Chapter 18
Rowan
Atlanta’s Friday afternoon was sweltering, humidity thick enough to chew, the sun beating down on concrete that radiated heat like an oven. Unbearable. Hot. Tourists and students crowded the sidewalks, their voices a cacophony I had to consciously dial down.
Back in my apartment, I was eager to clean in preparation for Violet’s stay.
The space already looked immaculate—I’d never been able to tolerate mess, not after living in squalor my entire first life—but I needed to be certain.
I changed the sheets to fresh white linens that smelled like lavender, fluffed the pillows, and made sure Marie Antoinette was hidden away under the bed where Violet wouldn’t stumble across her.
Satisfied, I gave Violet a call, hoping to catch her between classes.
She picked up on the third ring, her voice slightly breathless. “Couldn’t survive a couple of hours without me?”
Her question hit closer to home than I wanted to admit.
I hated how her absence left me restless, stalking my apartment like a wolf without territory.
I hated how her smile—rare as sunlight through storm clouds—could thaw parts of me I’d thought frozen in my previous life.
Most of all, I hated how much I craved our battles, those moments when we circled each other with words sharper than blades, both of us bleeding but neither willing to yield.
So, I deflected my emotions the only way I knew how to.
“I cannot come without hearing your voice,” I said, letting the double meaning hang between us.
“Oh, so you must be finished then.” I heard the smile in her voice, the teasing lilt. “I’ve got a class to run to.”
A bell chimed in the background—the distinctive sound of the campus cafe’s entrance. I filed that information away, mapping her location without conscious thought.
“Finished? Nyet, just getting started.” I heard her chuckle at that as I continued, “Are you eating before tonight’s activities?”
“Well, someone gave me a few stupid rules I need to follow, and I am trying to adhere to them.” She grumbled, and I could picture her scowl perfectly. “It’s hard enough finding celiac-safe food anywhere, much less on campus.”
Fuck. I forgot about her celiac disease.
“I am sorry, volchok. I forgot how difficult it can be. I can keep a few things here for you.” I grabbed the dry-erase marker from the counter, scribbling a note on the whiteboard attached to my fridge: Gluten-free options—bread, pasta, snacks. “Will you be long? I can meet you at your dorm.”
I hated how desperate I sounded, like some lovesick fool instead of a man who’d survived fifty years in a frozen hell.
She took a few breaths before replying, the sound slightly muffled. “Omp, sorry. Shoving food down the hole. Text me your address, and I will get a ride.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. “I thought I was clear about being alone with strangers—"
“Fine, Rowan.” Her voice carried that edge of exasperation I was becoming familiar with. “Meet me at the campus terminal—which is public by the way— and you can show me how to get to your place.”
I willed my heart to slow down, forced my breathing to regulate. “Alright. In an hour?”
“Sure,” she conceded.
The blue line was cramped, filled with students ready to start their weekend and out-of-towners eager for Atlanta’s upscale restaurants and nightlife.
The city seemed to carry that allure, offering endless entertainment for those who could afford it.
I stepped off the bus onto the campus, the bus stop’s concrete still warm under my soles despite the approaching evening.
There was no shortage of visitors milling around—students in university colors, tourists consulting phone maps, businesspeople in sharp suits rushing towards dinner meetings from nearby office buildings.
The campus bus stop was a chaotic convergence of bodies, but it was also public, which meant whoever had killed that student ideally would not be stupid enough to attack someone in a large crowd.
I glanced over passing bodies looking for Violet. In this crowd, it would have been impossible for most.
Not for me.
Despite how frayed my nerves were, my enhanced hearing picked up thousands of conversations at once. I focused, listening for the sound of her stride among the chaos. I filtered out the meaningless noise, searching for that particular cadence I’d memorized without meaning to.
There. The familiar rhythm of her brisk walk.
I turned in her direction and was greeted by her smile—genuine and unguarded. My chest tightened.
“Rowan, finally made it?”
Relief surged through me, cool and sweet. I took her hand in mine without thinking, her palm warm against my skin. The contact sent electricity up my arm. “I can always find you, even in a crowd like this.”
