4. Dante
Dante
V alencia, my office manager, patiently waits for my directive as I scroll through the latest inspection reports and financial statements.
"Offer them double if we can close this week." I pore over the listing photos of Melody's building. Even with the artful editing, the black mold creeping up the walls is obvious.
"Double? You're sure?" Valencia furrows her brow, hands frozen above her laptop keyboard.
"Completely. Call it a premonition, but that building is about to be very important." Rather, it already is, but there's no need to go into details with her. She nods, bouncing her icy blond waves, and resumes typing with fervor. I tap my pen on the mahogany conference table and rise from my seat.
"Is there anything else before you go, sir?" She barely looks away from the computer screen as she asks. I grunt a no and quietly exit the room, heading off to my private office.
Bright natural light streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
My ebony heartwood desk stands proudly in the center, littered with papers and a few trinkets.
A Newton's cradle from my father, a gyroscope that I picked up in Greece, and a silver plaque with the Dantalion sigil shine brightly in the sun.
Tasteful abstract paintings from the city's many renowned artists adorn the walls.
I am a wealthy man, and my office exudes luxury. Just the way I—and my interior designer—planned.
Approaching the windows, I reach for the heavy curtain stays. The hustle and bustle of the city down below has always soothed me, and I do enjoy watching the people scurry about on the sidewalks and in their cars. But for now, I need solitude.
With the curtains drawn, I settle into my chair and power on my computer. I've partitioned the hard drive—even if someone broke into my main profile, they'd never find any evidence of my newest obsession.
Melody.
The spitfire woman who tried to kill me.
And nearly succeeded, I might add, if I didn't react so quickly.
Roman and I carried her limp body into her pathetic little apartment.
None of her neighbors batted an eye. Roman, of course, had an excuse at the ready, but it wasn't needed.
The building itself was rather disgusting, but I've got a plan for that.
And I just couldn't help but leave her a token of my presence. The rose, a little splash of beauty in her fucked-up kitchen. Roman had busied himself with checking her vitals for the umpteenth time while I slipped away to her bathroom and scribbled a greeting on her shower door with my finger.
I know she's seen it, but I don't know her reaction.
Terror? Confusion? Curiosity? The question swirled in my mind as I pulled up the feed from the discrete cameras I'd positioned around her home.
One displayed a full view of her bed, another the living room and kitchen, and the last pointed directly at her doorstep.
Soon, I'll have her daily routine memorized like the back of my hand. But for now, I wait, and I watch.
Hours of video have already accrued, and I scrub through it quickly, searching for the moment she found my gift.
Earlier this morning, she tumbled out of bed and took a quick shower before scurrying down the short hallway.
She pulled her clothes on in a frenzy—I barely caught a glimpse of her body before it was completely covered again.
Something unpleasant roils in my gut, but I'm not sure what it could be. I shove the feeling down and keep watching.
My breath catches as she freezes on the screen. She found it.
"What the fuck?" Melody's whispered voice is barely audible as she stares at the rose. "Nope. Nope, nope, nope."
She shakes her head violently. I can almost see the shiver run down her spine. She knows someone was in her home. She picks it up and shoves the flower into her overflowing trash can, muttering to herself. All I can make out is "crazy".
Oh yes, Melody. Yes, you'll soon be crazy for me.
I smile as I pause the video. I've found my wife. And she'll give me an heir.
After spending a few hours learning everything my extensive resources can find about Melody, I quietly leave the office in Center City and make the drive over to her apartment building.
Since it's soon to be my latest acquisition, I told Valencia, I should see it for myself. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Interestingly, I couldn't find much on my future wife.
No social media. No news articles. Absolutely nothing.
It's like she never existed. That is, until she popped up here in Philadelphia about six months ago, which I only discovered through the current leases of my new acquisition.
Her full name is Melody Isabella Gutierrez, and she put her birth date as April 16th, 1992.
I believe it might be a lie. I could not find a Melody Isabella Gutierrez in any birth records, anywhere in the country, for the whole year. Ah, well, I'll learn all of her secrets directly from the source soon enough.
