FIVE #2
‘Elisabeth didn’t need to hate Charles to find that tension,’ I argued. ‘She already hated herself for wanting someone who wasn’t safe. That’s where the conflict came from.’
Cain sat up straight. ‘And that’s why you write Horror Romance, and I write Dark Romance. You make your characters survive. I make them surrender.’
‘Surrender,’ I shot back, though my voice wavered slightly, ‘isn’t always the answer.’
His presence was suddenly overwhelming, his words curling around me, and I hated how much my body responded to it.
‘Sometimes resilience is more powerful,’ I added.
He slanted his head, his grin softening into something more calculating. ‘Resilience is admirable, but it’s predictable. You know they’ll make it out, one way or another. Surrender? That’s messy. Uncomfortable. It makes you wonder if they’ll come back at all.’
My gut clenched, his words unmaking a memory I didn’t know I had buried – and I wrenched my gaze away. Focused on the tips of my trainers.
He shifted slightly, holding up my book, his fingers tracing the edge of the cover.
‘Take the cellar scene with Elisabeth and Charles. It’s raw. Disturbing. But you stopped just when it got interesting. Charles was breaking her, but you pulled back before she shattered.’
I clenched my jaw, his critique hitting harder than I expected. ‘Charles didn’t need to completely destroy Elisabeth. The point, as I said, was her resilience – how she held on to some part of herself, even when he tried to take it all.’
Cain inched closer, the space between us razor-thin. ‘And that’s the difference between us,’ he murmured, his voice dropping to a near-growl. ‘I’d have stripped her bare. Let her hate him. Made her beg for the pieces – and then shown her who she really was underneath.’
The words might have sounded like a threat. But I was so broken that I saw them as a blueprint instead.
He knew what emotional damage looked like. It flared in his eyes, even as his words skittered around it. But he didn’t know I’d been almost as damaged – enough to recognise it in him.
That stare of his stripped the air around me, and I fought the sudden urge to grab the handles of the exercise bike tighter – if only to feel something solid beneath me.
My mind was already conjuring images of Elisabeth and Charles in ways I hadn’t written but could suddenly imagine all too clearly.
‘Maybe I’ll keep that in mind for the sequel,’ I said, compelling myself to meet his eyes for the last time, refusing to let him intimidate me as I started pedalling again.
Cain smiled, striking another tremor under my skin. ‘Do that,’ he said, standing up. ‘Eight o’clock. Sharp. Bring coffee. The espresso machine’s fucked.’
And with that – he was gone. I watched his tall, muscular frame move through the space, his narrow waist tapering like it had been sculpted by bloody Michelangelo himself.
I sat there, dumbfounded, my legs still moving on autopilot as the pedals churned beneath me.
Eight o’clock? The words echoed in my head, completely out of sync with the tension-filled conversation we just had.
One minute he was dissecting my book, his gaze burning into me like he could see every fracture I tried to hide, and the next he was giving me orders like I was already on his payroll.
Wait. Did I just land a job?
‘Coffee machine…’ I echoed after him. The nerve of that man.
Yet, as much as I wanted to be outraged, all I did was sit there, my breath uneven, my thoughts circling around the lingering heat of his voice and his faint, frustratingly wonderful scent.
Cain D’Angelo had just turned my world upside down.
The determined sway of her stride caught me off guard.
I watched her stalk over to the treadmill, her stern brows drawn together as though she was on a mission to destroy it.
She had slipped into blue leggings that clung criminally tight, outlining every dip of her hips and thighs – enough to make the nearby boys forget their reps.
My gaze lingered longer than it should have, my thoughts veering into dangerous territory.
I wasn’t one to believe in fate or coincidences, but seeing her here, for the second time in one day? It was hard to ignore the sense that something – or someone – was pulling strings between us.
Whatever the reasons, I let her be, watching as she attacked the treadmill with a single-minded focus, her steps pounding against the belt like she was punishing it for existing.
She radiated anger, frustration, and fire that practically crackled off her skin.
I let her work it off for a bit, intrigued despite myself.
And then I noticed the eyes.
Two men by the weights. Another near the water cooler. All of them pretending not to look. And doing a bad job of it.
Static crawled up my spine. I didn’t think it was jealousy. It was something worse – something primal. They didn’t know what she was. What she could be. How smart she was. Talented. They just saw the arse and the tits.
