22. Chapter 21
Chapter 21
Rayne
The shrill beeping of my alarm jolts me awake, tearing me from a dream filled with flashes of blood and heated skin. I groan, fumbling blindly for my phone to silence the incessant noise. As the quiet descends once more, I flop back against the pillows with a sigh.
Memories of last night flood back in vivid detail–the attempted mugging, the violence of River's intervention, the raw, primal encounter that followed. My body aches in the most delicious way, a pleasant soreness radiating from between my thighs and along my inner muscles.
I stretch languidly, savoring the dull throb that accompanies the movement. I can't remember the last time I felt so thoroughly used in the best possible way. Certainly not in the last few years, when intimacy has been more of an occasional indulgence than a regular occurrence.
As I swing my legs over the side of the bed, I notice my hair is still braided. River's handiwork. There's something both thrilling and unsettling about the mix of tenderness and violence he embodies and like a sentimental fool I leave my hair in the braid.
I pad to the bathroom, not bothering with the robe and ignoring Luna’s cry for attention. The harsh fluorescent light makes me wince as I flip the switch, illuminating my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are drawn to the marks littering my body and neck that I’ve managed to collect in only a few days. My fingers trace the marks almost reverently, remembering the intensity of both encounters.
Stepping into the shower, I let the hot water cascade over me. It soothes my muscles but does little to wash away the memories or the lingering arousal they stir. I find myself wondering how long this delicious soreness will last, how long I'll get to enjoy this feeling, how many more encounters I'll have with River and Knox before they lose interest.
I quickly finish my shower, reluctant to linger too long under the warm spray. As I step out, wrapping a fluffy towel around myself, the humidity in the bathroom is already oppressive. Summer has arrived with a vengeance, promising another sweltering day.
Padding back to the bedroom, droplets of water trailing behind me, I survey my closet options. The thought of anything clinging to my skin in this heat makes me cringe. I settle on a lightweight sundress in a dark blue that brings out my eyes. The fabric is whisper-thin, floating around my body as I slip it on. The neckline dips low enough to be enticing without being scandalous, and the hem swishes around my knees.
Damp strands of my hair curl around my face as I make my way to the kitchen. Luna appears as if summoned, weaving between my ankles and meowing plaintively. Her cries grow more insistent with each step, a furry little drama queen demanding her breakfast.
"Yes, yes, I hear you," I mutter, careful not to trip over her as we enter the kitchen. "You act like I never feed you, you silly—"
The words die on my lips as I notice something out of place. There, on the counter where I'm certain nothing sat last night, is a pristine white bakery box. Beside it stands a travel coffee cup, tendrils of steam still curling from the small opening in the lid. The familiar logo of my favorite bakery is emblazoned on both items.
A bakery that is on the other side of town.
Frowning, I approach cautiously. Luna, momentarily forgotten, hops up onto a nearby stool to observe. I lift the lid of the box, and the heavenly scent of cinnamon and apples wafts out. Inside sits a single, perfectly frosted cupcake—my absolute favorite apple pie cupcake from the bakery.
Beside the cupcake and coffee, I notice a small folded note, I pick it up and unfold it. The handwriting is unfamiliar, a bold scrawl that seems to dance across the paper:
"Have a wonderful day, little Rayne. Since I couldn't also feed the pussy I wanted to this morning, I fed the other one. Don't let her tell you differently. I miss you already. - R"
I raise an eyebrow at Luna, who gives a half-hearted meow as though realizing her game is up. Her amber eyes blink slowly at me, betraying nothing of her morning visitor. He must have left after putting me to bed and returned this morning.
Lifting the cup to my lips, I take a cautious sip. The familiar flavor of caramel latte explodes across my tongue, and I can't suppress the moan of pleasure that escapes me. It's perfect—the exact blend I always order, with just the right amount of sweetness and a hint of salt to balance it out.
The fact that he knows my favorite cupcake, my preferred coffee order, and apparently how to get in and out of my apartment without waking me should be terrifying. And yet... I can't deny the warmth that blooms in my chest at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.
As much as the cupcake beckons me, I know I need to get my errands done first. Picking up the bakery box, I move to the fridge to store it out of the heat. As I open the refrigerator door, my breath catches in my throat.
The milk carton that had been half-spilled in the alley has been replaced with a pristine new one, condensation beading on its surface. Next to it sits a clean, unmarred carton of eggs–no sign of the cracked shells and sticky mess from last night. But it's not just these items that have my heart racing.
