Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sasha didn’t understand why Sidney screamed “fuck you!” at the door, but if it was like any of the times she’d been recently frustrated, she assumed Vile was playing games again. She stood to answer the door. Opening it, she wasn’t surprised to see who was there.
What she was surprised to see was the bouquet of roses he was holding. He was dressed in a tuxedo—in his opera finest—and he looked…well, incredible. His eyes flitted to Doctor Watson, but if he was surprised to see Sherlock’s assistant, he didn’t register it.
As he wouldn’t.
Since this was all part of the plan.
She hoped—prayed—that Sidney would forgive her for what was going to happen. She couldn’t help but crack a bad joke at the professor. “For Doctor Watson? You shouldn’t have.”
“Terribly funny.” Moriarty smirked down at her. “He is hardly my type.”
“I wasn’t aware you had a type, James.” She smiled and opened the door wider. “Regardless, you gentlemen are going to be the ruin of my reputation. One of you must go.”
“I was just leaving, anyway.” Sidney stood, wincing as she put weight on her bad leg as she headed for the door, glowering at Moriarty as she passed.
The vehemence there didn’t need to be faked.
It wasn’t part of an act. She hated the villain just as much as anyone—even if she’d never met Moriarty before.
“We’ll be in touch, S—” She stopped herself. “Miss Adler.”
“I’m sure you will be.” Sasha watched her sister leave down the hallway, her cane tapping on the wood floors, before she shut the door and rested her forehead against the surface for a moment.
“I see they took the bait.” He placed the bouquet on the dresser.
“As we both knew they would.” She had a memory of discussing this with him at dinner.
That he would ensure that a news article would be run and that they would be seen together publicly.
But she also knew they hadn’t actually had any such conversation.
Turning from the door, she went to her vanity to begin unclasping her necklace.
She was ready to call it a night. This was all going to give her a headache.
“Sherlock and his doctor will dog my every step, now. It will be easy enough to ensnare them both once we are ready, now that I am adequate bait.”
“Good.” His voice was close behind her. When his hands settled on her shoulders, tracing the line of her necklace, a shiver ran through her. He stroked her hair out of the way, undoing the clasp of her necklace for her.
With one hand, and no hesitation, he followed the necklace around to the front where it dipped into her bust line, and lifted it from her to set it on the table. His other hand stayed where it was, fingers resting on her throat. She could feel her pulse against the warmth of his touch.
And it was racing.
“Your performance tonight was…exquisite, Irene.” His voice was a deep rumble at her back. The sound of it had her eyes drifting half shut. He stepped close to her, the hand that rested at her throat slipping around the front to grasp it, hard enough to restrict her air just slightly.
He was tall enough that she barely reached his shoulder. Pulling in a hiss, she tilted her head back against his chest, her hands going to his thighs to clutch at the fabric of his suit pants.
But not to his arm to stop him.
Not to pull him away.
His lips hovered close to her ear, and she felt his chuckle as a deep, dark warm breath against her skin. “Wicked thing…” His teeth caught the lobe of her ear and bit down enough to sting.
She dug her nails into his legs, as hard as she could. She hoped she hurt him.
That got a growl from him. He took an abrupt step back. “Yes. I think I shall have plenty of that. But not with a pack of eager children crouched by the door, listening for every gasping breath and thump of furniture, hm?” He straightened his suit coat.
Turning to face him, she was proud to see the kind of state she left him in. He had to reach into his pocket to adjust himself to keep from making quite the scene. She had done that. To Professor James Moriarty. He wanted her. Her. Yes, Irene Adler. But her version of the woman.
That made her want to throw him to the ground and ride him to oblivion, costume assistants be damned.
But she couldn’t. Not here. Not now. Not ever. Right? Right. Right. “I should be seen going home alone.”
“Indeed.” Reaching over, he plucked a single red rose from the bouquet he had brought her. With a bow of his head, he left the room without another word, shutting the door behind him.
What an abrupt, infuriatingly ingenious, and evil man. What was she thinking? Letting him—wanting him—Irene was going to let him—no. Sasha was going to let him. She couldn’t deny how quickly he had lit a fire in her. Slumping down onto the plush stool of the dresser, she shut her eyes.
Sleeping with Moriarty might help gain his trust. Make him easier to manipulate.
No, it won’t. He’s an evil mastermind. He wouldn’t fall for that kind of shit. It’d just be because you both want it.
Maybe it’d help manipulate Vile.
No, it won’t. He’s an evil mastermind. He wouldn’t—
She sighed. Moriarty was evil. And Vile was the reason they were in this mess to begin with.
She couldn’t allow herself to get involved with them.
Him. Whatever. She couldn’t. She couldn’t.
But a strange, eager excitement wouldn’t let go of her as she changed into the black and white street dress she would wear on the carriage and to the flat she was renting.
Again, all of it she knew how to act out simply because she was supposed to.
Her hair that she did up in a style that she couldn’t have done in a thousand years otherwise. Her makeup. The dress that she wore without a problem. The heels. It was all coming to her comfortably—if she let it. Was that it? She was adapting to the fiction and it was adapting to her.
Maybe because she wasn’t fighting it anymore and starting to “let it in,” it was starting to make itself available to her.
There was no other explanation for how she knew precisely how to get home to the flat she was renting.
How hailing the carriage was a practiced event.
How she knew the address without flinching.
How she paid the driver the right amount without thinking about it.
It was when she got up the stairs to the door of her flat that she paused, her key in her hand.