She laughed, the sound reverberating in my ears as I consciously turned down my hearing to save my sanity. “Don’t remind me. You’re like a bat, somehow always knowing what direction I’m coming from.”
“How fitting.” I kept hold of her hand as we navigated towards the platform, my heart racing to match hers. “Like a bat, I too can be cuddly and clingy.”
“Gross,” she said as she wrinkled her nose.
I found the expression endearing. The way her whole face scrunched up with her hazel eyes narrowing. “You look like your mother when you do that,” I said.
“Ugh, double gross!” She pulled her hand free to swat at my arm. “Don’t ever let me do that again.”
“Noted.” I reached for her bag—a massive duffel in dark purple—and nearly dropped it when the weight registered. Easily over sixty pounds. “What is in this?”
“Only my essentials,” she said breezily, as if that explained everything.
By essentials, she really meant her entire wardrobe–those killer heels I’d watched her dance in, and probably enough cosmetics to stock a small boutique–I’d come to find out later.
The bus ride was relatively quick, the vehicle swaying on its route while Violet chatted about her exams. Her voice washed over me, familiar and grounding.
I said little, enjoying the musical quality of her voice. Safe. Comforting. Mine.
Walking up the stairs to the third story of my building—industrial concrete painted gunmetal gray, the stairwell smelling faintly of cleaning solution—I handed Violet the newly made spare key. I’d had it cut that morning at the hardware store, choosing the shape myself from their novelty options.
It was bright hot pink, the end painted with the shape of a prancing horse.
She squealed, the sound high and delighted. “Oh my god, Rowan! It’s perfect!”
I laughed despite myself, warmth blooming in my chest at her reaction. “Here, test it out.”
She took it with reverent hands and inserted it into the lock. The deadbolt turned smoothly, the door swinging open with a soft click. She hugged the key to her chest like it was precious.
“I love it. I’ve got to think of a name for him.”
“Him?” I raised an eyebrow.
She stepped inside, working on slipping off her sneakers—white canvas, grass-stained and worn. “Don’t presume to know his gender, Rowan!”
“Ah, right. Sorry,” I said, fighting back a smile.
I showed her around the apartment, pointing out the master bedroom with its platform bed and white linens, the bathroom with its industrial fixtures and rainfall shower, the study I’d converted into a workspace.
She oohed at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Atlanta’s shopping district, the view a glittering expanse of glass towers and neon signs just beginning to light up as evening approached.
For once, I was glad for the space, given how it impressed her.
Then she threw herself onto the freshly made bed, landing with a bounce that made the mattress springs sing. Her hair spread across the white pillows like spilled ink and wine.
“You have a swank place.” She stretched like a cat, her spine arching. “Decorated it yourself?”
“No, it came furnished.” I leaned against the doorframe, watching her claim the space as her own. “Courtesy of the adopted father.”
I threw her earlier barb back at her, my tone dry.
Her face fell, guilt flashing across her features. “Listen, Rowan. . . that was unkind. I am sorry about that.”
“Only that?” I pressed, curious how much ground I’d gain.
She refused to look my way, suddenly fascinated by the texture of the duvet. “Yep, only that. You mind if I get water?”
“I will grab it for you.”
I was in the kitchen filling a glass with filtered water from the fridge, ice cubes crackling as they settled, when I heard her scream. Instant recognition flooded through me, along with a spike of adrenaline that had my body moving before my brain caught up.
Fuck. She’s found Marie Antoinette.
“Rowan!” Violet rushed into the kitchen, her face ashen, hazel eyes wide with shock. “You’ve got a body under your bed!”
I groaned, setting down the glass with more force than necessary. Water sloshed over the rim. “Violet, why were you looking under the bed?”
“I was looking for your porn stash!” Her voice pitched high with residual fear and indignation. “I didn’t realize that’s where you kept the corpses!”
She was clearly shaken, her hands trembling slightly, her breathing elevated. I could hear her heart hammering against her ribs, the sound like a drum to my enhanced hearing.
Might as well come clean.
“My porn is on the computer in the study. I can give you the password later.” Wide eyes stared back, unable to determine if I was joking or not. I took her hand in mine, her fingers cold with shock. “Listen. What you saw is not a corpse. Here, let me show you.”
