of potatoes early yesterday and the day before.”
Emilio rubs the back of his neck. “Damn. You’re right.”
I just give a small nod and move to grab a fresh stack of napkins, ignoring the strange flicker of approval in his eyes.
I don’t need approval. I just need this place to keep running so I can keep getting paid.
The feeling of being watched lingers, and by the time I slip into the back room for a break, it’s settled under my skin.
I lean against the cool wall, pressing my hand to my stomach, waiting for the unease to pass. My nausea is faint now, barely there, but the exhaustion creeping into my bones is new. I shake it off, not willing to dwell on it.
I hear Emilio’s footsteps before I see him. He pauses in the doorway, watching me like he wants to say something. I straighten, pushing off the wall, but he doesn’t move any closer.
“You okay?” he asks.
His voice is careful. Too careful. Like he’s tiptoeing around something.
I nod, brushing past him before he can question me further. He doesn’t stop me. He never does. In fact, I notice again—he’s afraid of me. Like my landlord.
Not in an obvious way. He doesn’t flinch when I walk by or treat me like I’m dangerous. But there’s a nervousness in the way he speaks to me, in the way he avoids meeting my eyes for too long.
It doesn’t make sense. I’m just a waitress.
The afternoon drags on. I lose myself in the rhythm of work. Another table to clean, another drink to pour, another polite smile to give.
And yet the feeling won’t go away.
I glance out the window as I pass by.
A car sits across the street. Black. Unmoving.
I stop for half a second, my grip tightening on the tray in my hands.
It’s nothing. Just a car. I force myself to move, to keep going. But later, when I look again, it’s still there.
And I could swear I saw it yesterday.
“Can I get the check please?”
I turn around, fixing a smile on my face. “Sure. Be right with you.”