The door was open. Someone had broken in—picked the lock, most likely—and left it sitting just so the latch sat on the striker. Anyone walking by likely wouldn’t even notice it was open.
Tucked into the crack was a single red rose.
Moriarty.
It was an invitation.
It was a promise.
And it was a threat.
Come inside.
You know you want to.
Come inside.
You’re already mine.
Her silk-gloved hand hesitated over the doorknob.
Her heart was pounding in her ears, deafeningly loud.
Drowning out all other sound. She had the money to walk away and stay in a hotel.
To turn away from this scheme and find another.
To politely turn down Moriarty and simply tell him that their plan was to go forward as business partners only.
But there was something raging inside of her.
An inferno that demanded to be fed.
A desire—a need—to feel what it would be like.
He was a villain. A monster. He was evil. The dastardly mastermind, Professor James Moriarty. Moriarty! Just for one night. Just once. She could taste the darkness. Sidney was going to have her way with Virtue, anyway.
This wouldn’t mean anything.
It wouldn’t mean anything to him.
Moriarty had no heart to give. So neither would she.
This was about one thing, and one thing only.
The feeling of the wolf’s teeth at her throat.
Lifting her chin, she took the rose from the door, and tucked it into her hair. Grasping the knob, she stepped inside.
“This feels…wrong.” Sidney cringed. If her sister was stupid enough to get involved with Moriarty—which she really hoped she wasn’t—lurking in a room across the street with a pair of binoculars to spy on her felt disgusting.
It was an invasion of privacy.
And it was also the last thing Sidney wanted to see if it turned out that she was wrong and her sister was going to fuck the bad guy. She’ll do it for a good reason, though. Because it’ll give her leverage. Or because she has to, or because…
Because the villain was hot as sin itself.
Sidney saw him. And saw the way he looked at her, with eyes the color of coal and with an expression like a starving animal.
Moriarty wanted her, and Sasha wasn’t used to being wanted.
Oh, sure, her sister had plenty of guys who found her attractive over the years—but Sasha shut herself off from them and hid.
There was no hiding here. And no hiding from that man.
Which meant that her usual tricks to avoid facing the reality of someone’s desire for her wasn’t going to work. And Sasha had no other line of defense. She was, and was going to be, quite literally screwed.
And Sidney didn’t want to watch.
Or have Virtue—via Sherlock—watch either.
“If my arch-nemesis has found himself entangled with the woman, I must know.” Only Sherlock Holmes himself could say arch-nemesis in a completely unironic way and not have it sound laughable. Mostly not laughable, anyway.
Sidney still rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t mean he has feelings for her, or vice-versa. It just means there’s a mutual attraction, that’s all. They have an itch to scratch.” Now she was convincing them both of that.
So what if Sasha wanted to bang the hot villain? That was fine. She was going to bang the hot hero. As long as her sister wasn’t going to be stupid enough to get attached to the monster who was trying to get one of them permanently murdered.
“It is still something I wish to know. And her life may be in danger. He entered the premises an hour ago, and has yet to leave, and she seems aware of his presence but—” He broke off.
“What?” She looked over at him. He was using the binoculars, peering through the darkened window across the street.
By the way his cheeks flushed red, followed by his neck, she had her answer.
God damn it, Sasha.
What have you done?
The flat was dark when she walked inside and shut the door behind her, throwing the latch and locking it. There was no noise. She half expected there to be music playing. Lights on. Anything. But there wasn’t any sign of Moriarty inside.
Her first instinct was to call out. But that wasn’t the game he was playing, was it?
Heading down the hallway, her heart was racing, thumping in her ears so loudly it almost drowned everything else out.
She expected him to come leaping from the darkness at any point to grab her.
Each passing second just added to the excruciating anticipation of it all.
That was the point. Wasn’t it?
In the living room, she lit a few candles, casting some light to see by.
She ignored the gas lamps for now. She hated the smell.
And the candles seemed…more suitable, for what was going to happen.
Still, she saw no one. No sign that he was inside.
No figure lurking in the shadows that clung to the corners of her rooms.
What was she supposed to do…?
Heading to her bedroom, her hands were trembling as she let her hair down and put the rose on the dresser. Going behind the changing screen, she started to undo her gown, folding it and placing it over the edge of a chair. She opted for her silk dressing gown and nothing else.
If he was inside her flat, anything else was bound to get ruined.
She expected to hear footsteps. An evil laugh. To see his silhouette against the thin paper of her changing screen. Something. Anything.
But there was nothing.
Maybe he was truly playing the ultimate game with her. Making her believe that he was in her flat when he had simply unlocked the door, placed the rose, and left. What a prank that’d be. But her heart was still lodged in her throat as she stepped around from behind the screen and…
Nothing.
No Moriarty.
She was shaking like a leaf.
Walking through her rooms one more time, she searched for him—and found nothing. If he was there, he’d found a very good place to hide, or was doing a brilliant job of staying out of her way.
Adrenaline was like every emotion. It couldn’t last forever.
After a while, it burned itself out like all the rest. After what seemed like hours but was probably little more than five minutes, her shoulders fell away from her ears.
Her pulse was just starting to calm down for the first time in maybe that entire hour.
He wasn’t there.
Why was she…disappointed?
No.
This was a good thing. He’d saved her from a terrible mistake.
Turning to head back toward her bedroom, she blew out the candle.
A hand grasped her by the throat and squeezed.
“Good evening, Irene…”