SIXTEEN
I stood in my flat, half-buried in the wardrobe’s dark mouth, trying to find something that whispered control yet kept the chaos trapped in my bones.
Cain was quiet today. Or maybe he was just focused. I knew the deadline for one of the books was nearing, and if he was anything like me – he’d be spitting fire before the release.
I pulled out a black, form-fitting dress with a slit up the thigh, and held it up sceptically.
These conventions were all about romance and forbidden cravings, which meant everyone would be pulling out their sexiest attire.
And here I was, going on business – sort of – with my stupidly sexy, untouchable boss, no less.
So I had to strike the impossible balance of professional and alluring.
This dress seemed like it would do the job.
The fabric shimmered faintly in the light, clinging just right to all the places I wanted to flaunt without looking like I was auditioning for a rap video.
With my hair twisted into a sleek knot at the nape of my neck, I added the final touches – lipstick, perfume, concealer over the bruises Ghost had left in evidence of possession. The cool cream touched my skin, and everything stilled. The mirror stopped being glass – it became a confession.
I stared at my reflection. The concealer dulled the marks, but not enough. My gaze drifted to the black silk scarf draped across the vanity. An idea bloomed, quick and desperate.
I looped it around my neck, fingers trembling as I started to tie it—
Clink!
A metallic echo spread from the living room.
The sound sliced through the flat like a cold, and far too familiar memory.
I snatched my phone and opened the camera feed, flicking through each view with frantic swipes.
Frame after frame – nothing.
And still, my pulse refused to slow. Travis’ blue eyes flashed behind my eyelids – the ropes, the blade, the way pain numbed me until I couldn’t tell if it was love or something wrong.
In.
Out.
Breathe.
I forced air into me, the pressure tightening behind my eyes.
With the next inhale, I gathered the courage to step into the living room. The lamp beside the bookcase held a low glow that smeared across the parquet like spilt honey. My gaze ricocheted from window to window. Tree shadows writhed in the soft wind, stretching long and thin over the floor.
‘It’s just the fucking wind…’ I muttered under my breath.
But as I reached the kitchen counter, I grabbed my purse and drew my gun.
Uncle’s lessons echoed in my head: Safety off. Aim first.
Barefoot, I placed each foot with care, toes meeting the floor with the whisper of my thigh-high nylons. I unlatched one window – the one near the fire escape – and leaned out.
The early-summer wind kissed my face, ruffling loose strands of hair. Below, the world was still – except for a small orange cat perched on the railing, the moonlight glistening on her fur.
‘Meow,’ she offered, tail flicking, before slipping between the iron bars.
The absurd normalcy of it broke me open. A shaky laugh tore out of me, two parts relief, eight parts hysteria.
‘Stop scaring crazy people, kit,’ I mumbled to her in mock-reprimand, shutting the window with exhaustion.
I exhaled as I turned the lock to secure it in place, lingering just long enough for feeling to return to my toes.
When would I ever be free of Travis?
Back in the bathroom, I fixed my scarf, smoothed stray hairs against my updo and fixed my makeup. The fear receded, but it didn’t disappear, just got buried under the armour of routine.
I had a convention to attend, and pretending to be fine was all I’d been good at lately.
Last year, the event had featured male hosts – shirtless, masked, and ridiculously built – wandering around as part of the ambiance. There was no doubt in my mind they would be back this year.
And then it hit me—
What if Ghost was one of them? If not, what if he was already there – waiting? Watching. Masked and blending into the surroundings.
My phone buzzed and I startled.
Glancing down, I saw the notification pop up from the Obsidian app. I took in a deep breath and opened the full message.
Ghost_666: Club Trionfo. Tonight. Wait for further instructions.
My jaw dropped open, my stomach flipped, but not from fear this time, yet the twisted thrill of recognition. That was the club where the book convention was taking place! He was there!
I felt my face straining from the stupid smile that crept over it.
Damn, I was really losing it – only last night he’d done bad things to me I shouldn’t have liked. Things I had to let sink in, to allow my mind space to heal. But here I was, ready to throw myself into the pit again.
Shit, what if Cain ran into us?
Picking nervously at my nails, I glanced at the walk-in wardrobe, where my wig and Venetian mask lay waiting.
Unease crawled under my skin.
