CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LILA
My head spins. He’s real. And he’s standing right in front of me.
Just this morning, I was spiraling, furious that he never showed.
And now he’s here, and I’ve already forgotten why I was mad in the first place.
That’s toxic, and I know it, but God, I missed him.
The way our bodies pull toward each other is like magnets that can’t stay away.
And what wrecks me is that he doesn’t fight it.
He gives in. Just like the night he kissed me, like he wanted it just as badly as I did.
“Yes,” I whisper. No hesitation.
He seems stunned, like he didn’t expect me to say it. Like, he doesn’t believe I mean it.
His scent drapes over me. Sandalwood, leather, and the ghost of cigarettes. An addictive perfume I never want to escape.
It’s him. It’s always been him. But the question is… who is he? I know it’s not Beck. It can’t be Clint. He’s with Kage.
Kage smells like sandalwood, and so does this man. But sandalwood is everywhere. It is not exclusive. It does not have to mean anything. Right?
I reach up and lay my hands on his chest. His heart is pounding. A human heart is beating beneath my touch.
“You’re really real…” I whisper.
He lets out a low, dark chuckle. “You thought I wasn’t?” he murmurs, his gloved hand grazing up the sides of my body with maddening precision. “Did you really think you dreamed up the entire pleasure room session all by yourself?”
“I thought maybe you were too good to be true. ”
He lets out a soft, humorless chuckle. “You think I’m good?”
“I think you’re good to me.” My eyes lock on his mask.
“And I think you’re what I want.” He inhales sharply, as if battling his own demons, like he doesn’t believe a single word.
But I want to show him he’s more than the shadows he hides behind.
More than the ghosts that haunt him. Worth loving. Worth keeping.
“Take off your mask,” I demand, my voice trembling, breathless from his presence.
The lights vanish, leaving us in total darkness. I can’t see him, but I hear the soft rustle of fabric, followed by the sound of the mask hitting the floor. I audibly gasp.
He took it off. He took it off for me.
His breath brushes against my shoulder, warm and teasing, sending shivers skimming down my spine.
He lingers there, so close I can feel the whisper of his lips just above my skin.
The heat between us coils tighter. Hotter.
Needier. I ache to kiss him the way I did before, to feel him melt into me all over again.
But if I do… will he vanish like a dream?
The air between us is thick, charged with the unspoken.
“Why can’t I see your face?” I whisper, barely able to breathe the words. Silence answers me. Only the music pulses softly in the background, and the sound of his breath fills the space between us. It is ragged and uneven, like we are sitting too close to the sun with no shade in sight.
And somehow, this shadow in front of me is my sun. Blinding. Burning. Impossible to touch. He blinds everything else in my life. When I stand near him, I start to burn.
The night in the pleasure room proved it. The moment our skin touched, it was like nothing else mattered. I didn’t want to stop touching him. I still don’t .
“Because I’m a monster,” he whispers. His voice is no longer modulated but still hidden behind the mask. It is low and sad, like saying it out loud makes it real.
“Why would you say that?” I ask softly.
“Because it’s the truth.” He tilts my chin up, forcing me to look at him, even though I still can’t fully see him in the dark.
His physical mask is gone. But in this moment, it’s the other mask he’s taken off. The one that truly matters. The emotional one. The one stitched together with shame and silence. The one he’s hidden behind to survive. And somehow, it’s not what he says that undoes me. It’s what he doesn’t.
He’s letting me see the part of him no one else ever touches. And it wrecks me, because this vulnerability speaks louder than any confession. It’s the most honest piece of him I’ve ever been given. And I don’t even think he realizes it.
“Can I… touch you?” he asks, his voice trembling like he’s afraid I’ll say no.
“Don’t ask,” I breathe. “Just do.” I don’t see his face, but I feel him. The hesitation in his body. The way he lingers, like he wants to touch me but doesn’t know how, just like the night at the sex club.
I reach for his hand.
He’s still wearing his leather gloves.
“Can I take your gloves off?” I ask, my voice soft, an ache blooming in my chest like I can somehow help him by doing this.
He doesn’t speak at first. Only the sound of his ragged breath fills the space, uneven and raw, like he’s afraid of what might come out if he does. Then…
“Yes.”
I start at the tips, slowly peeling the first glove away, finger by finger, until it slips from his hand and falls to the floor.
I do the same with the other. And then… his bare hands are in mine.
Rough. Callused. Large. They press against my soft palms, and the contrast is enough to steal my breath.
I run my fingertips gently over his, tracing the lines in his skin like they’re sacred.
“Cinnamon Girl,” by Lana Del Rey hums through the speakers, sweet and haunting, like it’s scoring this moment. I thread my fingers through his and guide his hands up, sliding them beneath my shirt. He trembles. His hands shake.
I place them on my hips, and he exhales, the sound broken and full of want, like touching me is unraveling him, but he’s terrified of the connection, like it’s something he’s not worthy of.
He caresses my sides, and I reach up, threading my fingers through his hair.
The second I do, he lets out a shuddering breath, like I’ve touched something deep within.
Then his lips find mine, soft and tender at first, but it doesn’t last. I kiss him back with everything I’ve been holding in.
He groans and lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist. We devour each other like we are tasting one another for the first time.
His mouth is spearmint, heat, and everything forbidden.
My hands tug at his hair, his neck, pulling him closer, deeper.
But then… I feel it. A scar. Long. Raised and hidden in his hairline.
My fingers pause against it, tracing gently.
He stiffens, breath faltering, and I know I’ve touched something deeper than skin.
Something carved into him long ago. Something that still bleeds.
“What happened?” I whisper. He doesn’t answer. His breath hitches. His arms tense, like he’s suddenly somewhere else. Somewhere darker. Somewhere that’s a memory, and it’s torturing him.
Oh God. What did I say?
“I… I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have asked. ”
It feels old, like it’s been there for years. Like it was carved into him when he was just a boy. Painful. Permanent. A wound that never really healed.
I let my hand fall away, voice barely a breath. “I won’t ask again.”
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. For a moment, I swear he’s still here. Still close. Still breathing the same air as me. But then something shifts. A quietness that wasn’t there before. A presence fading.
He lowers me gently. So careful. Like I might break. I reach out into the dark, fingers searching for him.
“Baby?” I whisper the word, trembling from my lips. Silence. I step forward, heart racing.
The warmth drains from the air, replaced by a cold stillness that tells me he’s gone, even before I reach for him.
Only emptiness remains. A shadow swallowed by the dark.
Just like before. Just like always. And I didn’t even hear him leave.
No word. No sound. Only the echo of my breath and the pounding of my heart. And there, on the floor…
His mask.
I move toward it slowly, every step heavier than the last. I kneel, brushing the cool surface with fingertips. It’s the same one from the maze. From the club. From the shadows of every encounter that has left me wanting more of him.
But this time… he left it behind. Not hidden. Just left. My chest tightens. No note. No goodbye. Just the final piece of him, discarded like it meant nothing.
Was this my punishment? Did what we had really mean nothing to him? Is this the end? His way of saying he is done with me?
I press the mask to my chest, heart hammering beneath it, trying to convince myself this isn’t goodbye. But it feels like he didn’t just disappear… He left me here to feel like a fool .
My eyes sting as I stand alone in the darkness, the music still whispering through the speakers like a memory.
My heart aches for a man I’ve never even seen. A man I shouldn’t want. A man who just walked away again, leaving me holding the mask that started it all. He’s gone. And all I have left is the mask… and the hollow ache of wanting a ghost.