Chapter 34
Piper
M y bladder wakes me before my brain does—a scre aming, urgent pressure that sends me stumbling to the bathroom. The tiles bite cold against my bare feet as I shuffle, eyes half-closed, toward relief.
Once I’m done and have washed my hands, I splash cold water on my face in an attempt to regain full consciousness. It works, and as I reach for my toothbrush, I realize it isn’t alone. Next to my rose-colored electric toothbrush is a black one I’ve never seen in my life.
There’s also an electric shaver on my sink, expensive-looking, matte black. Next to it sits shaving cream I’ve never purchased. My fingers hover over it, not quite touching, as if it might bite.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, squinting at my reflection. My hair is a nest of tangles, my eyes puffy and underlined with smudged mascara.
I look like I’ve been through a war, which isn’t entirely inaccurate. Memories of Static flicker through my mind, but they’re fragmented, like someone took scissors to a film reel.
My hands tremble as I grab my robe, throw it on, and cinch it tight at the waist. Ready for battle, I push the door open, words of rage building in my throat. But as I walk back into my bedroom, the words dissipate.
“Why are you still here?” I ask, accusation heavy in my tone.
Enzo sits on my bed like he has the right—like a dark king surveying his rightful domain.
The sheet pools around his waist, exposing a torso that belongs in an Italian Renaissance painting—all lean muscle and smooth skin.
His hair falls across his forehead. He looks like sin incarnate, and he knows it.
“Tell me you didn’t move in while I was asleep,” I say, aiming for dry humor but landing somewhere between disbelief and horror.
His eyes, so blue they seem almost artificial in the morning sun, lock onto mine. “Yes,” he says simply.
One word. No explanation. No apology. Just confirmation that this man has invaded my space, planted his flag, and expects me to accept it.
“No,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest. “Absolutely not. I appreciate the knight-in-shining-armor routine at Static, but that doesn’t give you permission to…” I wave my hand around frantically, “… to colonize my apartment. You need to leave.”
He doesn’t move. Not an inch. Not a muscle. He just watches me with those eyes that see too much, that strip away pretense and leave me feeling naked despite the fabric wrapped around me.
Smirking, Enzo stands in one fluid motion, the sheet falling away entirely. He’s completely naked and completely unashamed. I try to look away, but my body refuses the command from my brain. My eyes track down the defined planes of his chest, the narrow trail of dark hair that leads to…
“Enjoying the view?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.
When I just shake my head and press my lips together, he lets out a deep laugh. Then he reaches for his pants and pulls them on without underwear. The fabric settles low on his hips, and I hate that it’s somehow more erotic than his nudity.
“Come,” he says, already walking. “There’s something I want to show you, Toy.”
Against every scrap of common sense I possess, I follow him out to my living room. He doesn’t wait to see if I will; he just expects it. The worst part is that he’s right.
My breath catches when I see what now hangs on the far wall.
A framed puzzle—a portrait of my face, rendered in tiny, interlocking pieces.
It’s stunning in its detail… so intimate it feels like surveillance disguised as art.
Perfectly capturing the flecks of gold in my eyes, and the scar in my eyebrow that even I forget exists.
But what makes my stomach drop are the eight blank spaces where no piece resides. “What the…” I trail off and shake my head.
“The missing ones are the ones you burned,” he explains without prompting.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break through. Now I finally see what the pieces I destroyed were; parts of me.
It’s obsessive. Deranged. A violation dressed as devotion. And still... part of me wants to be seen like this. My fingers touch my lips as I realize the horrible truth. I like being the object of such dedicated obsession.
I continue to stare at the missing pieces, at the spaces I’ve created, and feel something hot and dangerous blooming in my chest. Something that makes my skin tingle and my breath quicken.
Needing to distract myself, I turn and head toward the kitchen. “I don’ t think it goes with my furniture,” I dryly say over my shoulder. “And I don’t like looking at myself.”
Enzo doesn’t even bother responding, but his answering chuckle grinds on me. This isn’t funny at all. It’s disturbing, and wrong on too many levels to count.
In the kitchen, I head straight for the coffee maker. My fingers have just touched the canister of beans when his hand closes around my wrist. The contact is electric and shamefully welcome.
“No caffeine,” he says, voice quiet but final. Like the decision was made hours ago.