“Show me your collection? It’s not the one I was expecting, so I’d rather not.”
“It is safe. I promise.”
“That’s what all serial killers say,” she whispered.
I chuckled as we walked back to the bedroom together.
I knelt beside the bed and reached under, wrapping my fingers around familiar rope and smooth plastic.
Pulling out Marie Antoinette took some maneuvering—she was still in her last tie, the Shinju suspension I’d been practicing.
Her limbs were positioned at angles that would be difficult for a living person.
Violet eyed the mannequin warily, her body tense like she was ready to bolt. “Why is she headless?”
I pointed to where the neck ended in a smooth post fitting. “Most mannequins are. That is why she is called Marie Antoinette.”
“The queen?” Her voice carried skepticism mixed with reluctant amusement.
“Is there another?” I asked.
She bristled, some of her color returning. “God, no. But I just wanted to make sure.” She eyed the tie work, her gaze tracking the patterns of rope—cerulean blue against cream-colored plastic, the knots precise and complex. “So. . .”
I mirrored her posture, crossing my arms. “So. . .”
“Shibari? Not dead corpses?” Her eyes glinted with the faintest trace of incredulity, but underneath it, something else. Interest, maybe? Or curiosity?
“That is what you focus on after discovering my secret?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice. Most people would still be processing the shock. “But yes. . . shibari. I am surprised you recognize it.”
She shrugged, kneeling down to admire Marie Antoinette more closely. Her fingers hovered over the rope work, not quite touching but clearly wanting to. “I’ve always loved the premise.”
Is that so? I couldn’t help the approving twitch of my cock as she admired my ropework.
“Rowan, the tie is lovely. It’s so pretty.”
My gaze lingered on her—on the vulnerable curve of her neck as she bent forward, the soft skin where her pulse fluttered visibly. I resisted the urge to stroke my fingers down that exposed expanse, to feel her heartbeat under my palm.
“Gorgeous, actually.” And I didn’t mean the tie as I cleared my throat. “Thank you,” I managed, my voice rough.
I heard her take a deep breath, her lungs expanding, her heartbeat steadying. Tentatively, she touched Marie Antoinette’s shoulder, her fingers tracing the rope pattern. “Have you ever thought about tying a real person instead of a doll?”
“It is a mannequin,” I corrected softly, my throat tight. I sighed, eyes flicking towards the hallway as if searching for words in the shadows. “And no. I—" I hesitated. How do I explain this? “It requires trust.”
“Right, trust. Makes sense. I guess we don’t share that.” I heard the longing in her voice, barely hidden beneath casual agreement. The way her breath caught slightly, her pulse kicking up.
But we do, I want to say. Otherwise, why would she have been in my apartment? Why would she let me go with her to Oubliette?
Instead, I cleared my throat and forced myself to step back before I did something stupid. “It is nearly time for you to head to Oubliette. Do you need help changing, or. . .” I trailed off, leaving the offer hanging between us.
She stood, shaking her head. Her hair swung around her shoulders, catching the light from the windows. “Nope. I should be good. Just give me thirty minutes, and I’ll be ready.”
“Sure.” I turned to leave, then stopped at the threshold. “Should I. . . take Marie out?”
Violet eyed the mannequin once more, her expression thoughtful. “Might be best. Instead of keeping her under the bed, where does she normally reside?”
“The living room. It is where I do my ties.”
“Cool.” She smiled, genuine and warm. “Maybe just shove her in the corner so she can scare us shitless when we get home tonight.”
I laughed, the sound surprising me. Taking Marie Antoinette carefully, I carried her to the living room and positioned her in the corner as requested—still in her suspension tie, her ropes catching the amber light from the pendant fixtures.
For the first time since this fucked-up arrangement had started, I felt something like normalcy settle over the apartment. Maybe this would work out. Perhaps Violet living in my space would not be the disaster I’d feared.
Dark thoughts teetered on the edge of my logic. Or maybe this would be a different kind of disaster entirely. One I was walking into with my eyes wide open.