CHAPTER 11
Joshua’s POV:
The soft, muffled rumbling of old bass from downstairs pulled me slowly from the warm, heavy cocoon of deep sleep.
My eyelids fluttered open, heavy and warm.
For a moment, my mind remained suspended in that twilight space where the subconscious untangles itself from the physical world.
The morning light was already filtering through the heavy, charcoal-blue velvet drapes of my master bedroom, cutting through the dimness in long, golden shafts of dust-mote-filled brilliance.
I shifted my weight, sinking into the deep, luxurious memory foam of the mattress, and reached out instinctively to my left.
My hand met only cool, empty linen.
Ciara’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets slightly rumpled and cold to the touch, but the physical absence of her was almost entirely negated by the sensory wreckage she had left behind.
The faint, sweet, and utterly intoxicating scent of her—jasmine, raw shea butter, and the deeply personal, musky sweetness of our shared physical exertion—still clung to the fabric of the pillows like an expensive perfume.
I took a deep, deliberate breath, drawing the scent of her deep into my lungs, and let out a low, rumbling sigh that was part growl, part contented purr.
I stretched my arms over my head, my knuckles brushing against the heavy mahogany headboard, my muscles pleasantly sore, tight in that specific, satisfying way that only comes from hours of intense, uninhibited athletic movement.
A slow, deeply satisfied smile curved my lips as the memories of the night before came rushing back in vivid, high-definition detail.
Last night had been… extraordinary. There was simply no other word for it.
In my line of work, I analyzed human behavior down to its absolute, microscopic components.
I understood the mechanics of desire, the psychology of manipulation, the neat little boxes people constructed to hide their true, raw selves.
But Ciara Long? She didn't fit into a box.
She was fire and sweetness wrapped in one deeply addictive, unapologetic package.
She had brought her Houston-bred, South-Side attitude into my pristine, clinical world, and instead of disrupting it, she had set it ablaze.
I closed my eyes, visualizing the way her rich, deep-chocolate skin had looked against my crisp gray sheets.
I remembered the raw, melodic quality of her laughter, the deep, guttural moans that had vibrated against my collarbone, and the sheer, unbridled hunger with which she had taken me.
She had ridden me with a wild, triumphant grace, her hands locked onto my headboard, her eyes burning with an intensity that made my chest tighten even now.
In a world where I was always the one in control, the predator who observed from the shadows, Ciara had made me feel…
untamed. For a brief, terrifying, and utterly beautiful moment, the monster in me had felt almost entirely at peace.
I rolled out of bed, the cool morning air washing over my bare skin.
I was entirely naked, my towering frame casting a massive shadow across the hardwood floor as I padded barefoot toward the master bathroom.
The cool, pristine marble tile felt sharp and grounding against the soles of my feet, a stark contrast to the thick, lingering warmth of the bed.
I reached for my toothbrush, applying a neat line of charcoal-mint paste with practiced precision. As I brushed with deliberate, slow strokes, the sharp, minty foam tingling on my tongue, I leaned against the marble vanity and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
My long blonde hair was a wild, tangled halo around my shoulders, several strands falling loose from the messy bun I had tied it in before sleep.
My pale blue eyes—eyes that patients often described as cold, analytical, or impossibly calm—were still heavy with sleep, but they were sharp, burning with the fresh memory of her touch.
The man looking back at me was a paradox.
He was a highly respected doctor of psychology, a pillar of sophisticated, academic elegance.
He was also a man who had fucked a beautiful woman senseless on his bed, his hands gripping her thighs until they bruised, his mind already calculating exactly how and when he was going to do it again.
But as my eyes lingered on the glass shelves of the vanity, a cold, quiet hum vibrated at the very back of my skull.
The other part of me. The shadow that lived behind the doctor’s pristine white coat.
I thought of the attic space. I thought of the small, locked velvet case upstairs containing my stencil knives—sanitized, polished, and waiting in their silent, clinical beauty.
For a fraction of a second, the pale, beautiful, and utterly lifeless face of Amanda Wilde flashed briefly in my mind’s eye.