My eyes roam over the shelves, taking in the array of items that definitely weren't there last night. A pint of my favorite yogurt from the artisanal shop across town nestled in the corner. Beside it, a container of fresh strawberries. I spot a wedge of imported brie cheese that I only indulge in on special occasions, along with a small jar of fruit preserve—the perfect accompaniment.
In the produce drawer, I see a bunch of perfectly ripe bananas—not too green, not too spotty, just the way I like them. There's also a bag of organic baby spinach and a carton of blueberries, key ingredients for my morning smoothies.
In the door, a bottle of prosecco catches my eye. It's the same brand I'd mentioned offhandedly to Kahlee the other night, lamenting that I could never find it in stock at my local wine shop.
There's even a small container of chocolate-covered espresso beans, a guilty pleasure I usually hide in the back of my pantry for late-night editing sessions.
Each item is something I enjoy, little luxuries I don't often allow myself. Some are everyday staples, others rare indulgences, but all are unmistakably tailored to my tastes. The level of attention to detail is staggering. River—or perhaps Knox, or both of them together—must have spent considerable time and effort putting this together.
I place the cupcake box carefully in the fridge, letting out a small sigh as I close the door. As tempting as it is to indulge in the thoughtful treats River left, I know I need to stay focused. Sexy, dangerous men with a penchant for stalking and violence are not conducive to maintaining a proper work schedule.
Luna's insistent meow draws my attention back to her. I narrow my eyes at her, torn between amusement and exasperation. "Really? You're going to play this game after I just saw evidence that you've already been fed?"
She blinks up at me innocently, tail swishing back and forth. I can't help but chuckle at her audacity.
"Nice try, you little con artist," I tease, crouching down to scratch behind her ears. "But I'm onto you now. River may have charmed his way into feeding you, but don't think that means you get double breakfast every day."
Luna purrs, rubbing against my hand as if to say she has no idea what I'm talking about. With a resigned sigh, I stand and retrieve her food bowl. "Fine, you win this round. But only because I don't know exactly how much he gave you."
I pour a small amount of kibble into her bowl, about half her usual portion. Luna dives in eagerly, her earlier dramatic meowing forgotten in the face of more food. I watch her for a moment, torn between amusement and exasperation.
"Greedy little thing," I mutter fondly, giving her one last pat. "You're lucky you're so cute, you manipulative little furball."
I grab the coffee, savoring another sip of the perfectly crafted latte as I head out the door. The rich caramel notes dance on my tongue, a decadent start to the day. Locking up behind me, I make my way quickly down the stairs, the hem of my sundress swishing around my legs.
Without hesitation, I head straight for the basement stairs.
By the time I’m returning back up them, a good two hours have passed and sweat is trickling down my spine and plastering wisps of hair to my temples. I let out a relieved sigh as the blessed air conditioning envelops me.
As I move further into the studio, something catches my eye near the entry door.
There, on the floor, just inside the door… is another black envelope.
I freeze, my heart pounding as I stare at the innocuous black envelope on the floor. I bend to pick it up, feeling the thick, smooth paper. I take a deep breath, steeling myself before sliding my nail under the flap to open it.
Inside is another photograph, just as I feared. My breath catches as I pull it out, eyes widening as I take in the shadowy image. The details are hard to make out in the dimness, but I don't need clarity to recognize what I'm seeing. My own hands pressed against the rough brick of the alley wall. Behind me, River's powerful form is unmistakable as he takes me from behind, his body curved over mine, his face turned away from the camera.
And I know behind the dumpster on the opposite side of the alleyway, blocked from view is a dead body.
A shiver runs through me, equal parts arousal and unease. The photo captures a moment of raw, primal passion—my head thrown back in ecstasy, River's fingers digging into my hips. It's undeniably erotic, and yet...the fact that someone was there, watching us, photographing such an intimate moment without our knowledge, sends a chill down my spine.
Was it Knox? The thought flashes through my mind, remembering how River had texted him to clean up the scene. But as I turn the photo over, that theory is quickly dispelled.
Scrawled across the back in bold red ink are the words: "Touch him again and I'll kill him."
My blood runs cold as I stare at the threatening message. This wasn't Knox. This wasn't River. This was someone else entirely—someone who had been watching us, who had captured that intensely private moment on film.
Someone who felt they had a claim on me.