Which were—
Cutting that thought off mid-throat before it made its way south, I stepped forward before I’d meant to.
Just enough for the curious wolves to see I was watching too – letting them know whose attention she had, letting them wonder who she would be crawling to when the lights went out – if only for my own sick pleasure.
When I finally approached her, I struggled to find anything critical to say about her book. The Hollow Warden was nearly as twisted as my own work, dark and captivating in ways that had stayed with me long after I’d put it down.
She had a thing for chains, I’d noticed, and the way she’d written about them – their weight, their grip, their inescapable pull – spoke volumes about experience, too.
And yes, I’d spent a couple of hours fucking reading instead of writing.
I couldn’t resist flustering her a little, teasing her just enough to watch the heat in her eyes come alive. And then I told her she had the job. That decision fell right then and there. I had every intention of manning the fort myself – Vinnie be damned. But…
She deflated almost immediately, though she covered it with a muttered thanks – she probably wasn’t even aware it had come out. And then I left her alone.
And devoured the rest of her book overnight.
The next morning came too soon. My head pounded, and I regretted every drop of last night’s bottle – liquor hit differently now that I’d crossed the thirty-fifth threshold. I felt like a damn freight train had ploughed through my skull.
Vinnie, on the other hand, was bouncing around the office like a hyperactive child, rubbing his hands together and grinning like the Big Bad Wolf eyeing a house of straw.
‘Can you sit the fuck down?’ I growled. ‘You’re making me nauseous.’
‘I’m just excited about our newest addition,’ he shot back, his grin widening.
‘She’s not a new fuck toy, Vinnie,’ I said flatly, exhaling as I fired up my laptop and settled it onto the docking station.
He feigned a gasp, clutching his chest with mock indignation. ‘I would never,’ he said melodramatically, his eyes glinting with amusement. ‘You sure you’re hiring her for her prose?’ He waggled his brows.
I didn’t rise to the bait. But he watched me too closely now, as if he were trying to figure out what box she fit into – employee, woman… something else? He wouldn’t guess right. How could he? He wasn’t the kind of monster I found in the mirror every day.
I groaned. ‘She’s my assistant.’ I didn’t add what I was really thinking – that she wasn’t Scarlett. That no matter how good her written scenes in the cellar had been, it didn’t put her anywhere near the place Scarlett held in my mind.
Vinnie huffed but didn’t push any further.
The conversation was cut short by a soft knock on the door, and we both turned to look as it swung open.
She walked in carrying a small carton tray of coffee-to-go.
Fitted jeans and a long-sleeved shirt the colour of peaches clung just enough to hint at the shape of her body, but not enough to seem intentional.
Her hair was tied back, and if she was wearing makeup, it was subtle enough to leave her looking fresh and natural.
Like temptation dressed in decency – every line soft, every move restrained, and all of it unintentional.
‘Good morning,’ she said, calm but edged with that same proficiency she had shown at the interview.
‘Morning,’ Vinnie and I greeted in unison as she walked further in.
My eyes dropped to the coffee tray she set down on the desk.
‘Giuliano’s,’ I read aloud, my eyes catching the bold label stamped on the side of the cups.
‘Best coffee in the world,’ she assured us, repositioning the tray carefully on my desk.
The rich, inviting aroma wafted through the room, already doing its job of melting away my grumpiness.
‘I got us all macchiatos,’ she added. ‘I didn’t know what you drank.’
‘Oh, I don’t drink coffee, sorry,’ Vinnie said with a dramatic wave of his hand towards his chest. ‘My body is my temple.’
I shot him a sideways glance, grunting.
Paula raised an eyebrow at him, her lips quirking just slightly in amusement. ‘That’s blasphemous in my book,’ she retorted playfully.
I couldn’t help it – a grin spread across my face, wider than it should have been for such a simple comment.
There was something about her delivery – the way she didn’t hesitate to challenge Vinnie – that took me by surprise in the best way.
And let’s not mention the fact that his charm definitely wasn’t working on her.
‘Macchiato is good,’ I said, picking up a cup and meeting her gaze briefly. ‘Thanks.’
Her lips twitched again, emotion suppressed. ‘You’re welcome.’
Vinnie, clearly unimpressed with being outdone, muttered something about caffeine being overrated, but I ignored him, taking a sip of the said poison. The bold, rich flavour hit my tongue, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy the simplicity of it – just coffee, no complications.