Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
There are no fancy words for this, no way to dress this up as something it isn’t.
Valdemar Montresor is a murderer.
And I’d like to say that he appears like any other man when he walks into the visitors’ wing in his plain white tee and grey sweatpants.
But he is far from average.
There’s an aura to him, an atmosphere that shrouds him in
The cursor blinks at me. I’m unable to finish this sentence. I’m not lying when I write these words—I would never lie when writing a report. Dress up the truth—absolutely. Embellish things to satisfy the reader—of course. But lying is not on my agenda. The last thing I want to do is humanise Valdemar Montresor. There are crazy people in this world—vulnerable, impressionable people—who look up to guys like him, and worse, there are others who are happy to turn a blind eye to the bad things he’s done. They see his antihero image as something to be revered and admired.
I just see a killer.
Powering down my laptop, I glance at the clock. It’s one in the morning, and there’s no rush to write my piece on Valdemar, as I’m still not sure whether I’m going to publish it. He said I couldn’t report our interviews, but there’s no harm in having a backup plan. So, I’m documenting our conversations before I forget everything he’s told me.
I’ve made notes and scribbled down some of the more important things he’s disclosed, but I feel we’ve only scratched the surface. There’s more to Valdemar Montresor than meets the eye, but I have no doubt that whatever he tells me, my opinion of him will never change. How can it?
The note I received is tucked in my bag, reminding me I’m not the only one who wants him dead.
After brushing my teeth and replacing my loungewear with an old T-shirt, I climb into my double bed knowing that the next few hours are going to tick by with me staring at the ceiling. But as I lie down, a strange heaviness pulls at the back of my head, as if my pillow has hands that are ready to embrace me.
My body feels as though it’s been moulded into the mattress, my limbs relaxing, weightlessness surrounding me.
Maybe it’s the exhaustion of the past few weeks finally catching up with me. Maybe it’s the heaviness of the thoughts lodged in my brain—Valdemar, Jupiter, Jacinta, seeing Ed’s ghost, the note—all of it having burrowed so deep, I feel like I’m being pulled under.
There’s no time to panic over this surreal sensation as my eyelids give in and slumber takes hold.
Clutching the iron railing of the balcony, I take in the night sky, which is a wash of inky blue dotted with diamanté stars, the air fresh and ripe with the flavours of the night. Dense trees surround the grounds, which are beautifully manicured with a gigantic maze in the middle, its pathways swallowed up in thick foliage guarding the centre. It’s as if I’m standing on a cliff edge, looking down upon the shrunken ground below.
I feel intoxicated, my body swaying slightly, my head floating. The fitted silver dress I’m wearing isn’t one I recognise, and neither are the heeled sandals, but I feel good in them—powerful, even.
The balcony is abuzz with people, none of whom I know, and they don’t appear to be paying me any attention, lost in their own world of espresso martinis and hummed conversation. The dress code is formal, men in sharp suits and women in glitzy dresses, all of them black.
Glancing up, I see that the balcony is attached to an old building with wrought-iron railings, trailing ivy weaving its way up the side of the ancient stone, and gargoyles scowling above the glass doors that open into a grand room.
I return to the view, recognising the Ragged Mountains off in the distance, holding me in their clasp like two cupped hands.
Someone arrives behind me, the smell of cedarwood and bergamot adding to the night-time bouquet.
He’s male, I’m sure, as the heat from his body and the powerful fragrance sing masculinity.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to a man.
Too long.
As I lean against him, his warmth seeps through the thin material of my dress, relaxing my thoughts and stripping me of my inhibitions.
A hunger to be touched, to be wanted, coils within me.
Please, touch me.
No words are spoken as his hands travel over my skirt, the sensation sending a shiver of pleasure up my spine.
It’s not enough.
I want to feel him.
As if my thoughts have reached him, he tugs at the hem, sliding his hands over my skin. Goose bumps erupt at the feel of his fingertips.
I rest my head on his chest as my dress is pulled up, the hem now sitting on my waist. It doesn’t occur to me who the man is or whether the people on the balcony are watching us. My only concern is that he doesn’t stop touching me.
I tighten my grip on the railing as his hands smooth over my backside, brushing my soft skin rhythmically and purposefully as heat grows between my legs.
Wordlessly, I encourage him.
More.
I want more.
Give me more.
One hand moves over my thigh, inches from the fabric of my underwear. Shifting my right foot, I widen my stance in the hope that his touch won’t stop there, the craving growing.
Closing my eyes, I block the night out, the people and their voices, and focus solely on his hands.
One of them snakes up my stomach and traces my nipple through my dress as the other glides over the sheer fabric of my underwear. Biting my lip, I stifle a cry as he strokes me through the gossamer of my knickers.
I lean into his caress, and he slides my underwear to the side, his fingers slipping inside me with ease as his thumb explores my clit.
Butterfly kisses land on my neck, the softest lips buttering my skin.
He plays my body like a musician with a rhythm all his own, hitting all the right notes.
It’s bliss.
It’s beautiful.
It’s beautiful bliss.
The night air claims my groans as the buzz builds, the fire inside me raging until my body starts to shake and my mind explodes.
Shuddering, my breathing becomes tight as I roll through the longest orgasm I’ve ever had.
When I open my eyes, my vision blurs, the stars shimmering against the indigo sky as my body comes back down to earth. As my eyes recalibrate, I glance down just in time to see his hand retreat from around my waist, adorned with the unmistakable tattoo of a raven.
The room spins as I bolt upright, my body hot and damp, bitter bile rising in the back of my throat. Throwing the covers off, I examine my skin for evidence of his contact, but there’s nothing other than a throbbing between my legs.
I don’t need to touch myself to know how wet I am, how turned on I was by him.
“It was just a dream,” I say aloud, as if verbalising it will verify the fact. Just a dream . There’s no way on this fucking planet I am attracted, sexually or otherwise, to Valdemar fucking Montresor—although, right now, my body would argue otherwise.
Checking the time, I note it’s nearly morning, and for the first time in forever, I’ve slept for more than a couple of hours. I’ve never been touched like that before. In the real world, my sexual encounters were limited even before my brother’s murder, and I’d always wondered if men kept their distance because I was tainted by death, the aura of the dead following me around.
I clamber out of bed and head to the bathroom to take a very cold shower.