I remembered the way her skin had felt under my hands, the way her final breath had rattled against my lips in the pouring rain by the river.
I blinked, and the image vanished, filed away into the dark, impenetrable vault of my mind.
No. Not today. Today was for Ciara. Today was for the living, breathing, beautifully loud woman downstairs who was currently making my house feel like a home for the first time in weeks.
I spit the minty foam into the sink, rinsed my mouth with cold water, and splashed a handful of the freezing liquid over my face.
The shock of the cold woke me completely, clearing the last remnants of sleep from my brain.
I grabbed a fresh, plush gray towel, dried my face, and stepped out of the bathroom.
I pulled on a pair of soft, dark gray lounge pants, leaving my chest bare, and began my descent down the wide, polished staircase.
As I reached the midpoint of the stairs, the rich, incredibly savory scent of thick-cut bacon hit me like a physical, warm embrace.
My stomach rumbled in response, a deep, hollow sound.
The aroma was absolutely perfect—crispy, deeply smoky, with that sweet, underlying maple promise of a proper home-cooked breakfast. It was a smell that didn't belong in my quiet, sterile house, and yet, it felt incredibly right.
I moved quietly, my bare feet making no sound against the polished dark wood of the steps, a faint, playful smile touching my lips as I planned to sneak up on her, to wrap my massive arms around her waist and bury my face in the crook of her neck.
But as I rounded the corner into the open-concept kitchen, my eyes were immediately drawn to the large, flat-screen television mounted on the far wall.
The Netflix screen had been turned off. In its place, the bright, sterile graphics of CNN flickered, the anchor’s voice steady, serious, and utterly devoid of emotion.
“…Amanda Wilde, thirty-eight, has been reported missing for several days now. Friends and family are deeply concerned, stating that it is highly uncharacteristic of her to cut off all communication. If anyone has any information regarding her whereabouts, please contact the nearest police precinct immediately. We will continue to bring you updates as this story develops…”
I froze, my hands resting on the edge of the kitchen island, my eyes locked on the photograph of Amanda that appeared on the screen. It was an old headshot—she was smiling, her blonde hair perfectly styled, her eyes bright and full of a desperate, fragile hope.
Amanda. My patient.
I stared at her face, my mind instantly transporting me back to the isolated cabin in the woods.
I could feel the hot, steamy air of the shower, the way her small hands had clawed at my back as I fucked her passionately against the tile, driving her to the point of tears.
And then, the shift. The cold, inevitable descent.
I remembered the heavy, suffocating weight of the rain, the thick scent of mud and pine, and the precise, smooth slide of the stencil knife across her throat by the edge of the rushing river.
I had buried her deep, deep beneath the rich, damp earth, in a place where the wild ferns would grow over her grave, ensuring she would never be found.
It must have been her sister, Clara, who filed the official report.
I had anticipated this, of course. In my line of work, you prepare for every contingency.
But I hadn't expected the media to pick it up quite so quickly.
The timing was… inconvenient. It required a shift in my internal architecture, a tightening of my defenses.
“Hello? Earth to Joshua.”
The sudden, sharp snap of fingers right in front of my face shattered the memory, pulling me instantly back to the warm, brightly lit kitchen.
I blinked, my focus shifting from the television screen to the gorgeous woman standing right in front of me.
Ciara was holding a wooden spatula in one hand, her other hand resting on her hip.
She was wearing one of my oversized white button-down shirts, the cotton fabric hanging loosely off her shoulders, the hem barely covering the absolute top of those thick, smooth, beautiful chocolate thighs.
Her hair was a wild, sexy mess of curls, her lips slightly swollen from the intensity of our kisses the night before.
She looked radiant, completely at home in my sterile, high-end space.
“Morning, beautiful,” I said, my voice slipping into its natural, low baritone.
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us, and wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her flush against my body.
She let out a soft, pleased hum, her spatula hand hovering in the air as she leaned into my chest. I bent my head and kissed her deeply, my lips sliding over hers with a slow, possessive warmth.
She tasted like rich, dark coffee and the faint sweetness of mint, her body soft, curved, and incredibly warm against my bare skin.