CHAPTER 7
THE CURATOR
Four hundred meters out and the night swallows us whole.
A blast tears through the silence, a deafening roar that rattles the ground beneath us.
The shockwave that follows is hot – violent, pushing air outward from the cottage with brute force that sends us flying head first into the dry hay beneath our feet.
Flames lick at the sky, hungry and wild.
My home.
A second later fragments of brick, stone, wood, and shattered glass rain down like a storm. Smoke billows, thick and choking, curling into the darkness as embers flicker in the wreckage.
‘They blew up my home!’ I whisper, my voice hollow, like it’s been carved out of me.
The flames dance where my life used to be, licking greedily at the wreckage, crackling like they’re laughing.
I want to scream. But Sal holds his hand over my mouth as if he knows.
Instead, I stare. Everything I built. Burnt
The explosion rings in my ears, rattling through my ribs.
My bloody home.
Sal starts pacing, phone pressed against his ear, face half-lit by the glow of my cigarette as I take a slow drag. His voice is tight, as the other end of the call answers.
‘Yeah, Sal? You better have some good news. Like, the bitch is dead.’
‘Not exactly…’ Sal hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘The skin girl’s house just blew up.’
A pause. Then a chuckle. ‘Good! A bit dramatic for you, but good. When are you coming home?’
My mouth drops open. Good? He’s laughing. Bastard.
‘Not by my hand, boss,’ Sal says quickly, shifting on his feet. ‘I was lucky to get out alive.’
‘What were you doing inside?’
I narrow my eyes at him, watching the slight twitch in his jaw. He doesn’t like the way this conversation is headed.
‘It was the Thompsons,’ he replies. ‘She kidnapped Ritchie, and they tracked her down.’
‘And?’
‘Ritchie’s dead.’
The man on the phone barely reacts. ‘I couldn’t give a rat’s about him. What about her?’
Sal glances my way, and catches me watching. He steps closer, plucks the cigarette from my mouth and takes a long drag like it might steady him.
‘Still alive.’
‘Do I need to come out and deal with this myself, Sal?’
Sal freezes. His fingers tighten around the phone. ‘No, boss!’ He exhales slowly.
‘Are you smoking?’ the caller barks.
The cigarette burns between his fingers. ‘No, boss, I-I can barely…’ Sal stammers, while looking around like the night might offer him an escape.
‘Sal?’
‘Sorry, boss, losing signal.’ Then Sal hangs up. I watch him, still waiting.
‘You’re in deep, aren’t you?’
He exhales slowly again, shaking his head. ‘Deeper than you, sweetheart.’
He drops down beside me, the dry hay rustling under his weight. His breath is unsteady and ragged, half exhaustion, half in disbelief. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
‘You saved my life,’ I exhale, the words slipping out before I can dress them in something less vulnerable.
‘Don’t remind me,’ he groans, dragging a hand down his face, like he’s trying to forget the last ten minutes.
I reach into my rucksack, fingers curling around the still-cold glass, and pull out the bottle of whiskey with a dramatic flourish. ‘Tada!’ I say, grinning through the dirt on my face. ‘And that’s worth celebrating.’
He cracks one eye open, the corner of his mouth twitching.
‘You think this is funny?’ his voice is rough, edged with more than frustration.
‘You could have been killed. We could have been killed.’ His words hang in the smoky air, heavy with the reality that we/I haven’t fully let in.
He leans in. ‘You’re lucky to be alive,’ he says, his tone flat.
‘The only thing stopping you and death becoming one is me.’
‘Oh the irony,’ I laugh.
For a moment, I just stare at him, pulling another drag from the cigarette I’ve just stolen from him.
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch, just watches.
I shift, fingers tightening around the whiskey bottle.
‘Am I supposed to be grateful? Because I’m not feeling like a fucking lottery winner, right now. ’
Sal shakes his head.
I scoff. ‘Contrary to belief, my lifelong dream hadn’t been to be hoisted upside down and finger-fucked by a man old enough to be my father, and then have my home blown up.’
‘Hang on a second. I’m not that old and you’re certainly not that young.’
‘Whatever, pops,’ I say, flashing him a toothy grin.
‘Besides, I’m not the pretender here, Ms Marguerite Dubois.’
My smile falters – just barely. The name tasting foreign. ‘Oh, yeah,’ I say, lightly, but my pulse is anything but steady. ‘You just lied to your boss. I bet he doesn’t know what a freak between the sheets you are.’
He leans closer until the space between us isn’t space at all. ‘And you,’ he murmurs, ‘have a bigger problem than me lying.’
I hold his gaze. ‘Do I?’
He smirks. ‘Oh, sweetheart. You have no idea.’
The hay cradles my head, but needles at my scalp as I’m lowered – muted by the thunder of blood in my veins.
Sal straddles me, his weight anchoring, his dominance unquestionable.
The bottle shakes in his grip as he swigs deep, the scent of the liquor filling my nostrils.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. His mouth finds mine with a purpose that makes my bones tremble.
It’s not a kiss – no. It’s a brand. A claim.
Heat spills from him to me, whiskey chasing fire down my throat but I breathe it in anyway.
For a moment, all the chaos – the explosion, the faint smell of burning human flesh, the lies, the threats – they all fade into the background and all that’s left is us, the dark, the taste of whiskey, and an unspoken warning in the way his hands crawl up my thighs.
His knee forces my legs to part, his forefinger tracing the entrance to my bare pussy.
‘Now…’ he murmurs, his breath ghosting my skin, lips still wet from the whiskey, ‘where were we? Oh, yes, your glorious wet pussy.’
My chest rises and falls rapidly as he curses under his breath the moment his finger touches me. With his left hand, he brings the whiskey bottle to my face, and I part my lips to take a sip, but the cap is still on.
‘Wider. I want you to suck this bottle like your life depends on it, ‘cause it does,’ he says, his tone deep with finality. I open my mouth wider, and allow him to push the neck of the bottle in and over my tongue. He groans, sighing heavily. Sitting upright, he pulls the bottle out, and I’m speechless.
The sharp bite of the cold against my warm flesh between my thighs has me wincing.
It presses against my skin like a whisper of winter, sending a shiver through my nerves.
Slowly, he works the bottle neck inside me, the instant cold drawing both pleasure and ache at the lingering discomfort.
I shudder, groaning as he works the bottle as far as it will go.
‘Good girl,’ he groans. I bite my lip, trying to hold onto the next moan, but it escapes me. He growls. ‘Shussh!’ and grabs a fistful of hay, stuffing it into my mouth.
‘Are you going to be quiet now, Stella?’ he demands, a feral grin spread across his face. I nod.
The bottle slurps and sucks as it’s thrust in and out, and I’m screaming through the clump of hay. My nails dig into the ground beside me, as it’s pushed harder. Faster.
Please don’t break.
I look up, the vast canvas of midnight sprawled above me, like a velvet sea sewn with diamonds.
The constellations blur from the tremble in my bones, the surrender in my blood.
As I’m unraveled, undone, I let it take me, over the edge.
Into him. Sal’s fingers work mercilessly at my clit until I’m begging him to stop.
I tense up, the orgasm ripping through my body, and I’m left legs spread like a wet mess.
He stands over me, the cap of the bottle twisting free with a quick click, and the smooth liquid gold slides past his lips in a slow burn.
There’s a brief pause as I spit out the hay still stuck on my tongue as his exhale comes in deep and steady, tendrils of heat mingling with the scent of whiskey and want.
He watches me. Not a word, but I feel it.
Then, ‘Grab your things. We’ve got to move. ’