Chapter 8
The Bride
H is words hang in the air between us, heavy with promise and threat. I feel my pulse quicken, a warmth spreading through my belly that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with something I refuse to name.
The box remains extended in his gloved hand, but I’m suddenly tired of playing by his rules, tired of being the one who reacts while he orchestrates.
“If you want it opened so badly, why don’t you do it yourself?” I say, cocking my hip against the doorframe. “Maybe I don’t want the contents inside my home.” I point at the box for emphasis.
He doesn’t respond. The lenses of his mask reflect distorted versions of me back at myself—a woman whose defiance looks like desire, whose resistance resembles invitation.
My dad, the great and renowned Charles Mortis, might have been brilliant in his field. But the fact that I’m actually entertaining a stranger at midnight, and getting turned on just proves how bad his parenting was.
Maybe I’d be making better life choices if he hadn’t spent most of my life telling me what to do. If he’d bothered to let me learn from having any experiences he didn’t script and tailor to completion. Dick.
I study the stranger, cataloging the details as if they might reveal something about the man beneath the disguise.
His posture is military-precise, shoulders squared beneath the leather jacket that creaks subtly with each breath.
His gloved fingers remain steady on the box, no tremor of uncertainty, no sign that my refusal has any effect on his intentions.
“Fine,” I say, feeling something shift inside me, a dangerous impulse taking shape. “Have it your way.”
Deciding on taking a calculated risk, I turn my back on him and walk back into my apartment. It tastes like spite, but it burns like hunger. I want him to follow. I want him to stop me. I want… something I don’t have words for.
I only manage two steps before there’s a rush of air as hands grab my shoulders from behind. The stranger shoves me forward, the momentum carrying me all the way into my apartment.
Then he spins me, and my back hits the wall with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. The plaster bites into my spine, cold and unyielding, like the world snapping shut behind me. There’s no exit here.
Before I can recover, he’s on me, one gloved hand slamming beside my head as he cages me against the wall. An involuntary and embarrassingly breathy gasp escapes me as he presses the box against my chest, hard edges digging into the thin fabric of my tank top.
With my free hand, I reach for the bat I keep by the wall. You can never be too careful, and right now, I need to feel it in my hand and possibly introduce the wood to the courier’s balls.
Determined not to give away what I’m trying to do, I focus on him. It’s both titillating and infuriating that he’s wearing a mask, hiding his expression. I don’t even know if he’s looking straight at me, or following my hand from the corner of his eyes.
The guy’s body doesn’t touch mine, but he’s close enough that I can smell the leather of his jacket. Looking down, I note that his boots are braced on either side of my bare feet, the size difference stark and somehow thrilling.
I’m trapped, but not restrained. He’s giving me just enough space to leave if I truly wanted to, which makes it all the more damning that I’m still here.
Finally, I close my fingers around the smooth wood of my bat. Instead of wasting more time by being careful, I swing it against his leg.
“Get off me,” I scream.
Even though it strikes his thigh, he doesn’t falter. He shifts his weight slightly, absorbing the blow with a grunt—low and dark with satisfaction. Fuck, rather than scaring him off, I’ve just amused the devil himself.
Then, with unhurried precision, he reaches down and rips the bat from my grip with one hand. The motion is effortlessly casual, as if I’d never been gripping it at all.
“The only way you’re allowed to play with this,” he says, voice distorted and intimate through the mask, “is if you fuck yourself with it while I watch.” Heat floods my cheeks, and my legs threaten to buckle when he tosses it to the side.
“In your dreams,” I spit, needing to say something.
Through the mask, the courier’s breathing deepens, the rhythm slightly faster than before. Is he affected by this too? The thought sends a jolt through me.
The mask hovers inches from my face, those round, emotionless lenses studying me with insect-like detachment. I should be terrified. I should be screaming, clawing, fighting. Instead, my body tightens with want, responding to the danger with a primitive excitement that my mind can’t quite reject.
He pushes the box harder against my sternum, a silent command for me to take it as he said. I swallow hard, my throat clicking audibly in the silence between us.
If I don’t take what he’s offering, he’ll take me. That’s what he said. A choice that should be simple is suddenly anything but. The devil on my shoulder whispers for me to push the stranger and see what happens.
But, even though there’s no angel to give me better advice, my fingers close around the cardboard. Instead of immediately releasing the box, he holds on to it. Creating a moment where we’re both holding it, connected by this strange offering between us.
The n his fingers slide away, leaving the box in my possession. The weight of it is nothing compared to the weight of his presence.
I begin to work at the orange ribbon that’s tied in an elaborate bow, the satin slippery and resistant to my unsteady hands. I refuse to rush, to show how eager I am to discover what’s inside.
So, I take my time, each tug of the fabric a small act of reclaimed control. The ribbon loosens under my methodical attention, slithering against the matte black surface of the box with a whisper that seems obscene in its softness.
I feel his gaze on my hands, on my face, tracking every minute reaction. My cheeks burn under the scrutiny, but I don’t look up, don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how affected I am.
The ribbon finally comes free, dangling from my fingers. Only then do I raise my eyes to the mask, a silent question in my gaze. What now?
