Chapter 10 Gabe
GABE
The morning sunlight slices through my office blinds in thin, golden lines as I turn the lock with a satisfying click.
I loosen my burgundy tie with one finger, the silk sliding against my collar.
My shoulders still carry the memory of last night’s tension—the exquisite kind that builds when you’re near someone who fascinates you.
Amelia.
I sink into my leather chair, closing my eyes to better recall every detail.
The way she’d leaned toward me in the cellar’s dim light, her body unconsciously gravitating closer with each glass of wine.
Those remarkable hands—delicate yet strong, fingernails with permanent traces of paint beneath them. Artist’s hands. Creator’s hands.
My breath deepens as I remember how she’d wrapped those paint-stained fingers around her wine glass.
When I’d played for her later, her eyes had followed my hands across the keys with such intensity I could almost feel her gaze like a physical touch.
I’d brushed against her shoulder deliberately while reaching for a record, and the memory of the soft gasp that escaped her lips sends heat coursing through me even now.
My hand moves to my belt, each movement slow as I recall how her eyes had tracked my movements last night—wide and beautiful with want she probably hasn’t even acknowledged to herself yet. I palm myself through my pants, my breath catching.
Those eyes that see everything—patterns, connections, shadows. What would they look like clouded with pleasure? With surrender?
I imagine her spread across this very desk, those wild curls creating a halo against the polished mahogany.
My burgundy tie wrapped around her delicate wrists, securing them above her head while I take my time discovering every inch of her.
Learning precisely what makes her whimper, what makes her beg.
Would she be shocked by what I want to do to her? Or would that brilliant mind of hers understand the appeal of surrendering control? Letting someone else make the decisions for once.
The thought makes my grip tighten. That mind of hers—chaotic and ordered at once, making connections where others see randomness—finally quieted. Finally at peace while I—
I unzip my pants, freeing myself with an impatient growl. My cock is already painfully hard, pulsing with need. I wrap my hand around it, imagining Amelia’s paint-stained fingers there instead.
“Fuck,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
In my mind, she’s on her knees before me, her hands gripping my thighs, her wild curls begging to be twisted around my fist. Those perceptive eyes—eyes that see patterns no one else can—looking up at me with that curious mixture of innocence and knowing that makes my blood burn.
I stroke faster, my breathing ragged.
“That’s it, little artist,” I whisper to the empty room, to the Amelia in my head. “You want to see the darkness, don’t you? I’ll show you exactly what those hands of yours can create.”
The image shifts. Her lips parted, her throat working as I feed myself to her. Teaching her. Corrupting her. Those soft, delicate hands that create beauty are now learning to inflict exquisite pain.
“I’d mark every inch of you,” I growl, my hips bucking into my fist. “Not with paint but with teeth and nails and rope. You’d wear my bruises like art.”
The thought of her skin blooming with marks of my possession makes my cock ache. I’d break that chaotic brilliance down until she’s begging, until that mind that never stops surrenders to pure sensation finally.
“You’d learn to beg so prettily,” I whisper. “I’d wreck you. Ruin you for anyone else.”
The thought of her surrendering—giving that fierce independence over to me—sends me crashing over the edge. I come with a strangled curse, spilling over my fist as pleasure tears through me like lightning.
Afterward, I clean myself, but my mind remains tangled in thoughts of her.
This isn’t simply desire anymore. This is a raw and demanding need.
I don’t just want to fuck Amelia Stone. I want to possess her completely.
I want to protect her from everything but me.
I want to consume her, corrupt her, and keep her.
I straighten my tie, my breathing now controlled, but inside I’m still chaotic. I’ve collected bodies, preserved them in their moment of ultimate vulnerability. But Amelia—I want to preserve her living, breathing surrender.
I pour myself a whiskey and pull out my phone, scrolling to Adrian’s number. I need to talk to someone who understands the darker impulses that drive me. Someone who won’t judge.
“She’s in my head,” I tell him without preamble when he answers. “Not like the others. Different.”
“Amelia,” Adrian says. It’s not a question.
“Yes.” I take a slow swallow of whiskey, enjoying the burn. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Dangerous territory, my friend.”
“I know.” I stand and pace across my office. “Have you ever wanted someone so badly it feels like hunger? Not just to kill or control, but to... possess completely?”
Adrian’s quiet laugh comes through the line. “You know I have. Our little critic has become my obsession.”
“I’ve never felt it this... consuming before. With the others, it was about the hunt. With Amelia, I want to keep her alive. I want her to see me. The real me.”
“That’s what makes it dangerous,” Adrian says, his voice hardening slightly. “We exist in shadow for a reason, Gabe.”
“Says the man who’s playing house with a food critic who can taste emotion in chocolate.”
“Touché.” Adrian’s tone softens with amusement. “Perhaps we’re both losing our edge.”
I stand before my office window, staring down at the street below, where normal people live normal lives. “I want to show her my collection. I want her to understand my work.”
“And if she doesn’t? If those eyes see only horror instead of beauty?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication.
“The question is,” Adrian continues after my extended silence, “will you show her what you really are? Or keep her in the light?”
I drain my glass, considering. The truth is, I don’t know. For the first time in decades, I’m uncertain about my next move.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I finally admit.
“I need to go,” I tell Adrian. “Plans to make.”
“Just be careful,” Adrian warns. “We can’t afford mistakes.”
“You’re one to talk,” I counter with a laugh before hanging up.
I drum my fingers against my desk, thinking of Amelia’s hands on my skin. My phone sits heavy in my palm as I craft the perfect message to her.
I can’t stop thinking about our conversation last night. The Blue Room’s piano has missed my touch. Would you like to hear what it sounds like with just the two of us in the room? Tonight, perhaps?
I send it before I can overthink the words. My heart races like I’m sixteen again, not a man who’s harvested lives. I try to focus on paperwork while waiting, but my attention keeps drifting to my silent phone.
When it finally buzzes, my stomach tightens.
Yes! I’d love that. What time?
Simple. Direct. Enthusiastic. I can’t help the smile spreading across my face as I shift in my chair and decide I’ll close the club tonight.
8 pm. I’ll have a bottle of that Bordeaux waiting.
Her response comes immediately.
Can’t wait to see what else those hands can do besides play beautiful music.
My blood rushes south as I read her words again. She has no idea what these hands have done—what they want to do to her.
I spend the afternoon selecting music—pieces that will showcase my technical skill while revealing something deeper.
Debussy’s Clair de Lune for vulnerability.
Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor hints at the darkness.
A jazz arrangement of Pure Imagination—because that’s what I want to capture in her eyes when I finally show her who I really am.
I mentally choreograph every moment. Where she’ll sit, how I’ll guide her to taste the wine, when our fingers will first touch. How I’ll slowly build the tension between us until she’s leaning toward me, pupils dilated, lips parted, silently begging for what only I can give her.