He was deviating from the norm. It had always been private. Always Obsidian.
Was he taking this a step further?
I flipped the safety back onto the gun and put it in my purse, then shut it with more force than necessary. Taking a deep breath, I turned back to the wardrobe.
The wig was new, still shiny and a bit too perfect, but it served its purpose. Which was why I couldn’t cram it into my purse. It would’ve been all dishevelled once I pulled it out.
So instead, I touched the flaps of my black, silky scarf. I could wrap it around my head so he wouldn’t see my hair. It wasn’t the most elaborate disguise, but it would have to do.
Sliding the mask and contact lenses into my purse, I bit back another intrusive thought that kept pushing and pushing: the memory of last night.
It burned through me vividly. After his exquisite introduction to the night, I’d come undone in ways that I hadn’t known were possible.
And my body suddenly thrummed in anticipation for what he had in store for me this time.
Had I pushed too far? The scratching, the sounds he made… They’d thrilled me, but doubt crept in anyway. He had gasped, his body had trembled. There hadn’t been any sign of resistance.
Turning to the mirror, I studied my reflection one last time, exhaling a long, tired breath.
The dress hugged my figure perfectly, the slit teasing just enough skin to turn heads without getting me fired. With a critical eye, I looked myself over.
Did I look professional? Sure.
Did I also look like I might lose my job for the way I wore this dress around Cain? Absolutely.
A grin escaped me. The idea of Cain flustered – just for a moment – uncoiled a thread of satisfaction deep inside me. And really, what kind of an XX chromosome representative would I be if I didn’t poke at those embers just a little more?
I headed for the door, ready to face whatever the night carried – D’Angelo and Ghost.
It took me fifteen minutes to get to the club. More than that to find a fucking parking spot, even though the organisers had included a one-time VIP parking card with the author’s ticket.
The moment I stepped into the club, the air clasped around me like a jealous lover’s grip.
The light was low, mostly bathed in neon hues of red and blue that painted the vast walls and polished floors in a surreal glow.
Regular lights dotted the space sparingly, their softer illumination casting the occasional highlight on the parade of people filtering in.
Conversations vibrated low and intimate, threading through the subdued thrum of music.
As I walked deeper inside, the air shifted.
Male hosts and hostesses prowled the entrance like dancers trained to seduce.
Every step was rehearsed, every glance loaded.
They played their parts with inspiring ease, exuding charm and confidence that bordered on aggression, their steps calculated to intimidate and entice.
Two of them moved directly towards me, masks obscuring their faces. Their bare chests gleamed under the neon light, the subtle ripple of muscles drawing my gaze like a magnet. Air snagged in my throat with sudden, irrational hope that it might be him.
Ghost?
I froze for a fraction of a second, my gaze darting over the first man.
He was lean and chiselled, his chest and arms inked with intricate tattoos – none of them the compass, the anchors, and the maps I had come to memorise.
Relief and disappointment mingled uneasily as my attention shifted to the other.
His broad, unmarked chest told me everything I needed to know – he wasn’t Ghost either.
Relaxing, I allowed myself a small, appreciative smile, giving them both a slow, deliberate once-over as they attempted to intimidate me – just a role they played. But I faced them squarely, even when their masks came close enough to catch my breath.
‘Are you scared, little one?’ one of them growled.
Before Ghost, I might have flinched, the old Paula would have folded, spine soft and pulse wild. But he’d burned that weakness clean off.
Now? As soon as that old fear stirred, Scarlett lifted her head from the darkness in that slow, feline, unbothered way, and make me stand a little taller.
‘Are you?’ I asked in a slow purr, silked with challenge rather than fear.
As they withdrew, I took them in again. They were gorgeous, each in their own way, and I could feel their gazes on me as I walked past, my heels clicking softly against the polished floor.
Cain was seated at a merch table near the entrance, watching everything from his perch like a king commanding the chaos as if it was his.
His eyes were already on me, pinning me in place before I even realised I had slowed my gait.
The hungry look in his dark, honeyed gaze was undeniable, his jaw tight and his body taut, as if he were holding himself back from something.
The light caught the sharp angles of his face, making him appear even more imposing, even more magnetic. He hadn’t shaved either.
I quite liked that look on him. It blurred the edges of the perfect persona he’d been trying to exemplify.