Pulling into the small parking lot, I double-check the cameras again, making sure Melody hasn't returned home yet. I've got just a few more adjustments to make with my camera angles.
I grab my bag from the passenger seat and walk with purpose into the building, up to the second floor, and pull out the key copy I had Roman procure for me. It slides into the lock effortlessly. The man is a professional and rarely asks prying questions, which I appreciate.
Her apartment is just as I left it, mostly. The rose is in the trash, of course, but it's still messy and filled with the scent of her . I inhale deeply and grin at my own hidden camera. It's a tiny little thing and fits into the grooves of the drop ceiling like it was built there.
I pull up the camera feed app on my phone and wave at myself.
There's a split-second delay. I'll need to work on that, but for now, it'll do.
I don't plan on Melody living here for much longer, anyway.
Soon she'll be in my house, with me, where she belongs.
She'll be mine . And I'll have all the power in the world to keep it that way.
Smiling to myself, I peruse the rest of her belongings.
She doesn't have much food in her tiny kitchen, nor any real furniture to speak of.
The combined kitchen and living room can't be any bigger than ten feet across and ten feet wide.
Her bedroom isn't any better. And the bathroom…
well, I can tell she tries to keep it clean, but the absentee landlords haven't taken care of this building.
All of that can be fixed, of course, but she won't be around long enough to benefit. With a few calculations in my mind, I text Roman and Valencia to get contractors ready for bidding.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I make my way down to her bedroom and begin to snoop.
Her bedding is rumpled and shoved down to the floor, exposing a ratty mattress.
I trail my hand down the fitted sheet and breathe in her scent.
Vanilla and cherry, just like the body wash resting in her shower.
I make a mental note to procure an upscale version with the same fragrance for my—soon to be our— home .
Next to her bed, she's got a small nightstand.
I pull open the drawer with a creak and find a coiled phone charger, an extra, perhaps?
And, shoved way into the back, like she's ashamed of herself, a small vibrator.
I grin and pull out the toy. A pink bullet.
Clicking the button on one end, it buzzes against my hand.
The image of Melody, writhing in ecstasy, sends a zap down my spine and directly into my cock.
I've barely seen a flash of her nudity, but I've screenshotted every frame.
And the thought of lying where she lies, coming where she comes…
it's too much to resist. My pants can't hold me back any longer, and I sprawl out on her cheap bedding, inhaling the smell of her .
As I unzip my pants, my cock springs out and I take it in my fist. Pumping slowly, images of Melody swim through my mind's eye.
Her honey-brown eyes. Her pinched expression when she's confused.
I imagine her flushed red skin when I finally take her.
She's mine. She's mine. She's fucking mine .
"Fuck!" I grit out. My cum spills down the back of my hand. My orgasm hit me fast and hard, unexpectedly quick. I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to regulate my racing heart.
Panting, I whip my phone back out and take a picture of myself reclining in her bed, flushed from my orgasm, and grinning like a weasel. I'll send that to her later, after she willingly gives me her number. I have it already, of course, but that's no fun.
Buzz buzz. Oh, my. It's time for me to make my escape before she gets home. I hop off her bed and adjust my pants, slicking my hair back to its perfectly polished usual manner. I need to leave, and I need to leave now .
Her laundry pile taunts me. There's a clean pair of her underwear just sitting out in the open. As if she wants me to take them. Black cotton with lace around the hems, little cheeky things. I should take them. She shouldn't leave them in such a tempting way. It serves her right, honestly.
I pocket the panties and head toward the front door. Her nearly overflowing trash can, where my rose sits discarded, catches my eye. With a chuckle, I remove the bag and replace it with a new liner from the box under her sink. A gift. I can be domestic, if she wants me to be.
Roman sits in his designated wingback chair, staring at the empty fireplace of my living room. He seems lost in thought, his hands steepled under his chin, brow furrowed in concentration.
"You seem pensive, Ro." I swirl my whiskey in the crystal glass.
"Seraph's people have been quiet for a while," he mumbles, still staring at the blackened iron bars. I hum in agreement and throw back my drink.