I jerk my arm away. “Excuse me?”
“Your system is still processing the drugs.” His tone is matter-of-fact, devoid of condescension but allowing no argument. “Caffeine will make it worse.”
“So will dealing with you without coffee,” I mutter, but something in me, some treacherous part, is touched by his concern.
He opens the refrigerator, retrieving a bottle I know for a fine fact I didn’t buy. “You can have coconut water.” Then he gestures to a wooden box on the counter I definitely didn’t own yesterday. “If you insist on something hot, there’s caffeine free herbal tea.”
I want to hurl both options at his perfectly sculptured head. I want to tell him that I’m a grown woman who can decide what goes into her own body. The irony of this thought, after Ben literally drugged me, isn’t lost on me.
Enzo moves through my kitchen like he’s done it for years. Confident hands opening cabinets that should be unfamiliar, finding things I didn’t even know I owned. I watch from the doorway, arms crossed over my chest.
The muscles in his back flex as he reaches for a pan, and I hate that I notice. I hate that my eyes track the movement, that my body registers it while my mind screams in protest.
“What are you doing?” I ask, half curious.
“Cooking you breakfast,” he answers without stopping.
With my eyebrows raised, I sit down at the small table. For a few moments I just look out the window, wondering if this is even real. But when I turn my attention back to him, he’s still there.
“You don’t have to cook for me,” I argue. “I can feed myself.”
As he just continues his silent, efficient invasion of my space, I open the coconut water, gulping half the bottle down.
“Did you go shopping?” I ask, finding it hard to picture him walking along the supermarket aisles.
“I had them brought in.” His back is still to me as he stirs something that smells disarmingly good. “Your pantry was… insufficient.”
“For someone who wasn’t invited, you’re awfully critical,” I volley, but it lacks the bite I intended. My throat is dry, and the coconut water is actually helping.
Soo n enough, he’s sliding a bowl of what looks like porridge across the small table to me. It’s not just oatmeal—there are berries, sliced almonds, a drizzle of honey. It looks Instagram-worthy, which only irritates me more.
I’m quick to tell him thank you, but for some reason, it sounds insincere. I’m pretty sure he thinks so as well, because he arches an eyebrow as he sits down next to me.
Rather than bothering with more words, I dig in. “Oh, my God!” I exclaim after the first few bites. “This is delicious.” I feel a bit ridiculous for praising porridge like it’s a five star meal, but it kind of is. The extras he’s added hit my palate perfectly.
“Glad you’re enjoying it.”
When I’m almost half-done, I notice he isn’t eating. But when I question it, he just grunts something about not eating breakfast. Fucking hypocrite. I don’t say that though, not when I’m enjoying the food this much.
Once I’m done, I lean back in the chair and pat my stomach with a smile that he doesn’t return. In fact, he looks downright grumpy. It’s making me feel bad for… no, wait. I have nothing to feel bad about. I didn’t ask him to come here.
Even so… there’s still something I need to say. I stare at him, trying to formulate the words. “Thank you,” I start, the phrase feeling awkward and insufficient, “for what you did at Static. I don’t remember everything, but I know you stopped… whatever was happening.”
Gah, I sound like a rambling idiot.
He watches me with those piercing eyes, waiting for more. Always waiting. Always three steps ahead.
“I wasn’t there looking for a hookup,” I continue, feeling defensive without quite knowing why. “I was pissed at you for…” I stop, the words jamming in my throat. About what? The somnophilia? That’s not something I can just casually mention.
“For what?” he presses.
“Doesn’t matter.” I avert my gaze, absentmindedly pushing a leftover berry around with my spoon. “I needed to get out of my own head for a while. So after brunch with Lena, I agreed to go to Static. I just wanted to have some fun.” The last part comes out almost like a hiss. Talk about backfiring.
“It doesn’t matter why you were there.” His voice hardens slightly. “What matters is that no other man will ever touch you again.”
The declaration should infuriate me. It should make me stand up and tell him exactly where he can shove his possessive bullshit. Instead, something warm and dangerous pools low in my belly. No one has ever wanted me so completely before. It’s terrifyingly intoxicating.
“Right, because you’re the only one who gets to touch me without asking.” The words escape before I can stop them, bitter and sharp.
His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes—a darken ing, a focusing. “You’re referring to me eating your cunt while you were sleeping.”