His breathing changes—just slightly, just enough for me to notice—and I realize with a jolt of something like triumph that he’s not as unmoved as he pretends to be. Whatever game he’s playing, he’s invested in the outcome.
With a steadiness I don’t feel, I lift the lid off the box, preparing myself for whatever awaits inside. It’s another black rose. The desiccated bloom rests on a bed of black tissue paper, its stem twisted into a brittle spiral, the petals curled inward as if protecting a secret.
Like the first, this one is speckled with colored spots that look disturbingly like dried blood. It’s beautiful in the way that decay can be beautiful—a reminder that even in death, something can maintain its essential nature.
I stare at it, unable to ignore the unnerving symmetry with the previous gift. Two dead flowers delivered at midnight by a man who has only spoken very few words.
The pattern forms a narrative in my mind—one black rose, an invitation, another rose. And then… what? What comes after the repetition establishes itself? What waits beyond this strange ritual that’s inserted itself into my life?
I look up at him again, the box still cradled in my hands.
“Am I supposed to thank you?” My voice comes out sharper than intended, the sarcas m a thin shield against the confusion churning beneath.
“For another dead flower?” Mockery tastes bitter on my tongue.
I want to hurt him. But I also want him to hurt me back.
He tilts his head slightly, the gesture unnervingly birdlike. Then comes the sound—low and resonant, a chuckle that filters through the mask, transformed into something not quite human.
The sound vibrates through me, igniting something primitive in my core. My nipples tighten beneath my tank top, and I have to resist the urge to cross my arms to hide the evidence of my body’s betrayal.
His hands reach for the box, his gloved fingers brushing against mine as he takes it. Even through the leather, the brief contact is electric, sending a current up my arms that settles somewhere behind my sternum.
After placing the box on the side table next to us, he produces another envelope. It’s identical to the one he delivered yesterday. God, was that only twenty-four hours ago? It feels so much longer.
I open my mouth, intending to tell him I already opened the one from yesterday.
Maybe even ask about it. Just as the words shape themselves, ready to be spoken, an almost childish stubbornness rears its head inside me, stopping me from speaking.
So, I just close my mouth again and shake my head. I shouldn’t be the only one to speak.
Without warning, he steps closer, heat radiating off him like a damn furnace. Instinctively, I press myself harder against the wall, searching for coolness, for stability, for anything that might anchor me as the room seems to tilt on its axis.
He raises the envelope, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.
He brings it to my throat, just below my jawline.
For a suspended moment, it hovers there, a promise or a threat.
Maybe both. Then he drags it down, the sharp paper edge scraping against my skin with precise pressure—not enough to break the skin, but enough to burn, to mark.
I gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the silence between us. My eyes widen as he slides the paper down my throat, and over my collarbone. Instead of stopping when it reaches the neckline of my tank top, he continues sliding the edge downward.
The edge catches slightly on the thin fabric, but he doesn’t stop until the edge rests between my breasts.
My heart hammers against my ribs, so violent I’m certain he can see it pulsing beneath my skin.
The envelope burns like ice against my flesh, the contrast between the cool paper and my heated skin almost painful in its intensity.
His other hand moves suddenly, lightning fast. He pinches my nipple through the thin fabric of my tank top, sharp and unforgiving. My gasp is louder this time, raw with heat and something far worse; need. My back arches into it before I can stop myself.
When he lets go and withdraws the envelope, I look down to see a thin red line forming where the edge has traveled—not a cut, but an irritation that brands me temporarily with the path of his attention.
My skin rises in a welt that traces from throat to sternum, a visible record of this encounter that will fade but not immediately.
The sight of it—this mark on my body that I didn’t consent to but didn’t stop—sends a confusing surge of anger and arousal through me. I want to slap him. I want to pull him closer. I do neither.
His thumb brushes my nipple—just once, deliberate and slow. The contact is featherlight, but it shoots through me like static. I freeze. Not because I’m scared. But because I want more. And that terrifies me more than anything else he’s done.
He extends the envelope toward me, an expectant silence hanging between us. This time, I don’t hesitate. I take it from him, practically ripping it out of his hand with a small growl that makes him laugh. At least, that’s what I think the sound from behind the mask is.
I run my thumb over the wax seal before unceremoniously tearing it open. The card inside is thick and black. The surface is matte and textured, like pressed ash. The lettering is etched in deep, metallic orange—coppery, almost glowing against the matte black surface.
One vow. One offering. One trick.
One mask for silence, one vow for shame, One ring for lust, one kiss to blame. One game begun, no truth to guide, One trick revealed when vows collide.
The poem pulses with dark energy and theatrical menace. I look up from the card to find him watching me, his posture slightly changed.
There’s a new tension in his shoulders, a coiled energy that wasn’t there before. He’s waiting for my reaction, I realize. This moment matters to him. Just as I think that, he steps back, allowing space between us for the first time since he pushed me against the wall.
Relief and loss both pulse through me in the absence of his proximity, which is entirely fucked up. Yet it feels… wrong.
“I’ll be seeing you soon,” he says, his voice a low, distorted rumble. Before I can process what this means, he quickly leaves my apartment.